
I would invent the snow, with whites and blues, some grays and shadows. Then I would be tired. I would rest for a while in the eyes of the light and would stay silent before closing my eyes.
I would invent the snow, with whites and blues, some grays and shadows. Then I would be tired. I would rest for a while in the eyes of the light and would stay silent before closing my eyes.
J’inventerais la neige avec des blancs et des bleus, du gris et de l’ombre. Puis je serais fatiguee et je me reposerais dans les yeux de la lumière, je garderais le silence avant de fermer les yeux
I came across this quote from Dylan Thomas, which embodies perfectly what poetry does ( or try to do anyway)
You can tear a poem apart to see what makes it technically tick, you’re back with the mystery of having been moved by words. The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps in the work of the poem so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash, or thunder in
First (compulsory) trip since the beginning of the pandemic. There is not a lot of joy in traveling across the globe anymore. There is a clear cut between before and after. In the tiny bag I have taken with me so that it doesn’t get lost on the way no room for a computer and this means no accents for my French speaking friends for a while