The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
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This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
The Ghost of Our Old Selves
The world is too much with us 1
but never quite in focus.
I wish it would sometimes stand off
and not invade my space.
When we were children and the world
pressed in on every side,
we loved it so, were part of it.
Nature and we were seamless then.
Little of us we see in nature now.2
We crave some distance, a perspective.
Soft focus would be great -
anything but this close-in confusion.
The ghost of our old selves,
the natural man, is snagged
the other side of nature.
What's seen and what is known don't match.
If we could re-explore
the nature in our face -
spilt milk and honey, smudge -
we might find ways to reconnect.
Or is it language that we lack?
Words to differentiate,
unpick a language or a home,
sift fresh air from freshener.
1 The first line of a sonnet by William Wordsworth. Read it here
2 Remodelled from the third line of the same sonnet.
This is a Magpie Tales prompt.
Unfortunately Blogger would not let me upload the image. You will have to follow this link to see it.
(I wonder what they won't let me do tomorrow!)