…Hush now, not another word.
Look! High over the frozen roofs,
my answer hangs and falls, that six-fingered star.
I read somewhere that John Glenday is “a poet who combines the everyday and the transcendent”.
Also : “he accepts that some subjects are negatively charged, are defined by their indefinability and cannot be named directly”.
Makes me think about Bergson, the philosopher, who says there are 2 ways to know something : Analysis is “turning around” the thing, it gives you a map, but Intuition is about “entering” it, it’s the only way to “feel” what is the thing.
And Barthes I posted a few days ago : an internal agitation, an excitement, a certain labor too, the pressure of the unspeakable which wants to be spoken.
I also found this : “He spoke about a self-confessed lack of imagination, it being a ‘terrible burden for a poet because it means you actually have to start looking at things.’
And this : “a can of peaches waiting for the invention of the tin-opener.”
(which means so much, right?)
Thanks for reading. Have a nice day!
A DIFFICULT COLOUR
Think of it this way:
imagine a sea voyage. You have drawn
the boat up on the shingle for the night.
The water is barely luminous.
Someone points into the gloom. On the far hill
they are burning crofts.
The rain comes on again, but softly,
to preserve the sanctity of desecration.
You stand watching the reflections
tremble upon the water.
It’s that sort of colour.
when he gave us everything
and told us nothing.