rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Due Change

From the nocturnal chill and the darkening of the oak leaves I sense the equinox approaching. These shortened days fall the way the leaves soon will, and blow away as in a silent wind the skin can't feel. I smell summer dying. A few weeks hence the leaves will begin to cover it, and maybe clouds will come to weep over its corpse. Myself, I look forward to the funeral. I'll wake dead summer with warm drinks, and hum happy dirges with the autumn wind.




Sunday Verse


Less Being More


by Jack Gilbert


It started when he was a young man
and went to Italy. He climbed mountains,
wanting to be a poet. But was troubled
by what Dorothy Wordsworth wrote in
her journal about William having worn
himself out searching all day to find
a simile for nightingale. It seemed
a long way from the tug of passion.
He ended up staying in pensioni
where the old women would take up
the children in the middle of the night
to rent the room, carrying them warm
and clinging to their mothers, the babies
making a mewing sound. He began hunting
for the second rate. The insignificant
ruins, the negligible museums, the back-
country villages with only one pizzeria
and two small bars. The unimproved.

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