rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Day Seven, Not a Heaven

Days of the week and hours of the days lost in this purposelessness, I do my routine tasks with no routine. As things fall apart and the center begins to lose its hold, I find nothing better to do than share memes on Farcebook. World ending with masses of whimpers, I chuckle at inane jokes, some of which I've made myself. Jokes I've made myself. Good image. Better to be the joke than the butt of one, I suppose, but I'll probably end up being that as well.

Boy, am I not in a good mood! Maybe I'll be happier tomorrow when my great-niece will drop off a few things from the store for me. But probably not. This mood might be terminal. Big mood. But at lest I'll have enough chocolate to last me another couple of weeks. And who knows, by the time it runs out I might not need it anymore.

The Los Angeles Times just crossed my mind. I loved that paper as it was in the 1980s. It's probably crap by now. I haven't seen it in years, and I haven't heard anybody praise it in years either. Why do things turn to crap? And so easily, it seems. My brain, for example. It used to work so semi-well, and now it hardly functions. It can't even keep track of days.

The mockingbird visited late this afternoon. Birds are untroubled by our problems, and it seemed quite happy. Now that's a gift. It's a gift for the bird, and for the moments I was able to hear it a gift to me. It put me in mind of the poem I'm going to post. I think I've posted it before, but not recently.

If you are not fond of traditional poetics, please forgive Thomas Hardy his lack of modernity. He was an old fashioned guy, and also a very good poet. He wrote this at the very end of the 19th century, the century in which our modern world really got underway. It was a century full of optimism and despair-inducing horrors. Hardy was more in tune with the latter, at least as far as the works of man were concerned, but he also, like all good poets, found some promise in the natural world. I've had enough pure despair of late, so I enjoyed recalling this bit of qualified despair.




Sunday Verse (Monday Edition)



The Darkling Thrush

by Thomas Hardy

December 31, 1900



I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled vine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

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