rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Thirty-Five, Day Twelve

Saturday was grey anticipation, the cool air expectant, the tentative showers like a tease. Not until nightfall did the rain really begin, and then it grew slowly, hour after hour, until by midnight there was a steady fall and the downspouts began to sing. Since then the wind has risen, and at times fierce downpours rattle across the roof and windblown drops spatter the windows with drum tattoos. It's an actual storm, after so many months of trivial drips and dribbles! I have just listened for hours, and will go on listening until I fall asleep. Welcome back, rain.




Sunday Verse



Bresson's Movies


by Robert Creeley


A movie of Robert
Bresson's showed a yacht,
at evening on the Seine,
all its lights on, watched

by two young, seemingly
poor people, on a bridge adjacent,
the classic boy and girl
of the story, any one

one cares to tell. So
years pass, of course, but
I identified with the young,
embittered Frenchman,

knew his almost complacent
anguish and the distance
he felt from his girl.
Yet another film

of Bresson's has the
aging Lancelot with his
awkward armor standing
in a woods, of small trees,

dazed, bleeding, both he
and his horse are,
trying to get back to
the castle, itself of

no great size. It
moved me, that
life was after all
like that. You are

in love. You stand
in the woods, with
a horse, bleeding.
The story is true.

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