Schrödinger's Hamlet

August 2016

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[No Subject]

DEAR LIFE:

But I’ve grown thoughtful now. And you have lost
Your early-morning freshness of surprise
At being so utterly mine: you’ve learned to fear
The gloomy, stricken places in my soul,
And the occasional ghosts that haunt my gaze.

Comments

Nov. 5th, 2013 11:04 am (UTC)
And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.

Not a hand but a breath:
are you well are you
quite well are you
are you dreaming -
do you dream? do you
dream of us, do you

feel November light upon
your flushed cheeks and do you
dream us in rosemary and in
sulphur-scented paper; do you
know, do you know
do you remember

do you?
(You ask me if I believe in ghosts;
what kind of a question is that?)
Nov. 5th, 2013 11:21 am (UTC)
oh my god ros
Nov. 5th, 2013 11:29 am (UTC)
spoken to the grey mantle which draws upon the crimson-leaved noon, which leaves you wondering if you had a voice (or a heart-beat, indeed a breath at all)
If rosemary is for remembrance, how do I remember
without a mind to cling to the skull,
without nerves clothing the column of bone
saying don't go, don't go?

Oh god, the pansies withered all with the thoughts
that come up to snatch in the depth of
formlessness.

Rose of my fair state, my dreaming darling,
when you wear your rue with a difference pluck
a daisy for me.

(I believe what I see. And when I see nothing; I believe all.)
Nov. 5th, 2013 11:08 am (UTC)
Nov. 5th, 2013 11:33 am (UTC)
Nov. 5th, 2013 11:26 am (UTC)


ilu
Nov. 5th, 2013 11:32 am (UTC)
u2.

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u2.

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Nov. 5th, 2013 12:52 pm (UTC)
ilu
Nov. 5th, 2013 01:52 pm (UTC)
:)

Nov. 5th, 2013 03:36 pm (UTC)
I'm no poet, but Sam's butt cleavage is.
Nov. 5th, 2013 05:38 pm (UTC)
I hope all is well, my dear.