The stars are in our belly; the Milky Way our umbilicus.
Is it a consolation that the stuff of which we’re made
is star-stuff too?
– That wherever you go you can never fully disappear –
dispersal only: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen.
Tree, rain, coal, glow-worm, horse, gnat, rock.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
apples, time and poetry...
A minor miracle has happened. The Man, for whom (like a large proportion of the English nation according to polls) nothing touches Kipling's 'If' (though he concedes that T S Eliot's poetry is 'quite good'), has discovered his Inner Poet.
We were lounging in autumn sun under a huge oak on the banks of the Dart yesterday celebrating my birthday. I glanced at him and caught a sober face. 'You feeling sad? Or just thoughtful?'
He reflected a minute. 'All thought is longing for the infinite,' he said. 'So thought has sadness deep within it.'
What can I say? – Except that rhyme is catching... And given that little problem with Time's Arrow that I mentioned in yesterday's post, who knows which of us (Kipling, me, TM) caught it from whom?
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