Despite age, agues, and the tyranny of geographical divide, it is joy to find someone else pointed in the same direction at the same moment. Thank you,
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foucaultonacid for the Colm Tóibín piece in
The New York Times Review of Books. Today was another day of coughing up my lungs. Prayer, poetry and the bottomless cup of tea were my chief consolations.
Hart Crane's
Repose of Rivers read by Adam Fitzgerald
Repose of Rivers
by Hart Crane (July 21, 1899 – April 27, 1932)
The willows carried a slow sound,
A sarabande the wind mowed on the mead.
I could never remember
That seething, steady leveling of the marshes
Till age had brought me to the sea.
Flags, weeds. And remembrance of steep alcoves
Where cypresses shared the noon’s
Tyranny; they drew me into hades almost.
And mammoth turtles climbing sulphur dreams
Yielded, while sun-silt rippled them
Asunder ...
How much I would have bartered! the black gorge
And all the singular nestings in the hills
Where beavers learn stitch and tooth.
The pond I entered once and quickly fled—
I remember now its singing willow rim.
And finally, in that memory all things nurse;
After the city that I finally passed
With scalding unguents spread and smoking darts
The monsoon cut across the delta
At gulf gates ... There, beyond the dykes
I heard wind flaking sapphire, like this summer,
And willows could not hold more steady sound.
Tags: hart crane, psalm 42
Current Mood: 
grateful
Current Music: Chris Tomlin, We Fall Down
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