There is a clear-sky anomaly lingering over Edinburgh today; draping itself about the trees with mischievous innocence and a grin, as if to say "what? I've been here all month, haven't you noticed?"
So I'm thinking of a particular poem which haunts my own work today-
"The Region November"
It is hard to hear the north wind again,
And to watch the treetops, as they sway.
They sway, deeply and loudly, in an effort,
So much less than feeling, so much less than speech,
Saying and saying, the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge:
A revelation not yet intended.
It is like a critic of God, the world
And human nature, pensively seated
On the waste throne of his own wilderness.
Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.
--Wallace Stevens
Also, I just finished reading Speaker for the Dead (I read Ender's Game many many years ago) and am wondering why it took me so many years to pick it up! So today tastes of November trees and half-light.
No comments:
Post a Comment