It has just come, and I do a rare thing with me, begin at Gerard Manley Hopkins is considered to be one of the greatest poets of the Victorian era. However, because his style was so radically different from that of his contemporaries, his best poems were not accepted for publication during his lifetime, and his achievement was not Prose Home Harriet Blog.
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Newsletter Subscribe Give. Poetry Foundation. Back to Previous. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;.
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It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;. And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;. And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil. Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;. And though the last lights off the black West went. Skip to content Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device.
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The river is a dog, running past hillsides. The river is books spilt down a staircase.
The river is a child, it refuses to play with you. The child is a dog sniffing at thistles. The child is a river running under a river. The child is the dog and the dog is the river. The book is a book about children in winter. The dog barks a book at the edge of the river. Dog, sings the child, sings it over and over. I forgot the prophylactic, you forgot to bring your camera. The elements watch us below.
They start the fall of hectic snow. Churches, benches, fields are carnal.
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Cities speak and streetlights banter. You and I forget to start in avenues so cutely callous. The clouds sensibly depart. We walk through the animate streets, wishing only we were talking. Eftpos machines hand out receipts; windows, doorways, cars are gawping. The wind sings a song so apropos, the alleys collect what we outgrow, the elements treasure the status quo. They hold us wrapped in animate snow.
Sleep is tugging at the place where my hand should be working. The pull and push of sleep time.
"I’m a living, breathing cliché for writing this, but I don’t know what poetry means to me."
Thick breakfast air and thin breakfast light take turns in my senses. I am the late bus from table to chair, head nodding to the cold sound of waking slowly. I am out in loud, sun steps, dropping sleep sleeves, and picking up clock time. Standing and stretching into midday trees. Racing concrete to sidewalk and not quite caring. Morning sprawls out through the day, making me crawl back into bed before evening even arrives.
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There are hands born to shadow walls with the bright motions of birds. In the cold of the kitchen, braiding wooden stems in patient wreaths. We trim the stems diagonally, suspend life briefly. There are things that can be held in this life, and maybe you will be the one to hold them. His cardigan is still hanging by the door where he left it hooked like a fish. Its neck is an open mouth gasping.
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You lay your face against the surface of the kitchen table the polished grain, the dark veins of trees. It too was once growing. Those friends of her body, those rusting cells that strike together like Christmas bells are ringing themselves out. The sky can no longer focus itself. The curtains are as dark as the trees.viaspelthodissi.cf
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The trees are as dark as the curtains. Her linen is frightening tight and winding. Eventually everything folds. The last one to lie through the dark with my sighs, used my foot like a telephone —. Poetry Prize. The Winner for was maeve Hughes. Bald I am a married man. Understanding Transactions Heat comes from hot things like potatoes come from the earth and gurgles come from babies like birds come from trees and I came from you and your smiles so many of them came from me and, mother, I know it The Winner for was Holly Morton.
Here, I think, is the complete example of an almost life, unable to shift from the feeling of tracing an echo through what might have been familiar streets. Growing up a couple thousand kilometres away has me disconnected, and our situation is reminiscent of a family friend, always talked about, never met. Just like this one; encountering faces I only know from hazy photographs of kids in footie pyjamas, Hot Wheels gripped in their chubby fingers. And yet we are laughing and teasing and falling into that place where our almost selves reside. It makes me wonder if it is possible to miss something you nearly had.
And yet, Queensland will forever be my first point of entry into this life, regardless of the distance between us. Even with no memories here, I am secure in the fact that I once belonged to Brisbane as much as it belonged to me.
One more city that I am tethered to, holding me together underneath it all. And when I leave, this voyage home feels less certain somehow. New Zealand can hold onto me for now.