daffs some think you daft

WhatsApp Image 2017-04-08 at 19.56.18WhatsApp Image 2017-04-12 at 11.01.11
daffs some think you daft,
as I once did with idle eyes
now full of your dance
moon of milk ahead,
trembling herrings of the lake
seen by wild she-eyes
the crab crawls out of
the hackberry — rabbit-toothed
buds buries in leaves
spring is drenched in green
I mourn that it came so fast
and miss what I see
apple blossoms snow
mid-spring undressing
fleshly bulbs, hubs of promise
in loops elfish vapour
mounts at the edge of the wood
now- a grey chimney
pie warm by the fire
with the fir where swallows nest
across my kitchen
brother cottage birthed
from a rugged lap of gills,
nooks — a lasting bond
How many layers has the world?
bugs threading through grass —
grass at the foot of the tree —
birds darkling in purple boughs —
horizons waiting to soak up the sun of dawn —
the airplane’s white whisper awakens the wish for
—  a shooting star

An Unexpected Question

Few days ago, during dinner with friends not schooled in literary studies, and after several readings of Frankenstein, I was confronted with an unprecedented question:

“If Victor wants to find the principle of life and defy death”, asked my friend, “why doesn’t he infuse life into a dead body instead of putting himself through the gut-churning business of collecting dead body parts and stitching them together?”

Indeed, I thought, he would defy death if he brought the dead back to life, just like scientists such as Luigi Galvani’s nephew were experimenting with dead animals and humans. This would have been the solution to his impatience, which was the reason behind his choice of big body parts to accelerate the assemblage and the creation of a human that literally stood out and scared people out of their wits by his sheer size.

Why wasn’t a beautiful dead body enough for Victor Frankenstein?

I wonder what you’d have answered …  – E.S

“The picture of the mind revives again”

Wordsworth tells us:

Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and ‘mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet”
Lines Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, ll 24 – 28
He sings the virtues of memory, but of a special kind. Not a photographic one, such as those held in the pages of an album, but rather a multi-dimensional one. To this recollection the mind may return and explore depths of field. This act of remembering allows for an active displacement in time, a true revisiting of past events. In this way, Wordsworth can return to Tintern Abbey and enjoy a vivid experience of the past. In the same way, two years after coming across a parterre of daffodils (as told us by Dorothy Wordsworth in her Grasmere Journals), he can float above the scene, enjoying a new, free-flying point of view.
Could this be part of the essence of Romanticism? The power of the mind to remember but also reinvest past scenes with a present sense of adventure.
Keats writes:
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide the mind’s cage-door,
She’ll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
To Fancy, ll 5-8
Who is Fancy- if not the embodiment of creative remembering? Do we not read, enjoy, weep at words on the page precisely because we are encountering the past revived, shown us from ” a few miles above”…?
So while the rain has returned to the shores of the Léman, dashing all our hopes of spring.
[Fancy] will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May
To Fancy, ll 29-33

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