poet. writer. imposter.
Okay, so I’ve not been around for a while. A mix of block and illness has conspired to keep me from writing but, tentatively, I seem to be back although the first bit of poetry I’ve written is as dense and cryptic as it used to be before I learned to relax. I can only assume that the more i write, the most relaxed I’ll be so I’ll return to these sketches at a later date.
Wight Sketches 1 Tennyson sighs from the western edge of the calcium spine and watches as the wabbit sun sinks through sixpence air; a satinate fragmentation; a soft squandered marbling of rose and violet stains his stretch of lapis rapture. 2 Gorse gilds the weald at the site where Ado fell, drowning in her saline wash, threading and weaving around chalk stacks in a passive, deathless dabka.
More like crossword clues but, hey…