I tried to write poems yesterday and the day before. Yesterday's poem meant to center on an image
of the pearlescent foggy light I saw driving in the early morning. A hard-cooked sun broke through at the top of the frame
(I thought of Denton Welch’s A Voice Through A Cloud and the accident) and there was an imminent, Holocaust-like aspect to the scene. Driving past the cow pastures there
were no cows. The poem was hopeless.
I wish I had taken a picture. Reaching the coven's clubhouse relieved I exhaled.
I guess I am going to have to read A Voice Through A Cloud. Also just read and enjoyed your post on "minors." How does one become a "minor great?" lewis
ReplyDeleteI think you would enjoy Denton Welch a lot. A Voice Through A Cloud, which remained unfinished, was his final book. It's terrific, but so is his first novel Maiden Voyage and many of the points in-between. His Journals are very, very fine. I'm glad you liked the "minor" post. This is something I've been struggling with all my life. I think that the major/minor distinction is mostly just the figment of weak critical and journalistic imaginations. I don't disagree with categorizing and ranking things necessarily. We all do it all the time in life. But it's odd when you feel the establishment has ganged up on your "team" with inappropriate labeling. Thanks so much for reading this. It happened just this way. Curtis
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