If I had the patience and the skill I’d write a poem called the ecstasy of sauntering. Beautiful words. Saint terre. Holy ground. Ex stasis. Outside oneself. I’d carve out an incomparable subtlety in the fissures between words! But I can never find a solid image. Instead I’ll just keep scribbling little notes, lost in my own device, thinking about how the truck drivers rise earlier than the imams, and how sublime it is sometimes when you look at me, and how I started to feel at home on earth after 3 decades, in Lowell, Massachusetts, swimming naked in Walden lake, scared now of dying, just walking along dully, while millions suffer incomprehensibly and all I know is the sound of my own footsteps, and the things that can be taught in no other way than through silence.... when sometimes just being there is enough, when you give yourself over to the wind, in its sound, and like Auden said, become aware of those tiny points of ironic light where the just exchange their messages.... and not feel so bad today about going to work today because there is an empty sheet of paper waiting at my table for when I get home and in my mind I swear I will write upon it the greatest ever symphony, seated upright, like Beethoven, with furrowed brow, as the walls recede and the roof vanishes and I float, quite naturally, thanks to that subtle continuous rhythm, driving to work now down the Wakrah highway in the light of the morning sun….
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AuthorEnglish teacher from the UK. Living in Granada. Currently working in Doha. Archives
February 2022
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