Of the winding paths the mind’s eye traces
\naimless in the past I risk no comment.
\nThe see-saw of tense and place prevents
\nmy grasping their grammar. Just the moment’s
\nbustle I know, scant marks\u00a0of confusion
\ngilt in the sun-slant air: calliope
\nmotes, a wisp of disobedient hair.<\/p>\n
Yet given the girl poised light as a lip ***<\/p><\/blockquote>\n “How could I ever have written such a silly thing?” I often mutter to myself, having run across a yellowed typescript or a text unfortunately preserved like a fossil in print. Juvenilia is the catch-all for these relics, usually best left to slumber in peace. I have nonetheless taken to waking them, excavating and polishing some for curation, as I put it.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n Not a gift, more a burden, poetry nonetheless offers largesse to anyone who has practised it over a life-time, a treasure chest of gilt tokens distilled from past passions and illusions which can still be cashed in for memories no longer in current circulation.<\/i><\/p>\n Revising the <\/i>lyric above has enabled me to stand again on that curb-side of the Boulevard St-Germain, angle Danton, renewing my futile desire for the anonymous woman who stood momentarily next to me before crossing through afternoon sunshine towards m\u00e9tro Od\u00e9on in late September, 1965<\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n Of the winding paths the mind’s eye traces aimless in the past I risk no comment. The see-saw of tense and place prevents my grasping their grammar. Just the moment’s bustle I know, scant marks\u00a0of confusion gilt in the sun-slant air: calliope motes, a wisp of disobedient hair. Yet given the girl poised light as … <\/p>\n
\non this curb, I could whisper into the soft
\ncream nautilus of her ear one secret of time.<\/span><\/p>\n