theme by pouretrebelle

In a lot of ways it’s felt like time was on hold until tonight. When I gripped my wee pencil in that booth earlier, I thought of Dad, and Martin, and all the others who never got to make this choice.

I hope I made mine count.

I saw some people starving
There was murder, there was rape
Their villages were burning
They were trying to escape
I couldn’t meet their glances
I was staring at my shoes
It was acid, it was tragic
It was almost like the blues

— Leonard Cohen, Almost Like the Blues

Embra

Embra

Millport

Millport

But this we from the mountains learn,  And this the valleys show;  That never will they deign to hold  Communion where the heart is cold  To human weal and woe.

— William Wordsworth, Composed at Corra Linn, in Sight of Wallace’s Tower

But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show;
That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.

— William Wordsworth, Composed at Corra Linn, in Sight of Wallace’s Tower

Coffee, joint and Dylan - holiday breakfast on a wet Glasgow morning

Then  I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

— Samuel Beckett, Molloy

(Source: Spotify)

Ah, they’ll never, they’ll never ever reach the moon,
at least not the one that we’re after;
it’s floating broken on the open sea, look out there, my friends,
and it carries no survivors.
But let’s leave these lovers wondering
why they cannot have each other

I lift—lift you five States away your glass,
Wide of this bar you never graced, where none
Ever I know came, where what work is done
Even by these men I know not, where a brass
Police-car sign peers in, wet strange cars pass,
Soiled hangs the rag of day out over this town,
A juke-box brains air where I drink alone,
The spruce barkeep sports a toupee alas—

My glass I lift at six o'clock, my darling,
As you plotted... Chinese couples shift in bed,
We shared today not even filthy weather,
Beasts in the hills their tigerish love are snarling,
Suddenly they clash, I blow my short ash red,
Grey eyes light! and we have our drink together.


-- John Berryman, Sonnet 13
florean theme by pouretrebelle