Days of thunder

February 24, 2010

I spent my youth in the delusion that I was a poet of note, one who inflicts artificial hurt on himself to write ten good lines.  I thought Rilke wanted me to.  Inspiration was everywhere, but undoubtedly it came in the road less traveled.  It was to be found in simpler things; in the good eye of a half blind girl on the bus, the sigh of a bitch in heat, a boy with a schoolbag half his size, a photograph, a memory, a yearning.

I was 14 when I read Milan Kundera’s “Life is Elsewhere”. It was distressing then that I lacked the intellectual maturity and the experiences that would naturally come in later years (I hoped), to fully understand what he wanted to say, but for all my literary pretensions, my sensibilities permitted one good line out of this book:

                You haystacks smoking in the mist

                Burning the incense of her heart

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