Quote & Poem 30/3/2016

“Real poetry is a party, a wild party, a party where anything might happen. A party from which you may never return home.” Dorothea Lasky

At The Grave of Robert Lowell

On this tenth day of the year, I play Stravinsky and sip vodka from a paper cup, taking in the view. Tendrils twining, leaves rippling, guts absorbing nutrients, brains processing information—all of it is dust now. He, she, all of them lie under sod, men and women no longer rivals in love. Bodies grow old and fester. History is like an Impressionist painting, a variegated landscape of emotional colors. As night falls, owls, bats, and hedgehogs come out to hunt. I take joy in considering my generation. I rewrite to be read, though feel shame acknowledging it. Scattered among imposing trees, the ancient and the modern intersect, spreading germs of pain and happiness. I curl up in my fleece and drink.

HENRI COLE