a certain weariness


Pablo, in mist

There is a long story behind this, but I am weary and vexed and too attached to and wound up by the story to tell it.

Basically I should have hit save draft about an hour ago.

Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. Not that this was lightning in the first place, but I’m not going to attempt to replicate my Tuesday night Treatise on Weariness. Ironic really, me being too weary to……… (can’t even finish the sentence, was going to use the word expound and then laughed tepidly at myself and gave up). Or just a case in point. Why bother?

Actually, to summarise, my intended post was actually pretty morose. Likening humans to flies trapped in webs and calling them stupid, pretty much. But including myself in the stupid category, just in case anyone thought I was being a bit haughty and clever. Turns out it didn’t matter after all because I wiped it all from the face of WordPress with a mistimed click of the back button.

Then I went on to ruminate on the nature of online poetry and how it doesn’t feel quite right. Dare I say I started limbering up a bit after my misanthropic opening tirade and got quite poetic myself when reflecting on the nature of poetry in cyberspace. If only I could get those words back. I was quite attached to them.

Initially I just wanted to link to my poem of the day, because the theme of today is weariness. Brought to you by the letter O (oh!). And the poem of the day is this, from Pablo:

The Weary One
  The weary one, orphan
of the masses, the self,
the crushed one, the one made of concrete,
the one without a country in crowded restaurants,
he who wanted to go far away, always farther away,
didn’t know what to do there, whether he wanted
or didn’t want to leave or remain on the island,
the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in himself,
had no place here: the straight-angled stone,
the infinite look of the granite prism,
the circular solitude all banished him:
he went somewhere else with his sorrows,
he returned to the agony of his native land,
to his indecisions, of winter and summer.

My point about the sheer weirdness of online poetry was triggered by the fact this is what appeared to me (below), in my peripheral vision as I read the poem on screen. In all its romantic, white-knickered loveliness, altering the mood of the poem somewhat.

click here to read my story

That’ll do for now. Things are never quite as good the second time round.


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