The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.
I credit poetry for making this space-walk possible.
Poetry is always slightly mysterious, and you wonder what is your relationship to it.
Human beings suffer, they torture one another, they get hurt and get hard. No poem or play or song can fully right a wrong inflicted or endured.
Then as the years went on and my listening became more deliberate, I would climb up on an arm of our big sofa to get my ear closer to the wireless speaker.
Without needing to be theoretically instructed, consciousness quickly realizes that it is the site of variously contending discourses.