Through Lewis's panic-filled doubt that "I mistook a cloud of atoms for a person" we come to a precise and painful realisation of why we are so much more than a cluster of particles and why we grieve. We learn this through language that rubs up against the physical - evoking the intimacy of "being-there" in all those insignificant physical moments that makes us part of someone's life and causes Lewis to call out "come back, come back".
Yet through plunging into the physical emptiness that death brings, Lewis gives us a sense of who and what is lost that is far beyond the corporeal: "H is not a body - and the body I loved is certainly no longer she - she is in no place at all". Isn't it uniquely and fascinatingly human that the very language and literature that takes us physically closest to death is often the very language and literature that takes us beyond death as just a physical full stop?
A childish inability to absorb what they've lost can be both poignant and funny in literature.
In Wordsworth's We Are Seven , a young child absolutely refuses to see the distinction between her living siblings and those who "in the church-yard lie". What touches us is not her ignorance of death but our knowledge of it, Wordsworth opening the poem by asking what a child who "feels its life in every limb" should know of death? In the opening of Great Expectations, Pip describes how the "five little stone lozenges" arranged at the side of his parents' grave convinced him that his dead little brothers had "all been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of existence".
Again, it is the ignorance of what death means that strikes us here, part of the odd charm of this passage being the young Pip's attempt to grapple with the physical reality of death and his wandering off into living shadowlands of his own. And it is that human and imaginative attempt to transform the nasty and brute reality of lives cut short that make those worlds of grief and imagination in literature so very powerful.
I think this is why in all the richness of Hardy's writing I find the "Keelwell's Marmalade" jar in which Tess leaves flowers for her dead infant, buried in an unmarked grave, so stupidly moving. The shadowlands of imagination and literature are one way in which we transcend death and brush away the physical limits of time and biology. Photograph: Tristram Kenton I swing round the West End on the 76 bus every morning skirting the edge of theatreland.
Topics Fiction Books blog. Poetry blogposts. Reuse this content. Talent is what they say you have after the novel is published and favorably reviewed. Beforehand what you have is a tedious delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run. I wish I could walk for a day and a night, And find me at dawn in a desolate place, With never the rut of a road in sight, Or the roof of a house, or the eyes of a face.
A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon; A fool to pluck my rose too soon, A fool to snap my lily. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a summer day; Sweet Love dead.
Dec 20, C. Highly recommended f beyond rock bottom by Kara Petrovic is a moving collection of poems that tap into the author's consciousness. The most magical and wonderful poems are ever renewing themselves, which is to say they remain ever mysterious. With Easy there in the flesh and bone, he no longer had an intangible fantasy to hope for and lust after. Nadine Darling is broke-ass and sick with love. I really believe that the best way to express to those how it feels is through art.
There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled. Like, telling someone you love them. Or giving your money away, all of it. Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Tree you are, Moss you are, You are violets with wind above them. A child - so high - you are, And all this is folly to the world.
It comes on unexpectedly.
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And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it. Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls. When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.
Skip to content. Just one beautiful line of poetry can stay with you forever. Lionmouth Door Knocker. From Mother by Nadine Aisha Jassat.