When I got to the lines ‘Sometimes, one should be mystified,| and wonder over contents, truly wonder;| as though one glimpsed the passage of an ark’, I thought yes that’s what reading these quintains feels like, though perhaps it’s a flotilla of small mysteriously lit arks. I read them aware of much not understanding on my part but nevertheless appreciating the light and shade running through the earlier ones, the intent gaze at death later, and the way so many thoughts were crystallised into fascinating images. Just to pick out a few: the ‘lizard’s dream luxuriating’, the ‘black-clad men of dawn| who pass you going through revolving doors’, brushing strands of hair for managing the paths of life, the ‘carving of a profound absence’, ‘hare of the mind, hopeless tortoise heart’.
I’m guessing this mysterious and beautifully lit flotilla passing slowly in and out of sight is still searching for its destination. Which makes it all the more interesting.
thank you mary and yes, the quintains are still searching in that I will probably be editing and rearranging them on my death bed! but that I think is symptomatic of and natural to the text, which is fragmented and (as many of the pieces allude to) ephemeral... as for 'so many thoughts crystallised into fascinating images' - that imo is precisely the poet's job and I'm glad my efforts aren't wasted 🙏
When I got to the lines ‘Sometimes, one should be mystified,| and wonder over contents, truly wonder;| as though one glimpsed the passage of an ark’, I thought yes that’s what reading these quintains feels like, though perhaps it’s a flotilla of small mysteriously lit arks. I read them aware of much not understanding on my part but nevertheless appreciating the light and shade running through the earlier ones, the intent gaze at death later, and the way so many thoughts were crystallised into fascinating images. Just to pick out a few: the ‘lizard’s dream luxuriating’, the ‘black-clad men of dawn| who pass you going through revolving doors’, brushing strands of hair for managing the paths of life, the ‘carving of a profound absence’, ‘hare of the mind, hopeless tortoise heart’.
I’m guessing this mysterious and beautifully lit flotilla passing slowly in and out of sight is still searching for its destination. Which makes it all the more interesting.
thank you mary and yes, the quintains are still searching in that I will probably be editing and rearranging them on my death bed! but that I think is symptomatic of and natural to the text, which is fragmented and (as many of the pieces allude to) ephemeral... as for 'so many thoughts crystallised into fascinating images' - that imo is precisely the poet's job and I'm glad my efforts aren't wasted 🙏
congratulations, Huck!
🙏