Feeling very low, as befits the time of year. These poems say it all:
Now back from a quarter’s psychosis
I’m seeing a gloomy prognosis
On the year’s shortest day
I nocturnally pray:
Convert in the dark by osmosis
According to a poem by John Donne, the shortest day is called “St Lucy’s Day”.
Appears to be a depth in me
That no-one else can hear or see
I cry and cry, but no reply
The sun beyond the desert sky
Confronting this rift in my soul
Don’t know what it is to be whole
Torn in three directions
I’m patchworked in sections
This coat, multi-coloured, this stole
Engaging the whole of my brain
It’s a wonder the vessels don’t sprain
the viscera quivering
pen in hand shivering
trying to make one human stain
Engagement her is to be thought of on the French sense. The “human stain” is a reference to a novel by Philip Roth
which does not, however, have much to do with the poem.
Going to do a solstice ceremony later.