From April 2003.
"First morning of the world", etc.: my translation of a line in a song by Gabriel Fauré: "C'est le premier matin du monde, comme une fleur confuse exhalee dans la nuit ..."
Blue heaven, wide heaven. The heaven of postcards. Rays of sun spilling forth from a painfully perfect heaven. Penelope's smile, Serena's slippers.
Heaven in the active valley, heaven on the passive mountaintops. There was Karen, and the girl that looked like Karen. Sixteen parcels of heaven. A robin spoke to Robyn in robin-language. Spacious farmhouse heaven. And Cynthia's baseball cap.
Purple petals, rose-petals, petals from the spotted lily. Heaven strewn like petals among the glossy magazines.
The frantic precision of commercial heaven. And the voice of beatitude, impinging upon our affairs, restoring purity. First morning of the world, a dazed flower whispered into the night.
Heaven and an accidental psalm. Heaven and October memories. Bumblebees, the lecture-hall, a celestial voice saying "Hey!" Abstract heaven of the art gallery.
The heaven of laughter is a most acceptable heaven. The heaven of tears is a most acceptable heaven.
The heaven of poets with their stanzas, their rhymes, their particoloured amphibrachs! And the heaven of painters, a song, a picture, an opus of heaven.
Silence and pine-trees. Starlight. Kimberly, Tracy, Aisha, the heaven of peaceful names. Heaven of Kobayashi and his dewdrops, heaven of autumn wind. The heaven of Petrarch, of Laura, of the sonnets of centuries past.
Poetry by Thomas D
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Written on 2020-07-19 at 10:56
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