some days are poetry
completed after time stolen from many late nights
But most days are prose.
Maybe because work at the office seemed to have suddenly doubled, there's the occasion for reading poetry again. Poetry can find a small place in the head, stay there quietly until called for. For this reason, I like those "minor poets" best - folks whose work never seemed to have been caught up by the powerful forces of history and politics; they are admitted to the canon but not for being definitive. Doors are not made for them. They slip in when, by chance, a window opens.
I guess we are often caught sometimes by the spectacular and trascendent, and sometimes tempted by the mundane and quotidian.
Ah, the occasion for such reflection is this, or rather the year that has now passed. And as if some pattern should form, today Ma J gets admitted into hospital for the 4th time since her stroke. To be sure, nothing much has changed since I moved in with J. Probably because he has been living in the flat the past 5-6 years, and we had known each other 4 of those years. Yet there's been several changes variously in our lives: J left his marcomms job for his daydream in design, Ma J turns into someone even Pa J no longer recognises, and I got myself into more work...and a printmaking class that's been good fun so far.
And I am grateful for prose, and the expansive space it affords. Whether in pursuit of a narrative or meandering, as this, in random thought.