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sisters & sparrows

Poetry. Photography. Life.

{The Notebooks of Robert Frost.  Our poetry tutor today told us that over the holidays we must, ‘pythonlike, consume a poet in its entirety, and that poet must become your ghost companion.’  He wanted us to have poets who shared the first letter of our last names (??) so I chose Frost.  Brilliant!  When I went up to the library almost all the books on him were grey and beautiful.  I couldn’t resist choosing this one, although it is the size of a small coffee table and I will have to lug it around all day.

Also in our seminar our tutor took us all into the woods and made us read poetry there.  It was strange post-modern non-poetry poetry.  He took us into this ridiculous smigeon of scrappy woods and wanted us to look up at the branches as we recited this stuff which is apparently written about the spaces between trees … ‘Brief striations of staying, reassemblage to a swirl of outspin whose distance isn’t in place of, but a loop to green fixiteies radiantly before: an obstruct-scale requites lit rods which are bold slighting, on the way-to as absention is grateful upon any thinner continuance.  Blushed light is injected belt across a sequel leaner through light, the winter steerings.’  And that’s just one ‘stanza’.  Obviously my tutor grew up in the city.}

{I have been rediscovering one of my old favourite blogs, A Field Journal.  Her photography is so wonderful.}

{Dreams.  When I get really tired I have dream/hallucinations which cross over into real life.  Last night I woke up heart thumping, almost hyperventilating, standing at the end of my bed with my light on, the door flung open and one foot over my threshold, my duvet on the floor, because I had seen/dreamt a giant writhing spider on the wall next to my pillow.  It frightens me that the crossover between what I thought I did (saw giant spider) and what I actually did (flung myself out of bed, slammed the light on, threw my door open) in my memory of the event is very fluid. I can’t tell where the reality starts.  My dreams usually I find are very illuminating, but also weird.  They’d make a good book maybe.}

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