ingo: (Default)
Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd—
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor’s sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the glass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

well fuck

Mar. 27th, 2011 03:15 pm
ingo: (breathless)
Diana Wynne Jones died yesterday.
ingo: (Copious Woe)
I'm tired of life. It's an endurance test, like a compulsory athletics lesson that grinds on for decades. I spend a lot of time living in a fantasy world because escapism is the only thing that helps, but it doesn't last forever. I'm tired and I hurt and I'm sick of trying.

At least there's tea.
ingo: (Default)
You know, just for a change. It's quite hard to find the motivation to do anything these days. I don't want next week to happen.
ingo: (Default)
Given that I've never finished any of the incredibly simple knitting projects I've started in the past (basically, a scarf), and have never used a pattern in my life, you could be forgiven for wondering why I don't try doing something easy, like a banana warmer or an apple cosy.

Right now, so am I.

But I will prevail.


(Stupid incomprehensible pattern! Where do you want me to put the extra stitch? and what type of extra stitch do you want me to put there? Why can't you be precise, omg.)
ingo: (Default)
This was my favourite poem back when I was an unhappy fourteen year old. Now I'm an unhappy twenty-six year old, and it still has a special place in the favourite poetry section of my bitter old heart. John Clare wrote it towards the end of his life, after he had been committed to the Northamptonshire County General Lunatic Asylum.

I Am

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below--above the vaulted sky.
ingo: (Default)
Simone de Beauvoir shipped Jo/Laurie.

ingo: (Default)
The sight is dismal;
And our affairs from England come too late:
The ears are senseless that should give us hearing,
To tell him his commandment is fulfilled,
That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead:
Where should we have our thanks?


ingo: (Default)

August 2012

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