On Monday I decided I would give myself a complete day off from Arabic on Tuesday. My plan was to read a collection of poetry from my shelf.
Amazingly, I did it! As I read I spotted the sudden revelations of snippets about Kevin Young's father and about the process of becoming a father himself. I got used to the extent to which I was in tune with his style of writing. I let the bits I found less understandable wash over me, no dwelling and worrying about words or lines.
::
I chase the quiet
round the house.
'It's death there' p180
::
Here I was writing a poem
Called Heaven
actually about the earth.
Pilgrimage p147
::
You are not still,
nor born,
now never
will be.
Stillborn p135
::
Where's the soul?
Hidden.
Where?
Everywhere.
And the breath?
Only wind.
Truce p122
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