Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.
From Frank O'Hara 'Mayakovsky' published in Meditations in an Emergency
I found this lovely poem on Mrs Trefusis' blog*. If I could link directly to the original post I would.
*I am so very fortunate and enormously grateful to have discovered a whole new world of blogs and writers via Twitter. The Maharishi thinks I'm a Twitter evangelist; he cannot imagine that it can be used for good. But how else would I have discovered Frank O'Hara (who roomed with Edward Gorey at Harvard, and was friends with the amazing John Ashbery)?
Please check out the blog roll to the right to witness some of these fresh & lovely voices.