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$radfrac_archive_full: (Harold Ross of the New Yorker)$

And some attempt at measure.

Beauty: A walk and an opera

( The Opera )

( A pause to take stock: Operas I Have Seen and How they Made Me Feel )

( The Walk )

And frustration: I'm sick again

( I thought I'd recovered... )

I wander foggily, coating everything in the Beautiful Shed with a thin film of Vicks VapoRub.

{rf}

NOTES

1. I say "them", but the primary singers generally come from away, so we heard entirely other voices last time.

2. Opera dates from http://www.pov.bc.ca/repertoire.html

Crossposted from Dreamwidth (http://radiantfracture.dreamwidth.org/4166.html), where there are

comments. Comments either place are great.

$radfrac_archive_full: (dichotomy)$

And today's effort. So only seven more poems to write in order to catch up.

Sonnet (ish) for B.

The ultraviolet gloom of bluebells
veiling the empty lots and medians
along the walk between our houses
reminds me (always) of cigarettes.

You know, when the poor man In Howard’s End
walks all night for beauty with nothing
but tobacco to feed on, and wins only
well-meaning sex and money, bad advice

and (spoilers) death. Much more difficult
to hand over beauty. Here, take these awful
bluebells, their ugly stalks and ghostly
always retreating indigo

Use them to colour in the peeling
lilac porch where we smoked and ate waffles
and promised ourselves to beauty
a long time ago, unless that was someone else

or unless I really meant sex and money.
Anyway, I don’t mean that now.