fragment 27
HOW MY BOOTS GOT DRY
Winter. A sky brought low with cloud. I’m in the lounge, reading Yeats. Puzzling my way through the widening gyre and those falcons that cannot hear, wondering about ‘the center [that] cannot hold.’ I try to imagine his ‘rough beast slouching towards Bethlehem’ in monstrous terms: thick-limbed, carrying in one claw a hammer and bucket of blood in the other, and extending a killing horn back to the symmetrical tiger of Blake. It is the fearsome tiger in this comparison that seems truly loved.
My boots were often wet back then. By the time I was ready to leave they would be dry.
Winter. A sky brought low with cloud. I’m in the lounge, reading Yeats. Puzzling my way through the widening gyre and those falcons that cannot hear, wondering about ‘the center [that] cannot hold.’ I try to imagine his ‘rough beast slouching towards Bethlehem’ in monstrous terms: thick-limbed, carrying in one claw a hammer and bucket of blood in the other, and extending a killing horn back to the symmetrical tiger of Blake. It is the fearsome tiger in this comparison that seems truly loved.
My boots were often wet back then. By the time I was ready to leave they would be dry.
Labels: [W.B.], Beasts [Rough], Bethlehem, Boots, Drying, Falcons, Falling Apart [Things], Slouchers, Slouching, Yeats
posted by Jon Cone at
1:48 PM
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