Monday and Tuesday at work; especially Tuesday, though shorter, was kind of a challenge. St. Patrick's weekend looming behind the corner. Finished reading two very thick books: Zbigniew Herbert's biography written by Franaszek, and a collection of all his poems previously published in nine volumes. Today morning sitting in Caffè Nero, I started reading
Antarctica by Claire Keegan, a short story collection (it already feels great).
Still about Zbigniew, my favourite poem of his:
A Stool
in the end one cannot keep this love concealed
tiny quadruped with oaken legs
o skin coarse and fresh beyond expression
everyday object eyeless but with a face
on which the wrinkles of the grain mark a ripe judgment
gray little mule most patient of mules
its hair has fallen out from too much fasting
and only a tuft of wooden bristle
can my hand feel when i stroke it in the morning
do you know my darling they were charlatans
who said: the hand lies the eye
lies when it touches shapes that are empty
they were bad people envious of things
they wanted to trap the world with the bait of denial
how to express to you my gratitude wonder
you come always to the call of the eye
with great immobility explaining by dumb-signs
to a sorry intellect: we are genuine
at last the fidelity of things opens our eyes
Below, my daffodils, which almost perished last year due to an insidious attack by the narcissus bulb fly.
