Sunday 4 December 2011

Unknown


Reading Steinbeck in November’s late and
surprising sun, a single rose opening to crimson
on the bush from where the others were cut
to bloom indoors; and from the fecund touch of
his narrative also grows this palpable unknown -
I won’t have it a god’s - but nature’s unnatural threat
years after the grandeur and doom of his
writing about certain uncertainty in its poise.

Now how to strike a balance, convince you
my telling and feelings are as real, the true
thrall of the tale as much in that bud here in this
garden where I sit reading and drinking coffee,
domestic and eased and fortunate, but still to sense
and worry as well how something is growing awry.

3 comments:

  1. Superb. It captures Steinbeck so well.
    I don't know if you saw it, but I have just recorded a programme on Steinbeck. Not sure if it was on Sky Arts or the BBC, but it looks interesting.

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  2. Keep missing the programme so will keep an eye out

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  3. It's on the BBC. Am sure they'll repeat it soon.

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