“ there are two ways of getting home and one of them
is to stay there”
– G.K Chesterton
no more does
the calumet play,
and animals grieve
infancy is
a milk-white
bone of clay
street, a din of
rutted people with
sinkhole eyes
market is of dosed
jambolan plum, cabbage
pomelo and beet
meditative ink
bloodies refrain
diminishes heart
mystique is
ghost of light
mercury of dark
crow on the ledge
raucous as ever
her demand
the daily morsel
of life, undisputed
always home, stays.
F
Fiercely Tender: The Simple Complex World of Michael Ondaatje’s Novels
Shortly afterwards in that novel we encounter a celebration of the body, grime and all, unimpeded by this abstraction called mind. While writing the body might seem not altogether unusual, my point is that you cannot simply assume its naturalness. Language, even fictional language, is so much of a mentally...
