The Imaginative Life
Evasive souls, of whom the wise lose track,
Die in each night, who, with their day-tongues, sift
The waking-taste of manna or of blood;
The raw magi, part-barbarians,
Entranced by demons and desert frost,
By the irregular visions of a god,
Suffragans of the true seraphs. Lust
Writhes, is dumb savage and in their way
As a virulence natural to the earth.
Renewed glories batten on the poor bones;
Gargantuan mercies whetted by a scent
Of mortal sweat: as though the sleeping flesh
Adored by Furies, stirred, yawned, were driven
In mid-terror to purging and delight.
As though the dead had Finisย on their brows.
โGeoffrey Hill
Like this:
Like Loading...
Related
About Joseph Spece
Solo volumes are ๐ฝ๐ผ๐ฟ ๐๐๐ (Fathom, 2018) and ๐๐ค๐๐๐จ (Cherry Grove, 2013). Founding editor at Fathom Books and SHARKPACK imprints; degrees from Columbia University and Boston College. Publishing credits in ๐๐ค๐๐ฉ๐ง๐ฎ, ๐ฟ๐๐ผ๐๐๐ผ๐, 3๐ผ๐, ๐๐ง๐๐๐ช๐๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ง๐ก๐ฎ, ๐ผ๐๐๐, ๐๐ค๐ก๐ฉ, and ๐ฝ๐๐จ๐ฉ ๐ผ๐ข๐๐ง๐๐๐๐ฃ ๐๐ญ๐ฅ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐๐ฃ๐ฉ๐๐ก ๐๐ง๐๐ฉ๐๐ฃ๐ ; editing and reader credits in poetry, non-fiction, and fiction at ๐๐๐ง๐ง๐๐ฉ๐๐ซ๐, ๐๐ค๐๐ก๐/๐๐๐จ ๐๐ฉ๐ง๐ก๐ฎ, and ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ง๐๐จ ๐๐๐ซ๐๐๐ฌ, respectively. Writing fellowships from The Poetry Foundation, MacDowell Colony, Vermont Studio Center, and Massachusetts Cultural Council.
View all posts by Joseph Spece →
Feels like a strange coda to Thomas’ villanelle, eh?