If you need a little writing fire, come on over to Brigit’s Flame and we’ll try to light you up.
Midnight once more; the untended fire sinks low;
The lamp stares down upon the book unread;
The papers on my desk have nothing to show:
I have not learned the things I wished to know,
The things I wished to say remain unsaid.
Again the dead pause, the need for a new start;
The vanishing of every name and form
That seemed the very contours of the heart;
And all the working mystery of art
A queenless hive deserted by the swarm.
Then suddenly, unbidden, the theme returns
That visited my youth; over the vast
Pacific with the white wake at their sterns,
The ships of Quiros on their great concerns
Ride in upon the present from the past.
The Inception Of The Poem by James McAuley
Though the entertainment world seems married to futures of doom – of razing the human race via plague, invasion, and natural…
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