An Odd Boy: lachrymal tincture

What astonishing words: ‘Black rock enraged that the north wind rolls and will not stop itself’ Stéphane Mallarmé seemed to be projecting his feelings onto the rock and thereby expressing far more than he would had he written of himself. I was impressed by the way in which he could write something as compact as this: ‘ . . . the ring-dove nearly always coos when the many folds of immaterial grief rise as clouds to obfuscate the ripe stars of tomorrow - silvered by scintillations.’ I’ve always attempted to emulate the sheer density of such lines. I saw poetry as ‘painting with words’ and aimed to write poetry whose structure attained the critical mass of Mississippi Mud Pie. I wanted to write poetry that would make a feast under the ripe stars of tomorrow.

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