“And so I go on to suppose that the shock-receiving capacity is what makes me a writer. I hazard the explanation that a shock is at once in my case followed by the desire to explain it. I feel that I have had a blow; but it is not, as I thought as a child, simply a blow from an enemy hidden behind the cotton wool of daily life; it is or will become a revelation of some order; it is a token of some real thing behind the appearances; and I make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed ... more »
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Oisin Vink Poems
The beam of lamplight strides across the water, Ebbing at my feet in off-blue garments - Enamored with the crows, As I pass here daily;
And so she rose again, Attracted to the corners. If only you could have stayed a little longer; To cover over the embers that still burn here.
Maybe I have met you here once before, Long ago, I had walked upon this floor. You have hung up there,
I hear the ticking of the clock, Beating and faceless. The ashen berry stare That straddles at the hip
Fly away my little swallow, Perching there upon those tracks - For we have lain so long.
Burnished black vortex, The water filters through. Siphoning grief at my base as if I were accustomed; Alike the trees above the crag.
The snow always seemed to arrive at the wrong time, During journeys on sidewalks or right before the last stop, Where an old lady keenly eyes the occupied seats and grumbles about Jesus or something.
The stroll has begun again, For the one that made me change my name. No longer am I your dancer in the dark, The tightrope has become quite dated.
She always wondered what it would be like To speak Italian, Because being continental is all the rage these days. Covering over the size 16 with discreetly placed
There was always a shimmer in the bottle, Whilst the ceiling has become my other half; Cobwebbed and stewing in a red afterglow. The street lights flicker toward the surface;
And so you have fallen again, Clatter, clatter – Attracted to the corners.
I have sewn upon “The Tree of Life”, Modest stitches, Yellow, red, A once loving eye
And so it has begun again. A vague touch Or a cold rapture down my spine, Drawing itself in through the glass.
I am happy here, With my worn out clothes, And a packet of cigarettes- That papered gold.
Comments about Oisin Vink
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
The beam of lamplight strides across the water,
Ebbing at my feet in off-blue garments -
Enamored with the crows,
As I pass here daily;
Trailing in my stride as if I were God.
Nothing is as it seems,
Once you have fallen a long way,
If only to rise again, softly, softly.
The crows know nothing of this, nor do I -
Neither, shall we choose to accept it.
To travel onwards, where the sky looms;
Rigid and sober –
The cradle rocks and festers.
Conceived as being happy,
Which it was.
Sweet whisperings of the mind’s ...