in the hidden cellars of the brain,
a thousand little thievish atoms steal out
automatically raiding friends’ confidences,
woes, loves, desires,
to build and furnish complete
the edifice which the artist,
erasing all other sources and signatures,
canceling all debts,
believes his own magnificent sorcery.
Dawn Powell
Turn, Magic Wheel
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Footnotes
What was written as prose is presented here as verse.
Nothing would delight me more than to have
a fellow Powellista challenge the conversion.
The next Dawn Powell page is here.
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A poem is just an intake of breath
ReplyDeleteLoudly ring the bells:
DeleteLaughter is the breath of angels
Between their life and death
Poetry is their uber-breath
I do so declare
About the Crying Towel
None waved it louder
Than Dawn Powell
Ears open wider
For talk we are missin'
To the airwaves
We tune in and listen
Thanks to George Harrison
This I know:
Gossip is the devil's radio