I do not attach much importance to the publication or non publication of my poetry and never have done. Most of it (the published part) appeared five, ten, fifteen or even thirty or more years after they were written. The few recently published in magazines (not all of them new, e.g. the sonnets) owed their fate to Nolini's eagerness and not to my initiative. But the vast bulk of what I have written (long poems mostly) lies on shelf and in drawer, most of it for more than a decade, awaiting either dissolution or an interminable revision or total recasting which at the present rate may well retain them there a decade or two more. But that is my own idiosyncrasy—it cannot be a rule or example for others.
O immense Light and thou, O spirit-wide boundless Space, Whom have you clasped and hid, deathless limbs, gloried face? Vainly lie Space and Time, "Void are we, there is none." Vainly strive Self and World crying "I, I alone." One is there, Self of self, Soul of Space, Fount of Time, Heart of hearts, Mind of minds, He alone sits, sublime. Oh no void Absolute self-absorbed, splendid, mute, Hands that clasp hold and red lips that kiss blow His flute. All He loves, all He moves, all are His, all are He; Many limbs sate His whims, bear His sweet ecstasy. Two in One, Two who know difference rich in sense, Two to clasp, One to be, this His strange mystery.
More >>
Share your feedback. Help us improve. Or ask a question.