Knitting & poetry

Another Belgian bank holiday. To the pool for 8 o'clock opening. Back for breakfast. Out to the Illy cafe on Avenue Louise for elevenses. Lunch. Then steal a couple of hours for reading.

This:

"My sense for it is anyway to let the writing loose from its moorings if need be but to allow range; and now where it might happen above or below, nobly or ignobly to disrupt the personal. When you ask why I am writing that way or is it the right direction that all belongs to the me (italicized) who is shaped, impelld, made as I make the poem. But the words and the poem are also all other and less or more than what we use them for or how we are used by them." (Robert Duncan to Denise Levertov, 16 July, 1955)

and this:

"In the late hour left after the history of the day, taken with a will before bedtime - how transformed the world is! The silence almost reaches us in which an original, all that has been left behind, tosst about, of us remains.

Beautiful litter with thy gleam and glimmers, thy wastes and remains! The tide of our purpose has gone back into itself, into its own counsels. And it is the beauty of where we have been living that is the poetry of the hour." ('Salvages: An Evening Piece' in 'A Book of Resemblances')

Tonight? Pasta. A glass of red wine.

and finally:

"What I am picturing is a poetry spun out of an evening as a whole cloth spun out of a net of worn wool." ('Poetry Disarranged')

Wouldn't that be great?