The story continues:
Text: Not only is Jack an artist,
TO BE CONTINUED
Coincidentally, I just found some more leaves:Derek Mahon (23 November 1941 – 1 October 2020) LeavesThe prisoners of infinite choiceHave built their houseIn a field below the woodAnd are at peace.It is autumn, and dead leavesOn their way to the riverScratch like birds at the windowsOr tick on the road.Somewhere there is an afterlifeOf dead leaves,A stadium filled with an infiniteRustling and sighing.Somewhere in the heavenOf lost futuresThe lives we might have ledHave found their own fulfilment.From Derek Mahon, Poems 1962-1978 (Oxford University Press 1979).
That is a terrific poem. Writing on leaves, as I've been doing for some years, has necessarily led me to a great deal of reflection on the similarity of leaves and lives, of decaying matter and human souls. So I've been thinking in anticipation of this poem for quite a while.I must read more of Derek Mahon's work.
I see that he died just a few days ago - probably why that poem was posted. I wish I'd known of him a bit earlier.
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