This is the first thing
I have understood:
Time is the echo of an axe
Within a wood.
Can you explain how time passing feels and is experienced? (I put 2017 on a letter last week and did not notice; I played basketball with Year 7 and 8 on Thursday, and felt as if I were 12 again? Some forty minute lessons fly by, others feel like wading through treacle!)
‘She’s leaving home after living alone for so many years.’
‘Change and decay in all around I see, O Thou who changest not, abide with me.’
‘A Mars a day, helps you work rest and play’
‘I’d rather have a full bottle in front of me than a full frontal lobotomy.’
We are surrounded by poetry: in songs, in hymns, in advertising jingles, in jokes…in poems. Can we explain why and how rhythm, rhyme and sound bemuse, move and bewitch us? Do we make poems or do poems make us?
Can someone born deaf fully understand a poem?
Which is more mysterious, the infinite number of: possible poems or possible numbers?
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find,
Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that’s made To a green thought in a green shade