Poetry, please

"Morning has spread again

 Through every street, 

And we are strange again;

 For should we meet 

How can I tell you that 

Last night you came 

Unbidden, in a dream? 

And how forget 

That we had worn down love good-humouredly, 

Talking in fits and starts 

As friends, as they will be 

Who have let passion die within their hearts. 

Now, watching the red east expand, 

I wonder love can have already set 

In dreams, when we’ve not met 

More times than I can number on one hand." 

— Philip Larkin

All that's left of the dreams I hold

I can't stop listening to this song! I'm not really one of those people that are really into marriage/weddings or anything, I don't fantasize about it and never have, but I just love this song.

Totally dancing around my room right now, as per...

Blossom

Yeah I am afraid of the light if you know what I mean.

Just makin' zines:

Go chase the wild and night time streets...

Today has been pretty swell. I woke up early and went to town, and as the sun was out we walked through the park, which was refreshing. There was this beautiful tree whose branches were stooped to the ground, pregnant with blossom, which I picked and swirled into the air like confetti. After some dull banking we went to some charity shops where I bought this silky chinese-style dress and a candy pink plaid cotton one, which reminds me a little of Lolita, or at least how I imagine her in my head.
Then we popped into the library, where I withdrew Bande à Part and a book on art and feminism that looks amaaaaazing. After that I just lazed around and day dreamed about a project I'd like to start in a few months, to organise a small artist-run gallery/space where I could show the work of students in the local sixth forms/colleges/university and hold community events like zine fests and craft evenings. Of course I'd need funding and generous volunteers to make it work, so I'll try and recruit some people when I begin art foundation. I've only really had the idea today, so it's at that airy, ethereal, intangible phase where anything feels possible. Like Schrodinger's cat: only by lifting the lid, putting myself out there and hoping for the best can I find out whether it will live or die.

(I've also started on issue two of Grin and Bear It, above)

It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.

"To Begin at the beginning:

It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters' -and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And the people of the lulled and dumbfounded town are sleeping now."

I went to a few charity shops yesterday and bought some books, among which was Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas. This is part of the opening passage and I love it. It's so lyrical and rhythmic: the words trip from the tongue and tumble over each other in the most pleasureable way. There are some recordings of it being read on youtube, which I like to listen to whilst reading. God, I wish I could write like Thomas.

I also bought a book called 1001 Images of Cats, and yes, it's exactly what you think it is, and yes, it is glorius.