On the Uncertainty of the Poet When swaddled in the specious shadow cast by what must be the carcass of the past, do I, an idle suppliant, asleep, contrive to dream a soggy stinking heap of votive offerings in blind homage? Or is that yawning thorax a mirage at which my marbled ardour tilts, and flicks its just deserts: this bunch of throwing-sticks? In either case, I pull a fruitless stunt: my sticks are squibs, my coaxings impotent; my bathos-bloated bulk's not feasible; the ghosts of days are unappeasable. And meanwhile, past the dark dogmatic tracts of hinterland that grows as it subtracts, the train of arrowed time fast forwards poured in silken certitude, with all bar me aboard. Sanjeev Braich Sanjeev Braich is, or perhaps at some deep level longs to be, no more than a writer manqué. He lives and works in London.
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September 2023
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