I don’t mean bloody mindedness, rather the rhythms of attention; where and how it moves. Writing in a cold garden in Rome a couple of weeks ago, I discover that I described something of this movement:
Lemon Tree
If this goes on
If I let this go on
If I don’t break the spell
Or do something our of stupidity
Or clumsiness and a lack of skill
Each item of treasure will be revealed to me
One at a time
Hidden princesses giggling in the shadows
Hidden in the foliage
Covering their mouths with their hands.
I listen for the intrusion of bird song
But it starts with human voices from an open window in a nearby apartment block
Cynical and jokingly callous male voices
And then I am allowed to hear the bird song.
One, a busy, hectoring, insistent little ‘woman’.
I imagine a tiny bird somewhere behind me
Out of sight, the other side of the wall.
And then there’s a retreat into background noise
A blur of traffic, voice and bird song
No sound leaps forward
Demanding recognition
The air is cold
Anticipatory of your acerbic jests.
***
As to the question, am I depressed? There’s much laughter from the back of the auditorium. They’re probably rolling about in the aisles back there. Do we have a spotlight that can pick out those fools?