Art owls! Huzzah!
Since I mentioned the Turrell exhibit yesterday (and, I think, misspelled his name), I thought we’d start with this one.
Also, another favourite poem for you:
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving, but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead.
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way
They said
Oh no no no it was too cold always
Still the dead one lay moaning
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving, but drowning.
Not Waving But Drowning, Stevie Smith
This one gives me chills. I have a feeling I connect to it even more because of my history with depression, but I imagine it speaks to most people in some way. I ran across it in my English text in high school (the first night I got it. I basically always took my English books home and devoured them in a few nights because STORIES I HAVEN”T READ YET. It came in handy later in the semester when I inevitably forgot the reading assignment, too.) and immediately copied it down and have had it memorized ever since, and I hope it improved some of my more lugubrious creative writing with the clear, cold simplicity of Smith’s language and the way her words resonate.
Neurotic Owl 