인생은 곡선

누구의 소문도 아닌 하나의 곡선
반토막 삶의 흔적
가지 못할 많은 단애
오늘도 신년초 밑그림 그리기
쓰디쓴 목구멍에서 하수도 냄새
삶은 갈수록 난해한 수수께끼
깊은시름속에 새해는 다시 오고
나는 역사에 뒤안 길에서
외로운 한장의 사진으로 빛바렌 사연만이
손가락 사이로 빠져 나가고
추운 시간속에 봄기운도 사리지고
계속  얼어 붙은 온도기에 나의 치아는
하나  둘 빠져나가서 고생대 식물처럼
앙상한 역사의 진상만이 그림으로 남는다


'I have conversed with the spiritual Sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill': it's Blake's heaven as etching celebrates poet's view

Life is a curve

Nobody's rumble, not one curve
Traces of half-life
A lot of good things that can not go
Drawing a sketch at the beginning of the New Year
Sewer smell from bitter throat
Life is an increasingly difficult puzzle
The new year is coming back
I am on the road back to history
Lonely one piece of the photo,
I'm going through my fingers.
In the cold of the spring,
My teeth are still frozen at a temperature
One and the other,
Only the truth of the history is left as a picture.

It’s not just the panorama of London that marks out Primrose Hill. It has poetic history. The recent-ish history is traceable, the prehistory is imaginable. Wisely, Iain Sinclair took Allen Ginsberg there in 1967. William Blake had been there almost 200 years earlier, conversing with the Spiritual Sun. And then the Gorsseders, the bards, the druids, and Iolo. We wonder if Owen Pughe ever put in an appearance, or Richard Brothers. And what of the Shakespeare Tree…? Sinclair himself is Welsh-ish. A place to see the modernity of the city while feeling the ancientness of its pedigree.


https://poetopography.wordpress.com/2014/03/14/primrose-hill/