But the Lamp Was Still There.

Impossible Loves: Who woulda thunk it. [Simone Weil, right?]
“Possible loves — are for fools — the wise have — impossible loves.”
– Simone Weil
«Ninguna mente extraordinaria está exenta de un toque de demencia», digo Aristóteles.  
“To be a writer is to have hope, and to a writer, no matter how old, hope is belief in one more work yet to be written, another book that is somehow the capstone or distillation of all that has been written before.”~ Yi-Fu Tuan

¡Dejadme entrar! ¡Vengo helada       Let me in! I come freezing

por paredes y cristales!                      through the walls and windows!

¡Abrir tejados y pechos                     Open roofs, open breasts

donde pueda calentarme!                   where I may warm myself!

¡Tengo frío! Mis cenizas                    I'm cold! My ashes

de soñolientos metales                       of somnolent metals

buscan la cresta del fuego                  seek the fire's crest

por los montes y las calles                 on mountains and streets.

….

[~from Lorca, A Study Guide by David Richard Jones and Susan Jones]

…The touch of clouds,
When the imagining arm leaps out to caress…~Ivor Gurney, ‘Common Things’

I couldn't make out anything else, but the lamp was still there. I watched it until the light vanished, just as before. Now I was spooked. (p. 184-5)

~Deborah Lawrenson, The Lantern, Dolce Bellezza blog

[from Journal 5: 3: Through the Pass]