This Craft of Verse
Jorge Luis Borges
Edited by Calin-Andrei Mihailescu
University of Harvard Press, 2000.
I have spent my life reading, analyzing, writing (or trying my hand at writing), and enjoying. I found the last to be the most important thing of all. “Drinking in” poetry, I have come to a final conclusion about it. Indeed, every time I am faced with a blank page, I feel that I have to rediscover literature for myself…. I have only my perplexities to offer you. I am nearing seventy. I have given the major part of my life to literature, and I can offer you only doubts
—Jorge Luis Borges, “The Riddle of Poetry”
It is impossible to begin a review of This Craft of Verse without commenting on the Borgesian nature of the discovery itself. From 1967 to 1968, Jorge Luis Borges delivered the Charles Eliot Norton lectures at Harvard University. Having never been transcribed, they were subsequently assumed lost—until the end of the twentieth century, when a dusty recording was discovered in a library vault. There, committed to magnetic memory, was a voice from thirty-odd years ago, the voice of a poet now silent for half that time. A voice perhaps even more vital today, after the long and often controversial course of postmodernism has delivered us to a new millennium; a voice urging us to keep language alive.
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Father, it is fifty years since my last Confession
I didn’t realise you were an old person
We;l I was only eight last time
You mean, you have only been once?
Yes, it was a terrifying experience
Surely an eight year old would not have committed a lot of sins?
It’s not the number, it’s the seriousness
Do remind me what you dId?
I made the cat have a bath
Is that immoral?
Well, the cat didn’t like it
Why did you do it?
I thought it would stop her needing to lick herself all over.
And did it?
She moved next door and lived there for 20 years
Well, that’s not too bad.What have you done now?
I keep dreaming about strangling Boris Johnson
That’s only a sin if you injure him
If only I could tell him how I feel
He can’t listen.He’s an egoist
Is that a religion
Yes, in a sense.They adore themselves.
How about prayer?
They have no other god they worship
How miserable.Can’t they worship flowers?
I wish I knew
What would Jesus say?
Look at the lilies in the field.
Well, we have none
It is a simile or metaphor.Look at the dandelions
I’ve always felt they were underrated
And so do all of us
Apples hang low near the ground.
robins chirrup all around.
sun on glowing maple leaves
gives a red glow that deceives.
Autumn air is flowing near,
though it’s still bright summer here.
wind dismays the flowering rose
as with arrogance it blows.
Leave me one flower for my eyes.
Leave me roses,as I sigh.
Leave me not my dearest one.
Soon enough we shall be gone.
What remains is love alone.
If your heart is not of stone,
Fear not sorrow,fear not woe.
Into this earth we all must
Love thinking about you.
Love,thinking about you.
Love thinking,about you……
Thinking about you,love.
Thinking love about you.
You, thinking about love.
You thinking about love?
You love thinking about….
You about,thinking love?
About thinking,love you.
Come love,stop thinking.
How come there’s love about?
Think about it
I love it that through out blogs and comments we can reach out to anyone in the world who has a phone , tablet or computer.We may be isolated physically but we can feel the presence of others or write about what it’s like for us going through trials
And remember the people who have no food or money here and across Africa,Asia etc
Maybe donate some money if we have a bit more than we need.
Be grateful that in the UK we can get help 24 hours a day via 111
without worrying about paying for medicines or for doctor appointments
Why not phone someone near you who lives alone or is in self isolation.
Other than that, listening to your favourite music is very beneficial at reducing panic and anxiety and helps the heart as well
You can get films on youtube
When he went away,
He died but I’m still here
Yes,in my heart I feel his love
But why did I live,
And he did not?
. Yes,darling,I’ll see you later,
When the sky turns black and all the stars blaze bright
I’ll see you shining in the night.
I’ll see you in my dreams alas.
But why you and not me too?
I can’t understand.
A plus tard
Some where in this world,you fell
But no-one,not even God, can tell.
God was absent then or in some other place
He’s gone again.
They said He’s died too,
But He didn’t have a mother like you.
My breasts ache and my heart and soul,
My breasts were made to make you whole.
To feed, give love and to console.
A plus tard
And now they ache with grief as my tears
My body trembles in the night
As dreams may bring my lost ones to my sight.
A plus tard
I’d walk across the roughest bleak terrain
If l could find my loves and hold your hands again.
The bell rings on the ancient clock
As time goes on as normal ,
it doesn’t stop.
I wish the hands of time could be reversed,
And I was not living with this curse.
People forget that I once had a son.
They think my grieving has been done.
But grief and loss and pain will never end
Until the curtain of my death descends
Meantime I look at flowers and birds and trees,
But it’s really you my deepening insight sees.
The inscape of my heart is shown to few,
An artist of the lost would know this view.
I know I want to see just you.
But for me there is no Auf wiedersehen
Never again will you say
What you said that day
Papa A plus tard
. See you later
See you soon.
Freed from her trap
Bird soared into air,and hovered
And floated, resting;
And flew higher, singing as she flew,
And higher again,
Till there was only her song,
Left in the silence,
Up on the wide,stump topped hill,
I felt the lark inside my heart
And heard her singing.
And flying up with her,
I saw gold sun and silver moon,
Moors of heather ,and sheep grazing
And shimmering lakes,
Clouds ,sun and sky in watery mirrors.
And sang ,and dipped,and dropped,
Up the blue
Bright heaven, and rested
On the wind.
All that day
I was a lark singing.
I shall always have a vision of
That flew upwards,
Rejoicing and free
Into a deep blue sky, and high
Into a place, beyond eye even,
But music still sending.
I wish I were back on that heathery moor,
With the nibbling sheep and the bees sweetly humming,
The poignant song
Of the skylark,
A prisoner,freed by a magician,
From her trap,
So happy to be free,
So wonderful to see.
Do it again,