"The Smoke of Thought": For the third night in a row, at around 10PM, the wind shifted, and the faint but unignorable smell of burning reached the upper east side. Searching on Google for "smoke" and "smell" brought up two interesting poets: AE Housman and Philip Larkin. I've seen Larkin quoted several times in the past week. Here's an excerpt from Housman's "A Shropshire Lad":
Today while I am master still,
And flesh and soul, now both are strong,
Shall hale the sullen slaves along,Before this fire of sense decay,
This smoke of thought blow clean away,
And leave with ancient night alone
The steadfast and enduring bone.
Larkin's poem, "The Building", contains a description of people in a hospital waiting room that could just as easily apply to New Yorkers lately: "They're quiet. To realise/This new thing held in common makes them quiet..."
For the record, I hardly ever read poetry and know basically nothing of poets or poetry. I guess I considered it superfluous--irrelevant, even--to the practical, "real" world I saw. Sometimes it steps up to the plate, though, and nails that same reality more cleanly than 150 hours of continuous media ever could. Economy of expression.
