November dusk

(Days with Tennyson, after computer crash and death.))

November this year is so soft and cosy! It’s like being wrapped up in silver grey velvet. For me the month began with I was cast away from my  daily routines. I could the first idle days in the silence hear my own thoughts – a disappointment as they were both tiny and negative – I just didn’t want them! My days now goes fine, I hold up by keeping me busy with different reading projects and watching TV news three times a day. I sleep pretty well, but my dreams – although uninteresting too – are dreary and troubled. I know of course I lack essentials in my life. But you know: “you do the best you can” and you tell yourself to “cheer up” – before anyone else do it.

While dim November falter and tremble for- and backward  autumn and winter and then autumn again, I am thinking about how we – by just letting things go – create something between us we should not do. But I can’t talk about that, as it would be like to try to open doors there no doors are (yet or if never). We are certainly walking into the fog.

A few sunny days in clarity passed, yes – but mostly it’s cloudy and everything is covered in a gloomy sleepy light. And the foggy days gives me an uncomfortable feeling of being in stagnation. We are surely moving, but so slow it hardly can be observed by common senses. It’s like living with a big ponderous creature in hibernation. But if you listen into the dark cave you can actually hear the animal –  it’s breathing!

I copy poems from Tennyson’s “In memorian”. It’s an edition from 1904 from the locked archives for old and rare books at my local library. There are no newer edition to find (in my country). And some poems are certainly a bit theatrical and tied to their time . But there are some eternal and touching verses like this one:

We have but faith, we cannot know
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee;
A beam in  darkness: let it grow.

I don’t know if it is any point with copy old poems, is it? It may only be distractions and I may just waste my time (and life)? Such instant and unpleasant thoughts hits me sudden now and then and they almost make me lose my compass. Like a programmed machine I automatically start question myself, my life and  what I do or (never) have done. And so disturbed I look up and out of my windows and into the dusky muted fog, while I work this discomfort out of my body system and brain – by own willpower.

But everyone reaching out for me from the fog by calling me with name and recognition is a beam in the darkness keeping me alive, oriented and glowing. And this light from others stays in my memory files and support me even in my secluded moments.

photo yasb November 2013

photo yasb November 2013

Alfred Tennyson wrote “In Memorian A. H. H. “ to the  memory of his best friend Arthur Hallam, who died when they both still were in their youth.  The collection contain 132 poems written between 1833 –1850. The quoted verse above is from “Prologue.”
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This entry was posted in Alfred Tennyson, create life, living in the world, poem by vonnely, Poetry, prose poem and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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