the way my grandmother talked about God being everywhere. When my thoughts spiraled, I was in the spiral, and of it.
And I wanted to tell him that the idea of being in a feeling gave language to something I couldn’t describe before,
created a form for it, but I couldn’t figure out how to say any of that out loud.
“I can’t tell if this is a regular silence or an awkward silence,” Davis said.
“What gets me about that poem ‘The Second Coming’... you know how it talks about the widening spiral?”
“The widening gyre,” he corrected me. “‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre.’” “Right, whatever, the widening gyre.
But the really scary thing is not turning and turning in the widening gyre;
it’s turning and turning in the tightening gyre. It’s getting sucked into a whirlpool that shrinks and shrinks and shrinks your world
until you’re just spinning without moving, stuck inside a prison cell that is exactly the size of you,
until eventually you realize that you’re not actually in a prison cell. You are the prison cell.”
“You should write a response,” he said. “To Yeats.” “I’m not a poet,” I said. “You talk like one,” he said.
“Write down half the stuff you say and it would be a better poem than I’ve ever written.”
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색