Summer 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 3 Poetry |

Joyce on the French Coast Waiting for the Dark

Though one should not know too soon what he waits for,what the posture implies, should not surmise the precise music with which the man struggles, in which we find him, coming late here, locked,turning his back to the fierce ravishments of sky, of surf, of the French littoral, nor understand too easily three youths on their flight south, the oddness of the angleat which, this evening, they approach the camera,only to glance off, left, out of the picture, should the time come, assume who they may be, into what lives each, grown, complex, might flee, nor name, if speak at all, definitivelylandscapes we alone are left to determine which are imaginary, which are real, Joyce sits, at twilight, in a field of wild grass,darkness gathering, gathered, holds his headin hands delicate, slender, almost fragile(time to pause, rest, be still, dream, wait for music),his palms cupping both ears as he looks down, black patch sealing one eye, the other closed, an ascot, white, draped loos

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By Herbert Morris

Though one should not know too soon what he waits for,what the posture implies, should not surmise the precise music with which the man struggles, in which we find him, […]

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