There was nothing wrong with the day;
summer rolled on from warm to wet
a serendipity of flavours,
but I was stuck in monochrome.
I’d nothing left to say,
the weight of it betrayed the light,
left me pulverised by time:
here I am in the middle way underwhelmed,
not sure which way to turn, yet every way is “me”.
I’m stuck fast in the slow swell of choice
like a rat caught in a wheel “entre deux vies”
and love seems so far away, as far away as you
running in the opposite direction.
Victoria Mosley 
Wonderful. Sad. Beautiful.
I’ve found the word for that thing that you do. It’s catachresis.
x
Isn’t that a little reductionist darling 🙂
WOW!!!
That’s me for you 🙂
er you didn’t notice a tune of Eliot’s ”Wasteland” here?
Yes I did in fact notice the Eliot rhythms, and, now you mention it, I can see there is in particular an echo of The Wasteland (the Fire Sermon, specifically). But I wasn’t reducing you. Your poems are all that and more. I am in awe of them. What I was saying was that there is a particular thing you do (one among many others) that especially thrills me, and it is when, with just a single word, you magically conjure an original and shocking metaphor our of thin air. And the name for that particular thing (one among many, one that particularly thrills me) is catachresis.
Well thank you , this way of seeing the world happened as far back as I can remember. Hopefully I get better at expressing it, the recent poems are new and slightly different
xxx