Nude Poetry — Here Is What I Forgot

This week Kaveh pointed out that it was Tintern Abbey day, to barely no fanfare. It’s an abbey I visited last year, and completely forgot the poem in the presence of. I couldn’t even string the opening verse for my cycling friends who were so desperate for a bit of culture during their break from the hills before their sandwich arrived. It opens like this:

Five years have past; five summers, with the length 
Of five long winters! and again I hear 
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 
With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect 
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
‘Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, 
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
Or of some Hermit’s cave, where by his fire 
The Hermit sits alone.

There’s more, as you know. Anyway, those snippet that start this are what I forgot.

Honestly, it would be nice to remember the right poem at the right place for once.


I have found a naming convention for my series of memoirs:



There’s a little bit of suicide in this contemplative schoolyard effort from Cathy Ulrich.


Our dear friend Hiromi Suzuki has three new visual poems to play with in 3AM magazine. As usual they offer you a few contexts in which to approach them.


When it comes to owning a thing, nothing really beats owning your own space. Except when that ownership is a form of oppression for others. In this article in the baffler, the concept of ownership is discussed, as well as a powerful case put for the death of the metaphor. In a sense, is there any sense in making metaphor ion the world can offer you only uncertainty and misunderstanding — after all, isn’t the silent agreement of metaphor that we understand the world in a shared way, that that metaphors are a show cast by or against it?


And, to mention Kaveh again, he has something on offer in the Baffler too.


Octopie.


Apparently today is national nude day, which I celebrate every day and assume you do too. While noticing this fact I was made aware of Laura Berger’s work.




This week has been really good for short stories. Jennifer Fliss offers us Towels — which expresses a whole human existence lined by soft and starched towels.


As someone who grew up on a lake, I must say I am identifying hard with the catfish here — eve though I am more of a carp soul.

And, to speak of a man being other.


Today’s Song: REM — Let Me In



Thanks for reading Etch To Their Own. It was written by @CJEggett and your adventure ends here. I am sorry if this doesn’t reach you until Saturday gee em tee. The very lovely and kind @Writersamr took me out for what is known as, “the drinks” in these parts. Here’s some pretty visuals based on weather data. Yeah, all those stars drip down like butter. This is me very much getting out of the way.

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