Wednesday, November 9, 2016

But is there any comfort to be found?

The title of this post is a line from W.B. Yeats.

I need to tell myself there is still poetry in this world. As much poetry, in fact, as there was yesterday, and perhaps more. And art in all its other forms.

Small consolation at the moment, when all that was good seems to have been broken. But...poetry.

That might get me through the day.


a mirror for
implausible today


  1. This post is a glimmer of light in a very dark tunnel – and thankfully the first thing I’ve read this morning. To say I needed this is an understatement!

  2. Oh my goodness, thank you for this comment. I was worried I was being superficial or irrelevant when I posted this, but somehow it felt right, at least to me.

  3. The perfect post for today! Thanks, Jeannie!

    1. Thank you so much, Mary. You know your comments are important to me! They keep me going.

  4. This comment has been removed by the author.