I run in the hour-glass

Hmmm I cannot sleep…as I had an afternoon nap and I am still thinking about what I learned on National Poetry Day in London. I felt so great to be back in London…the business of people, ads and tubes took me away…away from myself. And walking the streets made me part of this social network…although I could never afford it.Being king for a day.
The poetry readings, well, that is London style…people applauded like crazy after the short poetry slam session and I just thought: I remember again why I hate it so much!

And I felt out of time, like a Renaissance painting between Dali and Picasso. Everyone could pick a poem for himself out of a basket. I opened mine only later at dinner: I did not know which time it is but looking it up today proved my point. Here it is (by the way, I love it and would have never bet it is so old!):

The hour-glass
by Ben Jonson (1572-1637)
      Do but consider this small dust,
      here running in the glass,
      By atoms moved.
      Could you believe that this the body was
      Of one that loved?

      And in his mistress’ flame playing like a fly,
      Turned to cinders by her eye?
      Yes, and in death as life unblest,
      To have’t expressed,
      Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

I stand at a diverging way, either I follow the main stream poetry setting its focus on narrative, simple daily poems or I create my own niche, which will be much harder but even much more satisfying. That is why I am here: to discover where I belong, where all my personalities of me belong.

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