Poetry - The Census
Weeks ago, they were called to collect their belongings.
Days ago, they were still traveling, rations growing thin.
Hours ago, sticks before endless stones.
Just now: beer in cut-out trees, feet planted on a stump.
All this, just for the sight of that damned donkey.
Not another short essay from me but one from Wyatt Mason, who writes quite insightfully about the poet Charles Baudelaire. Baudelaire, the first real Symbolist poet, wrote his most famous work The Flowers of Evil in his mid-thirties. He was not only known for his poetry, but also for his prose and criticism of contemporary art. Now that you know the basics, go on and read the essay over at Poetry Foundation. It is brilliant, trust me.
Excerpt from his poem Autumn (unknown translator)
It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere.
For whom? -- It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn.
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.