There will be no writing, of any sort, for anybody to read, any time soon. But there might be a new painting in the works.
In the meantime, one of my favorite poems:
Not Waving But Drowning
Stevie Smith, 1957
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
