a cento using lines from Katherine Mansfield’s journal
The year is nearly over.
A thick white mist reaches the edge of the field.
There is no limit to human suffering.
I am sad tonight. Perhaps it is the wind.
A thick white mist reaches the edge of the field.
This joy of being alone. What is it?
I am sad tonight. Perhaps it is the wind.
The black chair, half in shadow, as if a happy person sprawled there.
This joy of being alone. What is it?
I feel the new life coming nearer.
The black chair, half in shadow, as if a happy person sprawled there.
For all the sun, it is raining outside.
I feel the new life coming nearer.
And then the dream is over and I begin working again.
For all the sun, it is raining outside.
I feel always trembling on the brink of poetry.
And then the dream is over and I begin working again.
Am I less of a writer than I used to be?
I feel always trembling on the brink of poetry.
Sometimes I glance up at the clock.
Am I less of a writer than I used to be?
I must begin all over again.
Sometimes I glance up at the clock.
To look up through the trees to the faraway blue.
I must begin all over again.
To live—to live—that is all.
To look up through the trees to the faraway blue.
I want to remember how the light fades from a room.
To live—to live—that is all.
There is no limit to human suffering.
I want to remember how the light fades from a room.
The year is nearly over.
from What Happens is NeitherFind more by Angela Narciso Torres at the library
Copyright © 2021 Angela Narciso Torres
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.