Within a few weeks now Draba, the smallest flower that blows, will sprinkle every sandy place with small blooms...
Draba asks, and gets, but scant allowance of warmth and comfort; it subsists on the leavings of unwanted time and space. Botany books give it two or three lines, but never a plate or portrait. Sand too poor and sun too weak for bigger, better blooms are good enough for Draba. After all it is no spring flower, but only a postscript to a hope.
Draba plucks no heart strings. Its perfume, if there is any, is lost in the gusty winds. Its color is plain white. Its leaves wear a sensible wooly coat. Nothing eats it; it is too small. No poets sing of it. Some botanist once gave it a Latin name, and then forgot it. Altogether it is of no importance- just a small creature that does a small job quickly and well.
In the midst of
winter, I finally
learned that there
was in me an
The Location of Culture (Homi Bhabha)
The Revolt of the Cockroach People
The Squatter and the Don
Angela Davis: Women, Race & Class
I'm sick and tired of hearing things
From uptight short-sighted narrow-minded hypocrites.
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth now.
Imagine (Tommy Sheridan and Alan McCombes)
Don't flounder in the preambles of the past
Wounded with regrets; don't let autumnal
Nostalgia blind you to the sounds and scents
Of the present's Spring; you're a native of
The pellucid moment, make it infinite beyond
The curving snake of passing time and space.
Learn to die in the infinitely elusive moment.