(poetry diary 58) Went to the Annual Book Sale on the Branford Green last night, which I always think is a little magical. It’s held in tents, until midnight, so that one can search for books (and all the magic inside of them) underneath the stars.
Notes on the Art of Poetry
by Dylan Thomas
I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,,,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,, ,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.