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Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 6 months ago
Love by Edwin Morgan Love rules. Love laughs. Love marches. Love is the wolf that guards the gate. Love is the food of music, art, poetry. It fills us and fuels us and fires us to create. Love is terror. Love is sweat. Love is bashed pillow, crumpled sheet, unenviable fate. Love is the honour that kills and saves and nothing will ever let that high ambiguity abate. Love is the crushed ice that tingles and shivers and clinks fidgin-fain for the sugar-drenched absinthe to fall on it and alter its state. With love you send a probe So far from the globe No one can name the shoals the voids the belts the zones the drags the flares it signals all to leave all and to navigate.
Love by Edwin Morgan Love rules. Love laughs. Love marches. Love is the wolf that guards the gate. Love is the food of music, art, poetry. It fills us and fuels us and fires us to create. Love is terror. Love is sweat. Love is bashed pillow, crumpled sheet, unenviable fate. Love is the honour that kills and saves and nothing will ever let that high ambiguity abate. Love is the crushed ice that tingles and shivers and clinks fidgin-fain for the sugar-drenched absinthe to fall on it and alter its state. With love you send a probe So far from the globe No one can name the shoals the voids the belts the zones the drags the flares it signals all to leave all and to navigate.
Love by Edwin Morgan Love rules. Love laughs. Love marches. Love is the wolf that guards the gate. Love is the food of music, art, poetry. It fills us and fuels us and fires us to create. Love is terror. Love is sweat. Love is bashed pillow, crumpled sheet, unenviable fate. Love is the honour that kills and saves and nothing will ever let that high ambiguity abate. Love is the crushed ice that tingles and shivers and clinks fidgin-fain for the sugar-drenched absinthe to fall on it and alter its state. With love you send a probe So far from the globe No one can name the shoals the voids the belts the zones the drags the flares it signals all to leave all and to navigate.
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 4 months ago
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 4 months ago
Edwin Morgan, aged 89. Photo by Alex Boyd. Edwin Morgan’s head in profile, looking to the left. Morgan is smiling, alert, with short white hair and beard. He's wearing a checked shirt under a black cardigan which disappears into the black background of the photograph. Alex Boyd's initials – a tall capita A containing a smaller capital B between its legs – are printed in the lower right-hand corner.
Edwin Morgan, aged 89. Photo by Alex Boyd. Edwin Morgan’s head in profile, looking to the left. Morgan is smiling, alert, with short white hair and beard. He's wearing a checked shirt under a black cardigan which disappears into the black background of the photograph. Alex Boyd's initials – a tall capita A containing a smaller capital B between its legs – are printed in the lower right-hand corner.
Edwin Morgan, aged 89. Photo by Alex Boyd. Edwin Morgan’s head in profile, looking to the left. Morgan is smiling, alert, with short white hair and beard. He's wearing a checked shirt under a black cardigan which disappears into the black background of the photograph. Alex Boyd's initials – a tall capita A containing a smaller capital B between its legs – are printed in the lower right-hand corner.
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 6 months ago
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 6 months ago
Theory of the Earth Edwin Morgan James Hutton that true son of fire who said to Burns 'Aye, man, the rocks melt wi the sun' was sure the age of reason's time was done: what but imagination could have read granite boulders back to their molten roots? And how far back was back, and how far on would basalt still be basalt, iron iron? Would second seas re-drown the fossil brutes? 'We find no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end.' They died almost together, poet and geologist, and lie in wait for hilltop buoys to ring, or aw the seas gang dry and Scotland's coast dissolve in crinkled sand and pungent mist.
Theory of the Earth Edwin Morgan James Hutton that true son of fire who said to Burns 'Aye, man, the rocks melt wi the sun' was sure the age of reason's time was done: what but imagination could have read granite boulders back to their molten roots? And how far back was back, and how far on would basalt still be basalt, iron iron? Would second seas re-drown the fossil brutes? 'We find no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end.' They died almost together, poet and geologist, and lie in wait for hilltop buoys to ring, or aw the seas gang dry and Scotland's coast dissolve in crinkled sand and pungent mist.
Theory of the Earth Edwin Morgan James Hutton that true son of fire who said to Burns 'Aye, man, the rocks melt wi the sun' was sure the age of reason's time was done: what but imagination could have read granite boulders back to their molten roots? And how far back was back, and how far on would basalt still be basalt, iron iron? Would second seas re-drown the fossil brutes? 'We find no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end.' They died almost together, poet and geologist, and lie in wait for hilltop buoys to ring, or aw the seas gang dry and Scotland's coast dissolve in crinkled sand and pungent mist.
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 6 months ago
Love by Edwin Morgan Love rules. Love laughs. Love marches. Love is the wolf that guards the gate. Love is the food of music, art, poetry. It fills us and fuels us and fires us to create. Love is terror. Love is sweat. Love is bashed pillow, crumpled sheet, unenviable fate. Love is the honour that kills and saves and nothing will ever let that high ambiguity abate. Love is the crushed ice that tingles and shivers and clinks fidgin-fain for the sugar-drenched absinthe to fall on it and alter its state. With love you send a probe So far from the globe No one can name the shoals the voids the belts the zones the drags the flares it signals all to leave all and to navigate.
Love by Edwin Morgan Love rules. Love laughs. Love marches. Love is the wolf that guards the gate. Love is the food of music, art, poetry. It fills us and fuels us and fires us to create. Love is terror. Love is sweat. Love is bashed pillow, crumpled sheet, unenviable fate. Love is the honour that kills and saves and nothing will ever let that high ambiguity abate. Love is the crushed ice that tingles and shivers and clinks fidgin-fain for the sugar-drenched absinthe to fall on it and alter its state. With love you send a probe So far from the globe No one can name the shoals the voids the belts the zones the drags the flares it signals all to leave all and to navigate.
Love by Edwin Morgan Love rules. Love laughs. Love marches. Love is the wolf that guards the gate. Love is the food of music, art, poetry. It fills us and fuels us and fires us to create. Love is terror. Love is sweat. Love is bashed pillow, crumpled sheet, unenviable fate. Love is the honour that kills and saves and nothing will ever let that high ambiguity abate. Love is the crushed ice that tingles and shivers and clinks fidgin-fain for the sugar-drenched absinthe to fall on it and alter its state. With love you send a probe So far from the globe No one can name the shoals the voids the belts the zones the drags the flares it signals all to leave all and to navigate.
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