the evening party /

a collection of writings, poems and photographs by the anonymous author ︎︎︎  
2019—present ︎︎︎ Index of entries ︎︎︎ Email ︎︎︎

‘Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent.’ —The Evening Party, Virginia Woolf

Kensington Gardens

‘I think some’ she says
after thirty
hours & the hyde park

‘of your melancholy’
came birds
coloured in crowds

‘from earlier’ like fruit
in autumn
out of famous rock stars

; ‘in the week’ these
grasses dew
with dogs & joggers

‘has rubbed off’ & the
soft soil
for horses turned & sprayed

‘on me’ cannot lift
a finger
to care, to apologise.