<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Mute<\/strong> I\u2019m holding out my hair like it\u2019s a snake \u2013 a slow <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Flo Reynolds<\/strong> is a student of English Literature at UEA, knitter and beekeeper, proud poet and secret songwriter. She has a debilitating obsession with Virginia Woolf, and when not reading, writing, knitting or keeping bees, she blogs at literania.tumblr.com.<\/a><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Mute After T. S. Eliot I\u2019m holding out my hair like it\u2019s a snake \u2013 a slow loop from wrist to wrist. This is how I string my bow: begin softly, pianissimo, before the great crescendo rings. I tighten these here million strings and strum \u2013 a cricket singing to the night: why […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3533","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3533","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3533"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3533\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3536,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3533\/revisions\/3536"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3533"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3533"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3533"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nAfter T. S. Eliot<\/p>\n
\nloop from wrist to wrist. This is how I string my bow: begin softly,
\npianissimo, before the great crescendo rings.
\nI tighten these here million strings
\nand strum \u2013 a cricket singing to the night: why exactly, no one knows,
\nbut still they stop and listen to the whisper music I make,
\nme and my choir of bats, my tiny kites who I keep near, tied
\nwith atom-wide plaits. This is supposedly a waste land.
\nPeople walk past arm in arm across the square, and throw
\ndown centimes like coppery snow. I smell jasmine and basil on the air,
\nand as my orchestral chaos grows I open my mouth to sing, to shout,
\nbut of course only a wheeze comes out. (Roll up, roll up for the human squeeze
\nbox, silence incarnate, the fallen goddess Vox, hyacinthine, nocturne,
\npipistrelle-haloed, rosemary, time).
\nThis is me in the violet light (cubist portrait, sgraffito, aquarelle), and it is a whisper
\nsymphony cos my larynx doesn\u2019t work quite right.<\/p>\n