The Sick Rose

August 18, 2005 at 7:45 pm 1 comment

This poem, and its deconstruction by Gilbert Koh (in the comments section) reminds me of the angry pregnant girl.

O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

— William Blake, Songs of Experience

A fascinating read for someone like me who comes from a non-lit background.

Now digressing: for literature (at the O levels), my school had (has?) folks taking either E-Lit (English Lit)or C-lit (Chinese Lit). It only dawned on me a couple of weeks ago that e-lit sounds like elite and c-lit looks like clit. The innocence of youth, lost. Words have taken on a totally different meaning.

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门当户对 睡懒觉

1 Comment Add your own

  • 1. A  |  August 18, 2005 at 10:50 pm

    Hey, dropped by after seeing your comment on my blog. Wound up wasting an hour reading through some of your entries. Laughs. You have wrote a fair bit of stuff that I have thought of writing myself, but either procrastinated too much or couldn’t be bothered to. Nice work 😉 And please, the photos on my blog were pretty crappy, apart from the bikini clad girls.

    Reply

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