About
I’m Alex McLeese, an undergraduate. I may write about, among other things, politics, economics, the environment, India, novels, music, movies, and art.
The title of the blog comes from a W.S. Merwin poem of the same name:
In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
Beside two mills my house
Into whose courtyard a blindman followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was olderSoon it will be fifteen years
He was old he will have fallen into his eyes
I took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I liveOne of the ends is made of streets
One man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Image of hope
It was offered to me by nameOnce once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I sayHe will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grassI return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay
He was old he is not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing waterWe are the echo of the future
On the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not born to survive
Only to live
W. S. Merwin, “The River of Bees” from The Second Four Books of Poems (Port Townsend, Washington: Copper Canyon Press, 1993). Copyright © 1993 by W. S. Merwin.