I dreamt of you again last night.
And when I woke up it was as if
you had died afresh. I read
all your letters this afternoon.
I feel as if we had collected all
our wheat into a barn to make bread
and beer for the rest of our lives
and now our barn has been burnt down
and we stand on a cold winter morning
looking at the charred ruins. For this
little room was the gleanings of our life.
All our happiness was over this fire
and with these books. Voltaire blessing us
with up-raised hand on the wall. No one
to talk to about my pleasures. I write in
an empty book. I cry in an empty room.
(Dora Carrington’s diary, February 1932)
Verbatim Poetry 