I who can blink
to break the spell of daylight
and what a sliding screen between worlds
is a blink
I who can hear the last three seconds in my head
but the present is beyond me
listen
in this tiny moment of reflexion
I want to work out what it’s like to descend
out of the dawn’s mind
and find a leaf and fasten the known to the unknown
with a liquid cufflink
and then unfasten
to be brief
to be almost actual
oh pristine example
of claiming a place on the earth
only to cancel
Notes on the Poem
Yes indeed, Alice Oswald's Falling Awake has won the 2017 International Griffin Poetry Prize. It's a poetry collection that absorbed the 2017 judges at every level: "line, image, lilt." Let's continue the celebration by looking again at the poem "A Rushed Account of the Dew". Oswald's collection also entranced reviewer Kate Kellaway of The Guardian, whose assertions about the poet's achievements across the entire collection seem acutely applicable to this particular poem. Kellaway claims that "[Oswald] finds words for encounters with nature that ordinarily defy language" and "she articulates what you might occasionally recognise but have never before seen described." We could even go so far as to say Oswald captures occurrences in nature that many of us have not seen or experienced, perhaps due to lack of attention or patience. "A Rushed Account of the Dew" seems to suggest the narrator is being hasty and heedless, but someone with this microscopic consciousness of detail "and what a sliding screen between worlds is a blink" is surely anything but. Someone "who can hear the last three seconds in my head" even if "... the present is beyond me" is actually living very precisely in the moment. We'd argue that "what it’s like to descend out of the dawn’s mind and find a leaf and fasten the known to the unknown with a liquid cufflink" is a fluidly beautiful way to depict how dew transpires, even if Kellaway finds that very image "for all its loveliness, an effortful ornament." What has in fact happened in a rush is that we've learned a lot in just one brief cascade of gorgeously pointed observations by Oswald's chronicler of the fine and miniscule. The unpunctuated "only to cancel" at the end leaves us breathless and now more willing to slow down, take notice and wonder.