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The town down the river

Chapter 34: HOW ANNANDALE WENT OUT
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About This Book

A sequence of sombre, often ironic poems that portray isolated individuals and communal life through compact narratives and lyrical portraiture. The collection alternates longer sequences and standalone pieces to examine ambition, failure, memory, aging, and the persistence of imagination amid ordinary surroundings. Recurring observers address youth, dreamers, and the weather of fortune while imagery pairs domestic detail with stark solitude. Shifts between conversational monologue and formal meditation yield quiet tragedies, wry character sketches, and reflective meditations delivered in plain yet resonant language.

HOW ANNANDALE WENT OUT

“They called it Annandale—and I was there
To flourish, to find words, and to attend:
Liar, physician, hypocrite, and friend,
I watched him; and the sight was not so fair
As one or two that I have seen elsewhere:
An apparatus not for me to mend—
A wreck, with hell between him and the end,
Remained of Annandale; and I was there.
“I knew the ruin as I knew the man;
So put the two together, if you can,
Remembering the worst you know of me.
Now view yourself as I was, on the spot—
With a slight kind of engine. Do you see?
Like this.... You wouldn’t hang me? I thought not.”