I do not resist the temptation to copy a verse from the Illuminations of Rimbaud I met some days ago:
“young mothers and big sisters with eyes full of pilgrimages”
This is why I love poetry. You are reading quietly and comfortably sitting on a sofa, and then -unnoticed- an unexpected visitor is there, right in front of you… “Eyes full of pilgrimages…” I’ve seen eyes as vacant as the seas, eyes full of darkness and light, revengeful, tearful, hopeful… But, thanks to this new light, I was left musing on my mother’s eyes, enthralled by their beauty. Who could tell the story of her pilgrimages under the Southern Cross?
A great example of phanopoeia.
