Dora Carrington, in the weeks following Lytton Strachey's death, 1932.(Brief Article)(Poem)

 
Dora Carrington, in the weeks following Lytton Strachey's death, 1932 
 
   Room of 
   books and bed 
   where 
   your mortal body lay, 
   where now the light 
   has 
   mutinied. 
 
   Hollow 
   house and hours, 
   I bump and weep 
   from room to room. 
 
   There are visitors. 
   Words flap from their mouths, 
   words that never reach me. 
   I wave each carload good-bye, 
   am left alone again 
   with my 
   burning map. 
 
   I do not want to live 
   in a world without 
   color 
   or your voice, 
   minting words, 
   tender, 
   witty 
   and …