‘When I think of Auden, I think of his face and the story...

‘When I think of Auden, I think of his face and the story it tells. All of the photographs agree. In his later years, his wrinkles were unmistakable. He looked like weathered rock. Or a slab of Arctic ice, cracked and hewn by time. I imagine his eyes as black pools, forming fluvial valleys, crying, whether in sorrow or joy. In a sense, Auden’s face tells the story of his first love. And in a sense, all of his poetry tells that story.’- from my post on the poet WH Auden for The Operating System’s poetry month series 2015. MORE.