wrath of kong
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Post by wrath of kong on Jul 29, 2015 19:50:45 GMT -5
Here is a poem by Jeffrey McDaniel that is good and cool and that I like sharing at any opportunity. The Quiet WorldIn an effort to get people to look into each other’s eyes more, and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided to allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day. When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup. I am adjusting well to the new way. Late at night, I call my long distance lover, proudly say I only used fifty-nine today. I saved the rest for you.When she doesn’t respond, I know she’s used up all her words, so I slowly whisper I love youthirty-two and a third times. After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe. www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179259
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wrath of kong
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It was like that when I got here.
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Post by wrath of kong on Jul 30, 2015 19:33:49 GMT -5
Here is another of my favorites, this one by Kim Addonizio. FuckThere are people who will tell you that using the word fuck in a poem indicates a serious lapse of taste, or imagination, or both. It's vulgar, indecorous, an obscenity that crashes down like an anvil falling through a skylight to land on a restaurant table, on the white linen, the cut-glass vase of lilacs. But if you were sitting over coffee when the metal hit your saucer like a missile, wouldn't that be the first thing you'd say? Wouldn't you leap back shouting, or at least thinking it, over and over, bell-note riotously clanging in the church of your brain while the solicitous waiter led you away, wouldn't you prop your shaking elbows on the bar and order your first drink in months, telling yourself you were lucky to be alive? And if you wouldn't say anything but Mercy or Oh my or Land sakes, well then I don't want to know you anyway and I don't give a fuck what you think of my poem. The world is divided into those whose opinions matter and those who will never have a clue, and if you knew which one you were I could talk to you, and tell you that sometimes there's only one word that means what you need it to mean, the way there's only one person when you first fall in love, or one infant's cry that calls forth the burning milk, one name that you pray to when prayer is what's left to you. I'm saying in the beginning was the word and it was good, it meant one human entering another and it's still what I love, the word made flesh. Fuck me, I say to the one whose lovely body I want close, and as we fuck I know it's holy, a psalm, a hymn, a hammer ringing down on an anvil, forging a whole new world. slope.org/archive/issue17/FU_addonizio.html
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wrath of kong
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It was like that when I got here.
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Post by wrath of kong on Jul 31, 2015 2:59:04 GMT -5
This is just to say
I have eaten the Hot Pockets that were in the freezer
and which you were probably saving for your Sense8 binge watch
Forgive me they were delicious warm and crispy ready in seconds
This poem brought to you by
Hot Pocket®
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Dellarigg
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Post by Dellarigg on Jul 31, 2015 8:44:16 GMT -5
That snobbish surrealist Garsall Once wrapped himself up in a parcel He addressed it to 'Garsall, The Keep, Garsall Castle' And mailed it first class up his arsehole.
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wrath of kong
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It was like that when I got here.
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Post by wrath of kong on Jul 31, 2015 15:43:58 GMT -5
E.E. Cummings. This is probably my favorite, one of the few poems I've managed to memorize by heart. since feeling is firstsince feeling is first who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you; wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are better fate than wisdom lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry —the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids' flutter which says we are for each other: then laugh, leaning back in my arms for life's not a paragraph And death i think is no parenthesis writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2006/06/04
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wrath of kong
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It was like that when I got here.
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Post by wrath of kong on Aug 1, 2015 15:33:13 GMT -5
Frank O' Hara poem. Why I Am Not A PainterI am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well, for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. "Sit down and have a drink" he says. I drink; we drink. I look up. "You have SARDINES in it." "Yes, it needed something there." "Oh." I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days go by. I drop in. The painting is finished. "Where's SARDINES?" All that's left is just letters, "It was too much," Mike says. But me? One day I am thinking of a color: orange. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a whole page of words, not lines. Then another page. There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life. Days go by. It is even in prose, I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven't mentioned orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES www.poemhunter.com/poem/why-i-am-not-a-painter/
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wrath of kong
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It was like that when I got here.
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Post by wrath of kong on Aug 2, 2015 16:40:36 GMT -5
This is the third stanza of a longer poem from The Captain's Verses. It's by Pablo Neruda. 3 My wild girl, we have had to regain time and march backward, in the distance of our lives, kiss after kiss, gathering from one place what we gave without joy, discovering in another the secret road that gradually brought your feet close to mine, and so beneath my mouth you see again the unfulfilled plant of your life putting out its roots toward my heart that was waiting for you. And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us. The light of each day, its flame or its repose, they deliver to us, taking them from time, and so our treasure is disinterred in shadow or light, and so our kisses kiss life: all love is enclosed in our love: all thirst ends in our embrace. Here we are at last face to face, we have met, we have lost nothing. We have felt each other lip to lip, we have changed a thousand times between us death and life, all that we were bringing like dead medals we threw to the bottom of the sea, all that we learned was of no use to us: we begin again, we end again death and life. And here we survive, pure, with the purity that we created, broader than the earth that could not lead us astray, eternal as the fire that will burn as long as life endures. www.akirarabelais.com/vi/o/thelibraryofbabel/neruda/captainsverses.html
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Post by Floyd D Barber on Aug 2, 2015 21:14:42 GMT -5
Old man seeks doctor I eat SPAM daily he says angioplasty
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Post by Deleted on Aug 6, 2015 13:38:24 GMT -5
Not technically a poem, but a speech from Poirot, one for all you disillusioned city dwellers
I thought I could escape the wickedness of the city by moving to the country. The fields that are green, the singing of the birds, the faces smiling and friendly. Huh! The fields that are green are the secret burial places of the victims of murders most hideous; the birds sing only briefly before some idiot in tweeds shoots them, and the faces all smiling and friendly: what do they conceal?
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Post by Jimmy James on Aug 23, 2015 17:55:31 GMT -5
Here's a poem I made (or found?), by taking the last word of every three-word Steven Seagal film title and placing them in alphabetical order. I think it paints a vivid picture of his oeuvre.
Steven Seagal
Below Dark, Dead Death Die, Fury Ground Justice! Justice! Kill! Kill! Law Man, Man Movie. Reach Sun
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wrath of kong
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It was like that when I got here.
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Post by wrath of kong on Aug 25, 2015 11:55:49 GMT -5
(Frank O'Hara)
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Post by Deleted on Aug 29, 2015 15:10:02 GMT -5
Posted today on my mom's Facebook wall after I had a laundry emergency:
This Is Just To Say
I have taken some change from your jar mostly dimes
'cause the damn dryer ate my money again
Forgive me I needed quarters and also a snack
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Post by Deleted on Aug 30, 2015 1:27:36 GMT -5
Posted today on my mom's Facebook wall after I had a laundry emergency: This Is Just To Say I have taken some change from your jar mostly dimes 'cause the damn dryer ate my money again Forgive me I needed quarters and also a snack Mom: "I see you're writing poetry again!" Not exactly...
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POEMS
Aug 31, 2015 13:43:01 GMT -5
Post by Lord Lucan on Aug 31, 2015 13:43:01 GMT -5
For his next appearance on Radio 4, Jeremy Irons should read a selection of your poems, @patrickbatman. I can hear it now. It would bestow a gravitas upon them.
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wrath of kong
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It was like that when I got here.
Posts: 188
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POEMS
Sept 4, 2015 11:44:44 GMT -5
Post by wrath of kong on Sept 4, 2015 11:44:44 GMT -5
Posted today on my mom's Facebook wall after I had a laundry emergency: This Is Just To Say I have taken some change from your jar mostly dimes 'cause the damn dryer ate my money again Forgive me I needed quarters and also a snack Hahahaha.
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Dellarigg
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Post by Dellarigg on Sept 4, 2015 18:58:18 GMT -5
The Seekers of Lice BY ARTHUR RIMBAUD TRANSLATED BY WALLACE FOWLIE
When the child's forehead, full of red torments, Implores the white swarm of indistinct dreams, There come near his bed two tall charming sisters With slim fingers that have silvery nails.
They seat the child in front of a wide open Window where the blue air bathes a mass of flowers And in his heavy hair where the dew falls Move their delicate, fearful and enticing fingers. He listens to the singing of their apprehensive breath. Which smells of long rosy plant honey And which at times a hiss interrupts, saliva Caught on the lip or desire for kisses.
He hears their black eyelashes beating in the perfumed Silence; and their gentle electric fingers Make in his half-drunken indolence the death of the little lice Crackle under their royal nails.
Then the wine of Sloth rises in him, The sigh of an harmonica which could bring on delirium; The child feels, according to the slowness of the caresses Surging in him and dying continuously a desire to cry.
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Post by Deleted on Sept 5, 2015 5:25:23 GMT -5
Vultures by Chinua Achebe
In the greyness and drizzle of one despondent dawn unstirred by harbingers of sunbreak a vulture perching high on bones of a dead tree nestled close to his mate his smooth bashed-in head, a pebble on a stem rooted in a dump of gross feathers, inclined affectionately to hers. Yesterday they picked the eyes of a swollen corpse in a water-logged trench and ate the things in its bowel. Full gorged they chose their roost keeping the hollowed remnant in easy range of cold telescopic eyes...
Strange indeed how love in other ways so particular will pick a corner in that charnel-house tidy it and coil up there, perhaps even fall asleep - her face turned to the wall!
...Thus the Commandant at Belsen Camp going home for the day with fumes of human roast clinging rebelliously to his hairy nostrils will stop at the wayside sweet-shop and pick up a chocolate for his tender offspring waiting at home for Daddy's return...
Praise bounteous providence if you will that grants even an ogre a tiny glow-worm tenderness encapsulated in icy caverns of a cruel heart or else despair for in the very germ of that kindred love is lodged the perpetuity of evil.
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Post by Deleted on Sept 5, 2015 8:39:06 GMT -5
Suckers think they bad Think they know about haiku Let them try tanka Way harder than haiku, fam I'm on that next-level shit Read as I degrade a centuries-old art form Throwing syllables around with glee, no regard Thank you, Poetry 4 Kids!
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Post by Generic Poster on Sept 10, 2015 17:30:02 GMT -5
Bah! Tanka is just a regular haiku with two extra lines stuck onto it, like tumors or something equally lousy.
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Dellarigg
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Post by Dellarigg on Sept 10, 2015 18:44:34 GMT -5
A Dream For Winter, Arthur Rimbaud
In the winter, we will leave in a small pink railway carriage With blue cushions. We will be comfortable. A nest of mad kisses lies in wait In each soft corner. You will close your eyes, in order not to see, through the glass, The evening shadows making faces. Those snarling monstrosities, a populace Of black demons and black wolves.
Then you will feel your cheek scratched... A little kiss, like a mad spider, Will run around your neck...
And you will say to me: "Get it!" as you bend your neck - And we will take a long time to find that creature - Which travels a great deal ...
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Post by Deleted on Sept 11, 2015 21:20:13 GMT -5
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Post by Floyd D Barber on Sept 12, 2015 13:14:08 GMT -5
Good Lord and for the love of Mike there goes a preacher down the pike I hope he breaks his neck, and then goes straight to Hell Good Lord Amen
*Some context* When I was just out of high school a couple of years, my girlfriend at that time's dad owned a building, which, oddly enough, I ended up buying several owners and many years later. He talked me into helping him clean it out. It's previous owner had used it to store records and junk from an advertising agency in a nearby city. When I arrived that day to help, I was horrified to find him burning advertising materials going back to the 1930's. I was able to save 2 or 3 big boxes of stuff including several files for a writer, who had apparently been a client at one time. The writer in question, I learned from the files, had been a veteran of WWI, and later worked on the "WPA writers project" during the great depression of the 1930's. Among the files were several drafts of a very moving speech written for an Armistice Day in the 1930's , which included an account of his severe wounding, and being left for dead on the battlefield. Written for a day to honor the fallen of that war, and at a time when the clouds of the next war were gathering, it was a cautionary message. It reminded me, in it's tone, of Twain's "The War Prayer". I wish I still had it. It would be just as timely today as it was then. Somewhere in the many years and many moves I have made since, all these papers have gotten lost, to my deep regret. I still have hopes of maybe turning them up some day. I have searched the Internet but have not located any records of him. I no longer remember his exact name, but neither searches of various spellings of what I remember, nor of records I can find of the WPA writers project turn up any likely candidates. This little poem, which I think I remember pretty accurately, was written by him, and was in those files. While it's kind of silly, and not as meaningful as that speech, I just thought it would be a shame if everything he had written was lost forever.
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Post by Deleted on Sept 12, 2015 13:19:05 GMT -5
burning advertising materials going back to the 1930's. My soul just shrieked.
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Post by Lord Lucan on Sept 13, 2015 23:30:30 GMT -5
Bavarian Gentians D. H. Lawrence
Not every man has gentians in his house in Soft September, at slow, Sad Michaelmas.
Bavarian gentians, big and dark, only dark darkening the daytime, torch-like with the smoking blueness of Pluto's gloom, ribbed and torch-like, with their blaze of darkness spread blue down flattening into points, flattened under the sweep of white day torch-flower of the blue-smoking darkness, Pluto's dark-blue daze, black lamps from the halls of Dis, burning dark blue, giving off darkness, blue darkness, as Demeter's pale lamps give off light, lead me then, lead me the way.
Reach me a gentian, give me a torch! let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark and Persephone herself is but a voice or a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom, among the splendour of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on the lost bride and her groom.
Scenes From Comus Geoffrey Hill
2. Courtly Masquing Dances
47.
The small oaks crest the ridge, the sun appears cresting this instant. Their topmost ranks take fire and vaporize or find some other form wherewith to be not of this world. How can I tell you? - dawn after dawn, immeasurable taking up of dross and dying.
60.
Had intended - what had I not intended? Praise elemental Job’s ur-Weheklag, its iron-cleave, lead-scald? Praise all change this side of chaos, with the immoveable. Praise hook-wheeled constellations, praise autumn’s dense clearances, its disfiguring splendours, far-riding glacial rock, the setting sun like a stoke-hole, the winter woods gutted by fire.
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Post by Floyd D Barber on Sept 14, 2015 18:05:13 GMT -5
Wondrous is this masonry; shattered by fate broken is the city; labors of giants crumble. Fallen roofs, ruined towers, rime-frosted mortar, the mutilated roof collapsed, undermined by old age.
Earth’s embrace has the deceased master builders, the harsh grip of the ground, until a hundred generations of people departed.
Often this wall, gray with lichen and red-hued remained through one kingdom after another, remained standing under tempest; lofty and broad it collapsed.
Still the masonry the storms cut down Fell on…………………………………. Cruelly scraped and sharpened………… ……………shone she…………………. ………….the ancient building…………. ………….though crusts of mud ring…… Heart………………………..swiftly wove together
Resolute builder, with ingenuity of ring-mail, bound the wall-brace together with wondrous metal wires.
Bright were the city buildings, the bathing halls many, the abundance of high gables, the noise great--as of an army, many a mead hall full with the revelry of men until the mighty fate changed that.
Slaughtered men fell far and wide, days of pestilence came, death took away all the sword-valiant men; the places of war became deserted places, a decayed city.
Re-builders perished, sanctuaries fell into earth. Forthwith these buildings grew desolate, and these red-curved tiles parted with the vaulted ceiling
The ruins fell, perished, shattered into mounds of stone, where formerly many a warrior, joyous and bright with gold, with splendor adorned, proud and flushed with wine, in war trappings shone.
They looked upon treasures; upon silver, upon precious stone, upon wealth, upon property, upon jewelry and upon the bright stronghold of this spacious kingdom.
Stone buildings stood and a stream hotly surged forth; a wall enclosed all in its bright bosom, there were the baths, hot at its heart.
That was so suitable.
The streams then poured hotly over hoary, grey stone into the circular pool where the baths were. it is ………...a noble thing. this house………..this city.
Described as a translation of one of the earliest surviving writings in the Old English language, it is believed to be a travelers meditation on some of the ruins of the roman empire. The dots represent missing passages.
I may have posted this in the past in another thread. I quick search didn't find it. If I did, oh well. I still like it.
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Post by Lord Lucan on Sept 15, 2015 10:05:53 GMT -5
Floyd D Barber The background information to that poem is interesting. A passage from Delillo's White Noise comes to mind: 'Albert Speer wanted to build structures that would decay gloriously, impressively, like Roman ruins [. . .] He did a drawing of a Reich structure that was to be built of special materials, allowing it to crumble romantically - a drawing of fallen walls, half columns furled in wisteria.' Apart from the idea of affected crumbling, and the imaginative ascription of it to Speer, it's interesting to think about the arististic and cultural value ruins and efforts to keep them in a state of arrested decay.
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POEMS
Sept 26, 2015 4:07:52 GMT -5
Post by Lord Lucan on Sept 26, 2015 4:07:52 GMT -5
The Pisan Cantos Ezra Pound
LXXIV (section)
Serenely in the crystal jet as the bright ball that the fountain tosses (Verlaine) as diamond clearness How soft the wind under Taishan where the sea is remembered out of hell, the pit out of the dust and glare evil Zephyrus / Apeliota This liquid is certainly a property of the mind nec accidens est but an element in the mind’s make-up es agens and functions dust to a fountain pan otherwise Hast ‘ou seen the rose in the steel dust (or swansdown ever?) so light is the urging, so ordered the dark petals of iron we who have passed over Lethe.
Homage to Sextus Propertius Ezra Pound
VI.
When, when, and whenever death closes our eyelids, Moving naked over Acheron Upon the one raft, victor and conquered together, Marius and Jugurtha together, one tangle of shadows.
Caesar plots against India, Tigris and Euphrates shall, from now on, flow at his bidding, Tibet shall be full of Roman policemen, The Parthians shall get used to our statuary and acquire a Roman religion; One raft on the veiled flood of Acheron, Marius and Jugurtha together.
Nor at my funeral either will there be any long trail, bearing ancestral lares and images; No trumpets filled with my emptiness, Nor shall it be on an Atalic bed; The perfumed cloths shall be absent. A small plebeian procession. Enough, enough and in plenty There will be three books at my obsequies Which I take, my not unworthy gift, to Persephone.
You will follow the bare scarified breast Nor will you be weary of calling my name, nor too weary To place the last kiss on my lips When the Syrian onyx is broken.
'He who is now vacant dust Was once the slave of one passion:'
Give that much inscription 'Death why tardily come?'
You, sometimes, will lament a lost friend, For it is a custom: This care for past men,
Since Adonis was gored in Idalia, and the Cytharean Ran crying with out-spread hair, In vain, you call back the shade, In vain, Cynthia. Vain call to unanswering shadow, Small talk comes from small bones.
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Post by Lord Lucan on Oct 7, 2015 15:27:17 GMT -5
A poem for Halloween, All Souls', Samhain. And a turnip jack-o'-lantern dating from about the time of its writing. All Souls’ NightWilliam Butler Yeats Midnight has come and the great Christ Church bell And many a lesser bell sound through the room; And it is All Souls’ Night. And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come; For it is a ghost’s right, His element is so fine Being sharpened by his death, To drink from the wine-breath While our gross palates drink from the whole wine. I need some mind that, if the cannon sound From every quarter of the world, can stay Wound in mind’s pondering, As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound; Because I have a marvellous thing to say, A certain marvellous thing None but the living mock, Though not for sober ear; It may be all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock. Horton’s the first I call. He loved strange thought And knew that sweet extremity of pride That’s called platonic love, And that to such a pitch of passion wrought Nothing could bring him, when his lady died, Anodyne for his love. Words were but wasted breath; One dear hope had he: The inclemency Of that or the next winter would be death. Two thoughts were so mixed up I could not tell Whether of her or God he thought the most, But think that his mind’s eye, When upward turned, on one sole image fell; And that a slight companionable ghost, Wild with divinity, Had so lit up the whole Immense miraculous house The Bible promised us, It seemed a gold-fish swimming in a bowl. On Florence Emery I call the next, Who finding the first wrinkles on a face Admired and beautiful, And by foreknowledge of the future vexed; Diminished beauty, multiplied commonplace; Preferred to teach a school Away from neighbour or friend, Among dark skins, and there Permit foul years to wear Hidden from eyesight to the unnoticed end. Before that end much had she ravelled out From a discourse in figurative speech By some learned Indian On the soul’s journey. How it is whirled about Wherever the orbit of the moon can reach, Until it plunge into the sun; And there, free and yet fast, Being both Chance and Choice, Forget its broken toys And sink into its own delight at last. I call MacGregor Mathers from his grave, For in my first hard spring-time we were friends, Although of late estranged. I thought him half a lunatic, half knave, And told him so, but friendship never ends; And what if mind seem changed, And it seem changed with the mind, When thoughts rise up unbid On generous things that he did And I grow half contented to be blind! He had much industry at setting out, Much boisterous courage, before loneliness Had driven him crazed; For meditations upon unknown thought Make human intercourse grow less and less; They are neither paid nor praised. But he’d object to the host, The glass because my glass; A ghost-lover he was And may have grown more arrogant being a ghost. But names are nothing. What matter who it be, So that his elements have grown so fine The fume of muscatel Can give his sharpened palate ecstasy No living man can drink from the whole wine. I have mummy truths to tell Whereat the living mock, Though not for sober ear, For maybe all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock. Such thought — such thought have I that hold it tight Till meditation master all its parts, Nothing can stay my glance Until that glance run in the world’s despite To where the damned have howled away their hearts, And where the blessed dance; Such thought, that in it bound I need no other thing, Wound in mind’s wandering As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound. Oxford, Autumn, 1920.
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Post by Dellarigg on Oct 10, 2015 18:46:37 GMT -5
Hawk Roosting, Ted Hughes
I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. Inaction, no falsifying dream Between my hooked head and hooked feet: Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.
The convenience of the high trees! The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray Are of advantage to me; And the earth's face upward for my inspection.
My feet are locked upon the rough bark. It took the whole of Creation To produce my foot, my each feather: Now I hold Creation in my foot
Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - I kill where I please because it is all mine. There is no sophistry in my body: My manners are tearing off heads -
The allotment of death. For the one path of my flight is direct Through the bones of the living. No arguments assert my right:
The sun is behind me. Nothing has changed since I began. My eye has permitted no change. I am going to keep things like this.
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Post by Dellarigg on Oct 10, 2015 18:47:52 GMT -5
'My manners are tearing off heads' - holy fuck.
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