A Glory
Right here you made an angel of yourself, free-falling backwards into last night’s snow, identing a straight, neat, crucified shape, then flapping your arms, one stroke, a great bird, to leave the impression of wings. It worked. Then you found your feet, sprang clear of the print and the angel reamained, fixed, countersunk, open wide, hosting the whole of the sky.
Losing sleep because of it, I backtrack to the place, out of earshot of the streets, above the fetch and reach of the town. The scene of the crime. Five-eighthts of the moon. On ground where snow has given up the ghost it lies on its own, spread-eagled, embossed, commending itself, star of its own cause. Priceless thing - the faceless hood of the head, grass making out through the scored spine, the wings on the turn, becoming feathered, clipped.
Cattle would trample roughshod over it, hikers might come with pebbles for the eyes, a choice of fruit for the nose and the lips; somebody’s boy might try it on for size, might lie down in its shroud, might suit, might fit. Angel, from under the shade and shelter of trees I keep watch, wait for the dawn to take you, raise you, imperceptibly, by degrees.
― chris (chris), Thursday, 10 October 2002 13:00 (twenty-one years ago) link
--
Midsummer, Tobago
Broad sun-stoned beaches.
White heat.A green river.
A bridge,scorched yellow palms
from the summer-sleeping housedrowsing through August.
Days I have held,days I have lost,
days that outgrow, like daughters,my harbouring arms.
A City's Death by Fire
After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky,I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire;Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, IWanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire.All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales,Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar;Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were balesTorn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire.By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, whyShould a man wax tears, when his wooden world fails?In town, leaves were paper, but the hills were a flock of faiths;To a boy who walked all day, each leaf was a green breathRebuilding a love I thought was dead as nails,Blessing the death and the baptism by fire.
― Liz :x (Liz :x), Thursday, 10 October 2002 13:29 (twenty-one years ago) link
is even more fun than going top San Sebastain, Irun, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt partly because of the fluoresent orange tulips around the birches partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary it is hard to believe when I'm with you that there can be anything as still as solemn as unpleasently definitive as statuary when right in front of it in the warm New York 4 o'clock light we are drifting back and forth between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world except possibly for the "Polish Rider" occasionally and anyway it's in the Frick which thank heavens you haven't gone to yet so we can go together the first time and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism just as at home I never think of the "Nude Descending a Staircase" or at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michaelangleo that used to wow me and what good does all the research of the impressionists do them when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn't pick the rider as carefully as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it also o hara
― anthony easton (anthony), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:04 (twenty-one years ago) link
four lean hounds crouched low and smilingthe merry deer ran before.
Fleeter be they than dappled dreamsthe swift sweet deerthe red rare deer.
Four red roebuck at a white waterthe cruel bugle sang before.
Horn at hip went my love ridingriding the echo downinto the silver dawn.
four lean hounds crouched low and smilingthe level meadows ran before.
Softer be they than slippered sleepthe lean lithe deerthe fleet flown deer.
Four fleet does at a gold valleythe famished arrow sang before.
Bow at belt went my love ridingriding the mountain downinto the silver dawn.
four lean hounds crouched low and smilingthe sheer peaks ran before.
Paler be they than daunting deaththe sleek slim deerthe tall tense deer.
Four tell stags at a green mountainthe lucky hunter sang before.
All in green went my love ridingon a great horse of goldinto the silver dawn.
four lean hounds crouched low and smilingmy heart fell dead before.
e.e. cummings
― anthony easton (anthony), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:05 (twenty-one years ago) link
― anthony easton (anthony), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:07 (twenty-one years ago) link
the past lapping them like a cloak of chaos. They were menwho, I thought, lived only torenew the wasteful force theyspent with each hot convulsion.They remind me, distant now.
True, they are not at rest yet,but now they are indeedapart, winnowed from failures,they withdraw to an orbitand turn with disinterested hard energy, like the stars.
Thom Gunn
― anthony easton (anthony), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:08 (twenty-one years ago) link
we partied the southwest, smoked it from L.A. to El Dorado worked odd jobs between delusions of escapedrunk on the admonitions of parents, parsons & professors driving faster than the road or law allowed. our high-pitched laughter was young, heartless & disrespected authority. we could be heard for miles in the night
the Grand Canyon of a new manhood. womanhood discoveredlike the first sighting of Mount Wilson
we rebelled against the southwestern wind
we got so naturally ripped, we sprouted wings, crashed parties on the moon, and howled at the earth
we lived off love. It was all we had to eat
when you split you took all the wisdomand left me the worry
wanda coleman
― anthony easton (anthony), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:10 (twenty-one years ago) link
Lose something every day. Accept the flusterof lost door keys, the hour badly spent.The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, ornext-to-last, of three loved houses went.The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gestureI love) I shan't have lied. It's evidentthe art of losing's not too hard to masterthough it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
― anthony easton (anthony), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:11 (twenty-one years ago) link
sharon olds
There is a parrot imitating springin the palace, its feathers parsley green.Out of the swamp the cane appears
to haunt us, and we cut it down. El Generalsearches for a word; he is all the worldthere is. Like a parrot imitating spring,
we lie down screaming as rain punches throughand we come up green. We cannot speak an R-out of the swamp, the cane appears
and then the mountain we call in whispers Katalina.The children gnaw their teeth to arrowheads.There is a parrot imitating spring.
El General has found his word: perejil.Who says it, lives. He laughs, teeth shiningout of the swamp. The cane appears
in our dreams, lashed by wind and streaming.And we lie down. For every drop of bloodthere is a parrot imitating spring.Out of the swamp the cane appears.
2. The Palace
The word the general's chosen is parsley.It is fall, when thoughts turnto love and death; the general thinksof his mother, how she died in the falland he planted her walking cane at the graveand it flowered, each spring stolidly formingfour-star blossoms. The generalpulls on his boots, he stomps toher room in the palace, the one withoutcurtains, the one with a parrotin a brass ring. As he paces he wondersWho can I kill today. And for a momentthe little knot of screamsis still. The parrot, who has traveled
all the way from Australia in an ivorycage, is, coy as a widow, practisingspring. Ever since the morninghis mother collapsed in the kitchenwhile baking skull-shaped candiesfor the Day of the Dead, the generalhas hated sweets. He orders pastriesbrought up for the bird; they arrive
dusted with sugar on a bed of lace.The knot in his throat starts to twitch;he sees his boots the first day in battlesplashed with mud and urineas a soldier falls at his feet amazed--how stupid he looked!--at the soundof artillery. I never thought it would singthe soldier said, and died. Now
the general sees the fields of sugarcane, lashed by rain and streaming.He sees his mother's smile, the teethgnawed into arrowheads. He hearsthe Haitians sing without R'sas they swing the great machetes:Katalina, they sing, Katalina,
mi madle, mi amol en muelte. God knowshis mother was no stupid woman; shecould roll an R like a queen. Evena parrot can roll an R! In the bare roomthe bright feathers arch in a parodyof greenery, as the last pale crumbsdisappear under the blackened tongue. Someone
calls out his name in a voiceso like his mother's, a startled tearsplashes the tip of his right boot.My mother, my love in death.The general remembers the tiny green sprigsmen of his village wore in their capesto honor the birth of a son. He willorder many, this time, to be killed
for a single, beautiful word.
*"On October 2, 1957, Rafael Trujillo (1891-1961), dictator of the Dominican Republic, ordered 20,000 blacks to be killed because they could not pronounce the letter"r" in perejil, the Spanish word for parsley"(Dove's note)
― PJ Miller (PJ Miller), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:13 (twenty-one years ago) link
I'm a Yorkshire MinimalistI'm a Yorkshire minimalist, and I say nowt,If I've got emotions, I don't let em out,My response to joy, is a self defeated shrug,If I won the lottery, I would not kiss or hug,Cause I'm a Yorkshire minimalist, and I say nill,And talky, talky, talky, talky, it really makes me ill,Reet, thou knows, shutup, nowt, glum.
The Surrealist PostmanOur surrealist postman,Comes down the street on a zebra,Not a real zebra of course,That would be silly,Paper mache zebra that's not silly,
Our surrealist postman,Doesn't post the letters through the letter box,He makes Blackpool Tower from them,Not a real Backpool Tower of course,That would be silly,
Our surrealist postman,His hat is made of cheese,Lovely lovely cheese,Not real cheese of course,That would be silly.
― chris (chris), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:17 (twenty-one years ago) link
& now for some POET VS LANDSCAPE : FITE! intensity -
Dialectic of Mud (Richard Reeve)
Cleft mud, the bludgeoned flexures slumped and rain-mashed into a tree-selfless ooze,a grist, rising out of perpetual stump-blitz: the gnawed, upchurned nuggets sunkdown its dephysical mush. Wood-gristle, leaf-scalp, each plump sump scoffing leached
bone and skin squashed under its blanked of rot, sand duck-pressed; or swan-suck,upending the end-up, twice-dead pews of branch or root pushed out of the swirled sludgestalled under a cooped air, bubbles globed by an eye-skim glinting in the sombre
of a drizzle sapped from moss or wood, rushes kinked by the flung wind, the hollowingwater-rock¾nothing is a name, wrung from a stick's evanescence, stone-suckledthe saw-mouthed river, slivering hips of land, dunks life and log alike down its gravel
throat, from the forest bed heaved out in one blind ritual, neither total replenishmentnor the absolute decay of animal death, itself effecting always that incidental pulseby which seasons flourish in the vacuole of language: tor-oblique, rooted in the ground-
down granite blurting silt through calcite beaks; and yet there also at once uprooted,withdrawing into kahikatea, matai. Mud clenched in the tight guts of a feeding pukeko,stoles of moss hushing a snapped totara trunk, an arboreal graveyard, worm- house,
all these are merest inklings of the aboriginal nature: presence at all points pervasivewhich is yet to some an inadmissable fiction, where the deer-slicked lake disembodiesits vowel silence, made consonant in the clicking jaw, there decocting its excrescent
particulars as that absolute faith the hoofs of taste or touch yield to a pool-dark sky:wing-stopped water, footsteps tracked through a swamp, for every such incidencethere existing beneath its context the ur-character of world immanent as undisclosed
grit siphoned through the veins of a reed: the crushed stump mopped by a boot sole,for all its lacerated pulp, not less consumnate than churned bog, being merely onefurther step in a marsh-devolution, sandfly-embroiled, by which the crops of tussock
are finitude exacted from the quern slush rupturing and grinding down sods of earth.Time is the neck-wound on a bolting doe. Wanderer of sopped thickets, a glad blowflyinvests in dung, in the valve of a dead tree possums suck the grooved ears of litter-
it is not enough to declare such things dependent on some glib antediluvian frameworkby which a world is strapped down, conferred the weight and colour of its shadows,the single colossal imperative of shale or ice-gripped schist assumed as spry rhetoric
scored from a palimpsest of premeditated meaning, and under every chiselled buttresssome axiom to be scraped out from among the lichen. As in the grip of first awakeningsFiordland takes hold of its dimensions, a grave, the brunt of its existence unknowable
it terms presuming the coterie of principles, or seeking to reduce the gravitas of muckinto swilled compounds, as if the inexorable status endorsed by misplaced paws or feetmight somehow prove explicable beyond what is simply there, light-coelom, a bruise:
out of nothing the thing writes itself, its cowled wings or sky-brushed foliage laid barewhere called into being, the thigh and shoulder of the ground determining its utterancewithout recourse to alternatives; cracked and stippled and wrung the factual monolith
lays down its seal, inscribing its quidditas as slush, slipped stone, a feather, the thisfor which a rat is earth swallowing earth swallowing earth, a breath of bellbirds interrogatesthe shying silence, along the wave-crinkled outline of a bushed beach unfaltering rock
rocks to the pendant wind. Bleached and bent, a tusk of barren wood guts the twilight.Twilight, dense, unswerving, swills mud the shut floor of the forest, the larval moonburrowing its way downward through a node of scratched shade puncturing the gleam.
I am actual among the leaf. Singular and unavailing, I grip in the dry stack of my pawsgrub-tongue, a fern's genital fist, the resonance and impunity of mud undifferentiatedsave in the specimen of my understanding, the pubic grind of a stone, mossed kneecaps,
each such nominal stricture traducing the protean earth, carving supercilious steps intowhat otherwise ever evades meaning, is manifest yet never singularised in that hiatusof human dogma except as despair, the One: the unsegmented, unenlightened whole.
My nails make leaves, my teeth a swan's chewed feathers. I suppurate the heaped soilof human history, holding clods of ripe rot in the plinth of my hands; I rummage the livedand the sipped floor, an earther of bark, my bare thumbs toeing the sloughed sleeves
of trees lifted and wrenched by a herd of winds trampling flat the ruffled sticks of rock.All is ecstasis. Cloud-shadows travelling across a blown lake, the moving darkness,the cold stream slicing through a forest, the tendons sprung in my consecrating palms.
― Ess Kay (esskay), Thursday, 10 October 2002 15:00 (twenty-one years ago) link
I want to put in some Geoffrey Hill but have to go home to get it.
But loooking forward to printing this all out and reading it in bed!
― jon (jon), Thursday, 10 October 2002 15:32 (twenty-one years ago) link
I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
-- Pablo Neruda
― luna.c (luna.c), Thursday, 10 October 2002 16:15 (twenty-one years ago) link
You, Beloved, who are allthe gardens I have ever gazed at,longing. An open windowin a country house-, and you almoststepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon,-you had just walked down them and vanished.And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrorswere still dizzy with your presence and, startled,gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?perhaps the same bird echoed through both of usyesterday, separate, in the evening...
-- Ranier Maria Rilke
― luna.c (luna.c), Thursday, 10 October 2002 16:17 (twenty-one years ago) link
“The air is not so full of flies in summer as it is at all times of invisible devils, this Paracelsus stiffly maintains…” -- Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy
You can be walking down a streetin rush hour and out of nowherethat awful fluttering arrives—that shadow
with its perfect aim singling you outon the sidewalk. Without warning,those wide wings can swoop down,
those talons haul you by the scruffout of the narrow canyon of your ways.Even in the crowded grocery store,
some demon that you never seecan attack again and leave you weaving slowly up and down an aisle
like someone without a list,lost behind a heavy shopping cartin a maze of labels.
Half-way home when your car stopsalong the highway and the doorswings open on the frozen field
you can fall out of yourselfwith a snap—your gripno better than a defective seatbelt
You once thought you were as safeas the good china locked in your cabinet,but nothing can save you.
Wherever you hide, the wolfsniffs you out. He huffs and puffsat all your walls, like so much straw.
― bnw (bnw), Thursday, 10 October 2002 16:52 (twenty-one years ago) link
Groping back to bed after a pissI part thick curtains, and am startled byThe rapid clouds, the moon's cleanliness.
Four o'clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lieUnder a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.There's something laughable about this,
The way the moon dashes through clouds that blowLoosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart(Stone-coloured light sharpening the roofs below)
High and preposterous and seperate--Lozenge of love! Medallion of art!O wolves of memory! Immensements! No,
One shivers slightly, looking up there.The hardness and the brightness and the plainFar-reaching singleness of that wide stare
Is a reminder of the strength and painOf being young; that it can't come again,But is for others undiminished somewhere.
(philip larkin)
― Aaron A., Thursday, 10 October 2002 19:20 (twenty-one years ago) link
― jel -- (jel), Thursday, 10 October 2002 19:23 (twenty-one years ago) link
― bnw (bnw), Thursday, 10 October 2002 19:40 (twenty-one years ago) link
for Professors Richard Hoggart & Leon Cortez I, ay ay!...stutterer Demosthenesgob full of pebbles outshouting seas -
4 words only of mi ’art aches and…. ‘Mine’s broken,you barbarian, T.W.!’ He was nicely spoken.‘Can’t have our glorious heritage done to death!’
I played the drunken porter in Macbeth.
‘Poetry’s the speech of kings. You’re one of thoseShakespeare gives the comic bits to: prose!All poetry (even Cockney Keats?) You see’s been dubbed by [s] into RP,Received pronunciation, please believe [s]your speech is in the hands of the Receivers.’
‘We say [s] not [uz], T.W.!’ That shut my trap.I doffed my flat a’s (as in ‘flat cap’)my mouth all stuffed with glottals, greatlumps to hawk up and spit out... E-nun-ci-ate!
IISo right, yer buggers, then! We’ll occupyyour lousy leasehold Poetry.
I chewed up Littererchewer and spat the bonesinto the lap of dozing Daniel Jones,dropped the initials I’d been harried asand used my name and own voice: [uz] [uz] [uz],ended sentences with by, with, from,and spoke the language that I spoke at home.R.I.P. RP. R.I.P. T.W.I’m Tony Harrison no longer you.
You can tell the Receivers where to go(and not aspirate it) once you knowWordworth’s matter/water are full rhymes,[uz] can be loving as well as funny.
My first mention in the Timesautomatically made Tony Anthony.
― Dom Passantino (Dom Passantino), Thursday, 10 October 2002 20:08 (twenty-one years ago) link
― Saskia, Thursday, 10 October 2002 22:58 (twenty-one years ago) link
― Saskia, Thursday, 10 October 2002 23:00 (twenty-one years ago) link
(although this is also set to music)
Living At The End Of A Dream
Do you remember how it felt living adventure with you?Do you remember how it felt searching for treasure with you?I remember when we were youngI remember when we all we knew was funWe were youngI am in love with youBut I can't envisage you
― robin carmody (robin carmody), Friday, 11 October 2002 00:08 (twenty-one years ago) link
Do you remember how it felt living adventure with you?Do you remember how it felt searching for treasure with you?I remember when we were youngI remember when all we knew was funWe were youngI am in love with youBut I can't envisage you
That's when I realise we're living at the end of a dream
I can still remember the in between days without youI can still remember the isolation felt without youI remember when the cousins were younger as wellWe went a long way to seeHis progressive universityI am in love with youBut I can't envisage you
Finally I see that we're living at the end of a dream
Can you still remember the nights I was dreaming of you?(Make a wish now and make every dream come true)Do you still remember the strangers we grew to love with you?(We could take in all who travelled, all who dreamed, all Butskellites)Conservative, consensualistLoyal and collectivistCall of the wildWise man's childCall of the wildWise man's child
That's why I see ourselves living at the end of a dream
The day boy at the public school goes home(We saw him just five years ago)John Lydon on his mindMark E. Smith on a late evening driveTime mistaken, three places at onceAnd we are number one
We are the first subject, Weimar Republic Mark 2We are the past object, past tense, we know that it's trueOne last summer holds us inBut when the winter comes and the flowers dieWe'll know the reason whyAnd we'll walk in the snowWe might be the last to know
But we will see: we're living at the end of a dream
― robin carmody (robin carmody), Friday, 11 October 2002 00:15 (twenty-one years ago) link
--Ki no Tsurayuki
― nory (nory), Friday, 11 October 2002 02:45 (twenty-one years ago) link
i like the "spleen" poems from "les fleurs du mal", "le bateau ivre", lots of mallarme, yeats, wordsworth, and others...
― mike (ro)bott, Friday, 11 October 2002 02:57 (twenty-one years ago) link
Thunder goes BOOM,and rain says PITTER-PAT.The car goes VAROOM,and the mole goes SPLAT.
― A Nairn (moretap), Friday, 11 October 2002 03:08 (twenty-one years ago) link
'A boy at odds in the house, lonely among brothers.' But I, who had none, fostered a strangeness; gave myself to unattainable toys.
Candles of gnarled resin, apple branches, the tacky mistletoe. 'Look' they said, and again 'look.' But I ran slowly; the landscape flowed away, back to its source.
In the schoolyard, in the cloakrooms, the children boasted of their scars of dried snot; wrists and knees garnished with impetigo.
- from Mercian Hymns (no 6) by Geoffrey Hill
― jon (jon), Friday, 11 October 2002 07:07 (twenty-one years ago) link
increasingly oftennowyou reach into your handbag(the one I bought some xmasses ago)and bringing fortha pair of dead catsskinned and glisteninglike the undersides of tonguesor old elastopastssticky with earwigsyou hurl them at my eyesand laugh cruellonglywhy?even though we have grown older togetherand my kisses are little more than functionali still love youyou and your strange ways
-Roger Mcgough
― gazza, Friday, 11 October 2002 07:23 (twenty-one years ago) link
Lament for a Lost Dinner Ticket
by Margaret Hamilton.
See ma mammySee ma dinner ticketA pititnmaPokit an she pititnyWashnmachine.
See thon burntyup wherra firwizMa mammy saysAm no tellnyagainNoty playnitA jis wenty eat maPokacrisps furma dinnerNabigwomdoon...
The wummin sedAver near clapsedJistur heednurWee wellies stikinoot.
They sed wot heppind ?N'men ma bellyNa bedna hospitalA sed a pititnmaPokit an she petitny washnmachine.
They sed Ees thees chaild eb slootlyNon verbalA sed Ma BumsairNwenty sleep
― Plinky (Plinky), Friday, 11 October 2002 07:35 (twenty-one years ago) link
I wanna jam the jack plug of my guitar into my vein and scream feedback out of my mouth. I wanna break my fingers on the distorted chord of rocknrollrevolution and watch the blood run down over the fret board and drip off the neck into a pool around my sneakers. I want my guitar to howl like a banshee siren and wrap myself around the mic stand like a snake spitting out the words sucked from the deepest cut of my heart I wanna dive into the broken arms of the non believers and break my nose on the hard wood floor yet still get up dancing like a spastic out into the street and crawl into the gutter of love and drink the holy rain that falls on my face in the Rock and Roll morning.
G.K
― gazza, Friday, 11 October 2002 07:37 (twenty-one years ago) link
― Martin Skidmore (Martin Skidmore), Friday, 11 October 2002 19:08 (twenty-one years ago) link
Real Good - Iain Mills
Cross fae the left,Zinedine Zidane steadies himselAn Zazou! Baw's in the net!Fifty thoosan folk leapin fae seats,Fists punchin the soggy Glesca err,Aw roarin in ther ain tongues,Giein it 'Ole!', 'Achtung!' an"Guan yerself Son!"
But nae tummlin his wulkiesTae celebrate,Nae haunstauns ower the grass,Jist the great man grinning fit tae splitHis baldy heid,An the hale place gaun mental!
― david h (david h), Friday, 11 October 2002 19:40 (twenty-one years ago) link
by Philip Larkin
What do they think has happened, the old fools,To make them like this? Do they somehow supposeIt's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't rememberWho called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,They could alter things back to when they danced all night,Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?Or do they fancy there's really been no change,And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,Or sat through days of thin continuous dreamingWatching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange; Why aren't they screaming?
At death you break up: the bits that were youStart speeding away from each other for everWith no one to see. It's only oblivion, true:We had it before, but then it was going to end,And was all the time merging with a unique endeavourTo bring to bloom the million-petalled flowerOf being here. Next time you can't pretendThere'll be anything else. And these are the first signs:Not knowing how, not hearing who, the powerOf choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it:Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines - How can they ignore it? Perhaps being old is having lighted roomsInside you head, and people in them, actingPeople you know, yet can't quite name; each loomsLike a deep loss restored, from known doors turning,Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extractingA known book from the shelves; or sometimes onlyThe rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning,The blown bush at the window, or the sun'sFaint friendliness on the wall some lonelyRain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live:Not here and now, but where all happened once. This is why they give
An air of baffled absence, trying to be thereYet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leavingIncompetent cold, the constant wear and tearOf taken breath, and them crouching belowExtinction's alp, the old fools, never perceivingHow near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet:The peak that stays in view wherever we goFor them is rising ground. Can they never tellWhat is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night?Not when the strangers come? Never, throughoutThe whole hideous inverted childhood? Well, We shall find out.
― Cruciverbalist, Tuesday, 14 October 2003 07:14 (twenty years ago) link
Razors pain youRivers are dampAcids stain youAnd drugs cause crampGuns aren't lawfulNooses giveGas smells awfulYou might as well live
I had this pinned up by my bed for a very long time. I find something very comforting about it. It might be flippant and crass without that title. But that somehow makes it more personal and more immediate.
― kate (kate), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 07:20 (twenty years ago) link
Michel Desnos - I've dreamed of you so much ("J'ai tant reve de toi")
I've dreamed of you so much that you're losing your reality. Is it already too late for me to embrace your literal, living and breathing physical body and to kiss that mouth which is the birthplace of that voice which is so dear to me?
I've dreamed of you so much that my arms--which have become accustomed to lying crossed upon my own chest after attempting to encircle your shadow--might not be able to unfold again to embrace the contours of your literal form, perhaps
So that coming face-to-face with the actual incarnation of what has haunted me and ruled me and dominated my life for so many days and years Might very well turn me into a shadow.
Oh equilibriums of the emotional scales!
I've dreamed of you so much that it might be too late for me to ever wake up again. I sleep on my feet, body confronting all the usual phenomena of life and love and yet when it comes to you--you, the only being on the planet who matters to me now-- I can no more touch your face and lips than I can those of the next random passerby.
I've dreamed of you so much, have walked and talked and slept so much with your phantom presence that perhaps the only thing left for me to do now Is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadowy than that shifting shape which moves and which will go on moving, stepping lightly and happily across the sundial of your life.
― Baaderist (Fabfunk), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 07:25 (twenty years ago) link
"J'ai tant reve de toi"
J'ai tant rêvé de toi que tu perds ta réalité.Est-il encore temps d'atteindre ce corps vivant et de baiser sur cette bouche la naissance de la voix qui m'est chère ?J'ai tant rêvé de toi que mes bras habitués, en étreignant ton ombre, à se croiser sur ma poitrine ne se plieraient pas au contour de ton corps, peut-être. Et que, devant l'apparence réelle de ce qui me hante et me gouverne depuis des jours et des années, je deviendrais une ombre sans doute.
O balances sentimentales. J'ai tant rêvé de toi qu'il n'est plus temps sans doute que je m'éveille. Je dors debout, le corps exposé à toutes les apparences de la vie et de l'amour et toi, la seule qui compte aujourd'hui pour moi, je pourrais moins toucher ton front et tes lèvres que les premières lèvres et le premier front venus. J'ai tant rêvé de toi, tant marché, parlé, couché avec ton fantôme qu'il ne me reste plus peut-être, et pourtant, qu'à être fantôme parmi les fantômes et plus ombre cent fois que l'ombre qui se promène et se promènera allègrement sur le cadran solaire de ta vie.
― Baaderist (Fabfunk), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 07:27 (twenty years ago) link
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!Alas! I am very sorry to sayThat ninety lives have been taken awayOn the last Sabbath day of 1879,Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
'Twas about seven o'clock at night,And the wind it blew with all its might,And the rain came pouring down,And the dark clods seem'd to frown,And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."
When the train left EdinburghThe passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,But Boreas blew a terrific gale,Which made their hearts for to quail,And many of the passengers with fear did say-"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."
But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,Boreas he did loud and angry bray,And shook the central girders of the Bridge of TayOn the last Sabbath day of 1879,Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
So the train sped on with all its might,And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sught,And the passengers' hearts felt light,Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,And wish them all a happy New Year.
So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,Until it was about midway,Then the central girders with a crash gave way,And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,Because ninety lives had been taken away,On the last Sabbath day of 1879,Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
As soon as the catastrophe came to be knownThe alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,And the cry rang out all o'er the town,Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,And a passenger train from Edinburgh,Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,And made them for to turn pale,Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the taleHow the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
It must have been an awful sight,To witness in the dusky moonlight,While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,Oh! ill-fated Bridge of thSilv'ry Tay,I must now conclude my layBy telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,That your central girders would not have given way,At least many sensible men do say,Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,At least many sensible men confesses,For the stronger we our houses do build,The less chance we have of being killed.
William Topaz McGonagall
― Alex K (Alex K), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:13 (twenty years ago) link
Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,We shall have what to do after firing. But today,Today we have naming of parts. JaponicaGlistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens, And today we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel. And thisIs the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,Which in your case you have not got. The branchesHold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, Which in our case we have not got.
This is the safety-catch, which is always releasedWith an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let meSee anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easyIf you have any strength in your thumb. The blossomsAre fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Any of them using their finger.
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of thisIs to open the breech, as you see. We can slide itRapidly backwards and forwards: we call thisEasing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwardsThe early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easyIf you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossomSilent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards, For today we have naming of parts.
― Matt (Matt), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:22 (twenty years ago) link
― anthony easton (anthony), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:27 (twenty years ago) link
Match (mat.ch) n-es 1. An arrangement of a marriage: We agreed to the match without understanding what it meant. 2. An engagement in a game or a contest in which two people oppose or compete with each other: A couple with nothing in common but the outcome of the match. 3. A pair of opposites (that attract). — v. matched, matching, matches. 1. To see a similarity; to cause to correspond: to liken. 2. To flip coins, and compare the faces in a game of chance. 3. To join two pieces of wood, tongued and grooved to fit. 4. To secure; to hold together; to form a bond.
Match (mat.ch) n-es 1. An article that is manufactured for the express purpose of starting a fire; usually a splinter of wood or cardboard coated with a thin combustible substance at the tip that ignites it by friction: "The quick, sharp scratch, / and blue spurt of a lighted match." —Browning. 2. The evolution of energy from heat to light 3. Love.
Warren Slesinger
― bnw (bnw), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:33 (twenty years ago) link
i sing of Olaf glad and bigwhose warmest heart recoiled at war:a conscientious object-or
his wellbelovéd colonel(trigwestpointer most succinctly bred)took erring Olaf soon in hand; but--though an host of overjoyed noncoms(first knocking on the head him)do through icy waters roll that helplessness which others strokewith brushes recently employed anent this muddy toiletbowl, while kindred intellects evoke allegiance per blunt instruments--Olaf(being to all intentsa corpse and wanting any rag upon what God unto him gave) responds,without getting annoyed "I will not kiss your fucking flag"
straightway the silver bird looked grave(departing hurriedly to shave)
but--though all kinds of officers (a yearning nation's blueeyed pride) their passive prey did kick and curseuntil for wear their clarion voices and boots were much the worse, and egged the firstclassprivates onhis rectum wickedly to tease by means of skilfully appliedbayonets roasted hot with heat--Olaf(upon what were once knees)does almost ceaselessly repeat"there is some shit I will not eat"
our president,being of whichassertions duly notified threw the yellowsonofabitchinto a dungeon,where he died
Christ(of His mercy infinite)i pray to see;and Olaf,too
preponderatingly becauseunless statistics lie he wasmore brave than me:more blond than you.
― lint (Jack), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:45 (twenty years ago) link
― luna (luna.c), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 18:36 (twenty years ago) link
plastic, stacked on the newspaper vending machine... his winter headband
holding back wild hair,needing a shave yesterday...he fixes me with
his high-voltage, sky- blue eyes, with pin-point pupils,on this rainy, grey
sunday morning, and asks me; "what's happening, man?" all i can manage
at this early houris a sort of soundless croak,and i squat down to
wait for the bus... he asks me where im going, and i tell him; "...to work."
...he asks me what i do, and i tell him ...he says he "likes my jacket."
i tell him; "its a poncho." "oh, yeah", he says, "aponcho, right." ...he lights
a cigarette and walks into the street looking for the bus... then a
pidgeon lands on the curb, and starts drinking from anoily puddle
in the gutter ...he reaches into his bundle and pulls out a bag
of broken cookies and tosses them to the bird ...more birds land and eat
...he calls and coos to them softly ...i watch them peck at the crumbs and then
walk over to his feet... i picture him bending down and scooping one
up and twisting its head, breaking its neck, and thenstuffing it into
his bundle for a meal later... instead, he standswith one arm outstretched,
his finger pointing,waiting for one to perch on his nicotine stained
didjit... they ignore him more successfully then i was able to...
the bus arrives, and we board... about thirteen blocks later, he gets off,
and as he exits from the mechanical doors, clutching his bundle,
shoulders hunched against the rain, patting himself downfor another smoke,
and dry match, i hear the sound of church bells tolling at 'queen of angels'
-- stosh machek
― luna (luna.c), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 18:38 (twenty years ago) link
― Reece Lurk, Tuesday, 14 October 2003 20:54 (twenty years ago) link
"April Fool Birthday Poem For Grandpa"
Today is your birthday and I have triedwriting these things before, but nowin the gathering madness, I want tothank youfor telling me what to expectfor pullingno punches, back there in that scrubbed Bronx parlorthank youfor honestly weeping in time toinnumerable heartbreakingitalian operas forpulling my hair when I pulled the leaves off the trees so I'd know how it feels,we areinvolved in it now, revolution, up to ourknees and the tide is rising, I embracestrangers on the street, filled with their love andmine, the love you told us had to come or wedie, told them all in that Bronx part, me listening inspring Bronx dusk, breathing stars, so gloriousto me your white hair, your height your fierceblue eyes, rare among italians, I stooda ways off listening as I pour out soupyoung men with light in their facesat my table, talking love, talking revolutionwhich is love, spelled backwards, howyou would love us all, would thunder your anarchist wisdomat us, would thunder Dante, and Giordano Bruno, orderly menbent to your ends, well I want you to knowwe do it for you, and your ilk, for Carlo Trescafor Sacco ad Vanzetti, without knowingit, or thinking about it, as we do it for Aubrey BearsleyOscar Wilde (all street lightsshall be purple), do itfor Trotsky and Shelley and big/dumbKropotkinEisenstein's Strike people, Jean Cocteau's ennui, we do it forthe stars over the Bronxthat they may look on earthand not be ashamed.
******"Song For Baby-O, Unborn"
Sweetheartwhen you break thru you’ll find a poet herenot quite what one would choose.
I won’t promise you’ll never go hungry or that you won’t be sad on this gutted breakingglobe
but I can show you babyenough to love to break your heart forever
― miloauckerman (miloauckerman), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 21:03 (twenty years ago) link
since feeling is firstwho pays any attention to the syntax of thingswill never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a foolwhile Spring is in the world
my blood approves,and kisses are a better fatethan wisdomlady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry-the best gesture of my brain is less thanyour eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other:thenlaugh, leaning back in my armsfor life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
― j c, Tuesday, 14 October 2003 21:33 (twenty years ago) link
― Chris P (Chris P), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 22:22 (twenty years ago) link
Where are the lyrics about pink elephant flying through marshmallow skies?Where are the nursery-rhyme-like melodies?Where are the mellotrons?
― Geirvald Hongfjeld jr., Thursday, 27 November 2003 00:41 (twenty years ago) link
Post a poem u
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:49 (six years ago) link
On the Flyleaf of Pound's Cantos
There are the Alps. What is there to say about them? They don't make sense. Fatal glaciers, crags cranks climb, jumbled boulder and weed, pasture and boulder, scree, et l'on entend, maybe, le refrain joyeux et leger.Who knows what the ice will have scraped on the rock it is smoothing?
There they are, you will have to go a long way round if you want to avoid them. It takes some getting used to. There are the Alps, fools! Sit down and wait for them to crumble!
-- Basil Bunting
― the late great, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:54 (six years ago) link
That's good
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:57 (six years ago) link
One more go-to:
Inniskeen Road: July Evening
The bicycles go by in twos and threes -There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn tonight,And there's the half-talk code of mysteriesAnd the wink-and-elbow language of delight.Half-past eight and there is not a spotUpon a mile of road, no shadow thrownThat might turn out a man or woman, notA footfall tapping secrecies of stone.
I have what every poet hates in spiteOf all the solemn talk of contemplation.Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plightOf being king and government and nation.A road, a mile of kingdom. I am kingOf banks and stones and every blooming thing.
-Patrick Kavanagh
I am endlessly taken by the run and rhythm from half past eight to stone
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:58 (six years ago) link
lonely guy just writing poem baout things
― the late great, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:05 (six years ago) link
that is a good one too
A Man in Assynt by Norman MacCaig is a little long to post here so I'll link it here
I really love this reading by the author and just falling into the West Highland landscapes.
― call me by your name..or Finn (fionnland), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:13 (six years ago) link
So many to name, but the beginning of Keith Waldrop's 'Shipwreck in Heaven' springs to mind:
Balancing. Austere. Life-less. I have tried to keepcontext from claiming you.Without doors. And there arewindows. How far, howfar into the desert have we come?Rude instruments, productof my garden. Might also bedifferent, what I am thinking of.So you see: it isnot symmetrical, darkred out of the snow.
Without doors. And there arewindows. How far, howfar into the desert have we come?
Rude instruments, productof my garden. Might also bedifferent, what I am thinking of.
So you see: it isnot symmetrical, darkred out of the snow.
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:16 (six years ago) link
Or part I of Rosmarie Waldrop's 'In a Doorway' (from Blindsight):
The world was galaxies imagined flesh. Mortal. What to think now? Think simple. Matter? A lump of wax? An afterglow? Or does everything happen of its own accord? Perfect and full-bodied. No more. Observable. No longer. In your eyes or line of sight. Down all three dimensions of time. Or lock up the house. Or prophets.•Here I work toward. A kind of elegy. Here a strange ceiling. "Earth fills his mouth." I would look at you. And write you. A spell but slack at the edge. And in the door where I stand your voice goes. Hollow.•If what happened. (Happened?) Hand. Between palms. Grief. Death. Coffee with cream. Coffee. Arms, knees and free will. And shiny. Rainbows.•The words have detached. And spread throughout my body. Such reckless growth. Windbag! Want to see come full circle the wheel? To comment. My own commentary till I till. My own great-granddaughter's body?•Absence. But it cuts. Repeat. Furiously Yes then No. Even a fictional character catches a chill. Makes the heart. And cold penetrates. We do not fall off the surface. But you, planet earth. Grow. Even as we read. Fonder of the dark.
•
Here I work toward. A kind of elegy. Here a strange ceiling. "Earth fills his mouth." I would look at you. And write you. A spell but slack at the edge. And in the door where I stand your voice goes. Hollow.
If what happened. (Happened?) Hand. Between palms. Grief. Death. Coffee with cream. Coffee. Arms, knees and free will. And shiny. Rainbows.
The words have detached. And spread throughout my body. Such reckless growth. Windbag! Want to see come full circle the wheel? To comment. My own commentary till I till. My own great-granddaughter's body?
Absence. But it cuts. Repeat. Furiously Yes then No. Even a fictional character catches a chill. Makes the heart. And cold penetrates. We do not fall off the surface. But you, planet earth. Grow. Even as we read. Fonder of the dark.
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:22 (six years ago) link
I also miss the late Simon Howard, whose blog is still up:
http://walkingintheceiling.blogspot.ca
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:24 (six years ago) link
The following was written by one of my students, a 12 year-old kid from New York whom I taught via Skype. I provide it verbatim:
The LookThis look I see too much,Out of confusionAnd bewilderment.From people who,Cannot comprehend,The stories of those,Who can suppress.This look I find unbearable,The lookFrom those who mayBe forgetful.I still do not understand,What is the cause ofThis unmistakable glance.
This look I see too much,Out of confusionAnd bewilderment.
From people who,Cannot comprehend,The stories of those,Who can suppress.
This look I find unbearable,The lookFrom those who mayBe forgetful.
I still do not understand,What is the cause ofThis unmistakable glance.
I sometimes wonder what he's up to now. Hopefully writing poetry.
― #TeamHailing (imago), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:41 (six years ago) link
After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
It is difficult even to choose the adjective For this blank cold, this sadness without cause. The great structure has become a minor house. No turban walks across the lessened floors.
The greenhouse never so badly needed paint. The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side. A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition In a repetitiousness of men and flies.
Yet the absence of the imagination hadItself to be imagined. The great pond,The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence
Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all thisHad to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,Required, as a necessity requires.
― morning wood truancy (Alfred, Lord Sotosyn), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:43 (six years ago) link
I was expecting 'The Charge of the Light Brigade'.
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:56 (six years ago) link
O commemorate me where there is water, Canal water, preferably, so stillyGreeny at the heart of summer. BrotherCommemorate me thus beautifullyWhere by a lock niagarously roarsThe falls for those who sit in the tremendous silenceOf mid-July. No one will speak in proseWho finds his way to these Parnassian islands. A swan goes by head low with many apologies, Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges - And look! a barge comes bringing from AthyAnd other far-flung towns mythologies.O commemorate me with no hero-courageous Tomb - just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by.
― spaghetti connemara (darraghmac), Friday, 15 January 2021 02:43 (three years ago) link
Its hard to read any poetry not written by irish tbh
love that one so much i moved to the canal in question tbh
― Ár an broc a mhic (darraghmac), Monday, 22 May 2023 23:20 (one year ago) link
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50986/paradoxes-and-oxymorons
― The Triumphant Return of Bernard & Stubbs (Raymond Cummings), Tuesday, 23 May 2023 20:14 (one year ago) link
A FOOTFALL TAPPING SECRECIES OF STONE
kavanagh stop it
― close encounters of the third knid (darraghmac), Tuesday, 2 January 2024 23:52 (five months ago) link
As I wend to the shores I know not,As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck’d,As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,I too but signify at the utmost a little wash’d-up drift,A few sands and dead leaves to gather,Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.
O baffled, balk’d, bent to the very earth,Oppress’d with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I have not once had the least idea who or what I am,But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet untouch’d, untold, altogether unreach’d,Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.
I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single object, and that no man ever can,Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart upon me and sting me,Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.
― The king of the demo (bernard snowy), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 00:13 (five months ago) link
One must have a mind of winterTo regard the frost and the boughsOf the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long timeTo behold the junipers shagged with ice,The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to thinkOf any misery in the sound of the wind,In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the landFull of the same windThat is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,And, nothing himself, beholdsNothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
― immodesty blaise (jimbeaux), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 00:21 (five months ago) link
love these, keep em comin
― Humanitarian Pause (Tracer Hand), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 00:38 (five months ago) link
I have a feeling I’ve already shared this here, but:
― Marten Broadcloak, mild-mannered GOP congressman (Raymond Cummings), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:08 (five months ago) link
Ha! Yes! I already have
― Marten Broadcloak, mild-mannered GOP congressman (Raymond Cummings), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:09 (five months ago) link
I got this one via Poetry Daily, I don't know that it's a "favorite" but it's one that stuck with me.
https://poems.com/poem/juvenilia/#featured-poet
― immodesty blaise (jimbeaux), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:11 (five months ago) link
“This Dark Apartment”, James Schuyler, 1980
Coming from the delia block away today Isaw the UN buildingshine and in all themonths and years I’velived in this apartmentI took so you and Iwould have a place tomeet I never noticedthat it was in my view.
I remember very wellthe morning I walked inand found you in bedwith X. He dressedand left. You dressedtoo. I said, “Stayfive minutes.” Youdid. You said, “That’sthe way it is.” Itwas not much of a surprise.
Then X got on speedand ripped off anantique chest and anair conditioner, etc.After he was gone andyou had changed theSegal lock, I askedyou on the phone, “Can’tyou be content withyour wife and me?” “I’mnot built that way,”you said. No surprise.
Now, without sayingwhy, you’ve let me go.You don’t return mycalls, who used to callme almost every eveningwhen I lived in the coun-try. “Hasn’t he told youwhy?” “No, and I doubt heever will.” Goodbye. It’smysterious and frustrating.
How I wish you would comeback! I could tellyou how, when I livedon East 49th, firstwith Frank and then with John,we had a lovely view ofthe UN building and theBeekman Towers. They werenot my lovers, though.You were. You said so.
― he’s an adventurer (derogatory) (flamboyant goon tie included), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:43 (five months ago) link
i always post this and im never sorry:
The day dawns, with scent of must and rain,Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.Under the fading lamp, half dressed -- my brainIdling on some compulsive fantasy --I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,A dry downturning mouth.It seems again that it is time to learn,In this untiring, crumbling place of growthTo which, for the time being, I return.Now plainly in the mirror of my soulI read that I have looked my last on youthAnd little more; for they are not made wholeThat reach the age of Christ.
Below my window the wakening trees,Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defacedSuffering their brute necessities;And how should the flesh not quail, that span for spanIs mutilated more? In slow distasteI fold my towel with what grace I can,Not young, and not renewable, but man.
― close encounters of the third knid (darraghmac), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:50 (five months ago) link
i have only made one poem, in 2013, but it's pretty epic. i fed Alan Ginsberg's 'Howl' into every language on Google translate and finally back to English like a game of telephone:
Radyositi most.Music is dead. During the next few years.
The
Emergency Aluminium and Sphinx. ? And ideas.First, JP, Ashtrays "Our children ... -. Lower stairs crying. Call Baby reply I do not know.Or not. Before? Sugar shock! Do you want to! Has You're looking for swimming!10 point box. Pain and movement. Add module to stand BlackBerry. ?Technology in the future. I remember the blood. Money! Rufus is 10 centimeters! Perched book. Taking the kanibais public smoking volcano.Moore, thousands window blind Black Tower. A music moloki. You will spend and Malta. For Akron.Welcome to the olive bar pressure. Bank espirito Santa moloki. Hydrogen ears cool! Moloki. ToDownload Black Angels photography. I do not have sex before another busy?March gray in my life. The entire staff. Fear of the water. Jam! Contact your system with great sea! Light Sony Ericsson Download Paradise!Or not. First of all, I am not a robot or a financial institution. Action! International trade and human rights? Courses abroad. A Hardworking.Mountain road timber radio bar or not. If you are in London for a long time?Zion I jineunghyeongneun? He said,? U.S.. It. Water!Gold Service? Light! While there are many reasons to search. SkipA. Changing the river? Torrent This is very important! He knows! You will not be disappointed. Decades, animals, and the idea of suicide. I'm sure it will be as a new song! Ads.Ventilation water? Jerusalem Jerusalem gallon. I do not know? Did you know? Bad Cherry Beach water groups.
― Deflatormouse, Thursday, 4 January 2024 01:26 (five months ago) link
wait that's not all of it, here's the whole thing:
Michigan თაობის Furthermore, as frenezo ეს khomeini (Raw) market We Nirvana.Serkan art agadoj frenezo. Defina.Paradizo მემშიერიბაზარზე Bruno Crazy Hippie angel. Michigan City, with khomeini შიშველიისტერიული as frenezo. We Nirvana.On Tuesday, the stock agadoj frenezo serkan. Defina.But it is poor milk Marketing Madness angel, our thirst malnate beauty paradizo Bruno. Drum surexite.Kouture. SelectionPre-sized entertainment. Racing at night.Poverty and beverages, clothing. Welcome to the Magic of Winter Debris. Panorama of Armenia.Blue Angel and it forget. Hit Bishop Street.Cold heart failure. Science and SRS tragedy of war.The song was published online. Warning SkullConflicts and save time. Have you ever heard of a Box.Results Brad. Marijuana, New York.Emissyons TV and Beverage (I), died looking for. Christmas Eve night the body.Drugs, alcohol, and his son, Lao groups. Hengelo.The light. Patterson, CA Canada, to encourage positive thinking in Missouri. Photo.The drinking green areas and trees flying dream. Ennessa teahead neon. Pressure sensors, potatoes, sun, photography, trees. Brooklyn Winter neukkyeotdagva. NewsLimited battery life. Children bronka albnzidrin fear of the wheel. Earthquake, fire, black religion. Light Mountain Park apologize.Bekkford water. Fugazza beer. Ⅱ music died.Ωρες Bell Auto Group 70 Museum Brooklyn Bridge (Brooklyn Bridge).Deregister. However, theDevelopment riveyara small and yakketayakking. The poor, sick humor and fun and action.Seven days and seven nights, and lots of restaurants. CPS.New Jersey. President Treasurer of Atlantic City.Ryan bones, headaches, sweating. I really blue, black.Turn, Food and Rural Development Center. Nokia Mobile Phone.Tobacco and discomfort. Farmers evening.- San Juan (San Juan), your feelings. Enstenktivman grace.State Idaho Street, Los Angeles, Italy. Angel Eyes Romania.Local Baltimore. GroupBuying, downloading, Oklahoma. Of the way the winter.Jazz, Houston, thirst, sex, and so on. Spain and elsewhere. Africa yet.Mexican volcano. Wash and extrapolasyon high. ChicagoWest Bank, jaw, small eyes ef.bi. Intelligence .. Make sure my skin. At the end of the course.Products Capital(Square (unirey also updated)) super pryoritizatyon European (EU). Siren Rama. Motherboard, melting, staten Island Fairy.Clear water, white shirt, then. Carriage return, thenPolice said. Unfortunately, development of the village. NeedleFor example, one of the most important links. Laos - A man and Wavelength half signature.Santander Drying. I cried.Navastinere complaint arteries and veins leading safety. Atlantic Ocean and Caribbean Sea.Today, tomorrow, and the courage. Information and communication Seeds're park. ToDr. Marina virus. Tomb angels young. GamesDamage in humans. Less. They are annoying. Holiday best.Bottle of beer. Southwest and area - based wax. Powder charge will not be reflected in Northern Europe. John Flower mysterious package. MalaysiaIn some cases, it may be cold and dark. Red Rider is not easy. Area and kill nudeugva white.Theft, prostitution, and especially in North Carolina Welcome to the night. Welcome to Denver victory. Food -.Metro Cinema, mountains and caves. Waitress Rita food. (Nutmeg) solipsizmom died Tues The womanEnd Family, business, bankruptcy, New York (Manhattan). Iron altvkai a threat? Entertainment and government.On the night of the crime. Then the door. HeatSuicide reporter Clive large banks. Blue moon. ForgetFor example, cancer, guinea pigs, sheep fat. Rio ball.But endiskutabl and Onions. Weak financial system.Light and air. Rogge opened.
Taj 6 train crash Harlem. Orange County Fair.At night, he said. Morning clouds yellow.Health sector programs in an attempt to reduce everything to heart. What is the best sex.Meat, eggs, hotSoon At the time, every day. AddMammals Shangri well. I know some things.
Madison, New Jersey. Storm and Reggae. November Nitroglycerin and advertising. And so, whether or arm or LG HDTV PM. Only one small problem.Brooklyn Bridge (Brooklyn Bridge). (China), China, and in the spirit world. Prosekutors, he said, and then try again.Metro good singer or small boxes. Passaik books on birds and land. Dance Platinum broken leg. Jazz Germany nastaljeia the 1930 average. VC sositara blood and screaming. FryablePost Maribor Castle Jazz and fish skull helmet.72 countries at a price. Knowledge and interest.He died in Denver; Denver, courage, faith, country. Denver, Denver, Colorado today. ListenChurch knees weak and broken lights. And emotional pain. MondayNiryatanakaridera. In the heart of the importance of beauty. Beautiful monster.Rocky Mountain, Buddha, and Mexican parents, and evaluation. Some black kalkareous Pacific. See deep 德朗 哈佛.Skills and self - hipnosis. Baker Cancer Group.Energy, New York, potatoes, university later. Granite mikrovave. Vest immediately die. Cut ears to the brain white matter.Pentilenetetrazol. Island energy independent. 4 hearts bath. Nissan.Notes and world - renowned theme (). Now etourdri.Hair, blood and tears. Madtovns inch camera died. WednesdayIceland, lemon and spices conference. Feelings Housing Bank. Dream - to live in a nightmare. The second term******. Message bedroom window. Stone furniture vallarta, the number of Accidents. The second part of the small yellow rules. Pakistani clothes. My favorite Statement of defense.In time, the knife and society. Accessories for Pets.Suddenly the fish. Release of chemical windows. VibrationPhoto: time and space. The President and the Prime Minister, one of the objectives to be clear, there are two angels. Language development can be blocked. Government calls. Every time.Change pvoz and female beauty. Information and information, but declined. Especially A vast desert.My skin is not serious. GameKingdom and promote jazz and modern clothes. American free market. Owen sabatshthani earthquake. Radyositi most.Music is dead. During the next few years.
― Deflatormouse, Thursday, 4 January 2024 01:35 (five months ago) link
Stripped nude, my soul,on a windswept jetty, the exhiliration of emptiness no longer obtains.
This cruel December, my thoughtsas bare as the Atlantic.
― treeship., Thursday, 4 January 2024 02:07 (five months ago) link
I got this one via Poetry Daily, I don't know that it's a "favorite" but it's one that stuck with me.https://poems.com/poem/juvenilia/#featured-poet― immodesty blaise (jimbeaux), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:11 (yesterday)
― immodesty blaise (jimbeaux), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:11 (yesterday)
― The king of the demo (bernard snowy), Thursday, 4 January 2024 03:04 (five months ago) link
My favourite poem of all time is "Long Distance II" by Tony Harrison.
Though my mother was already two years deadDad kept her slippers warming by the gas,put hot water bottles her side of the bedand still went to renew her transport pass.
You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone.He'd put you off an hour to give him timeto clear away her things and look aloneas though his still raw love were such a crime.
He couldn't risk my blight of disbeliefthough sure that very soon he'd hear her keyscrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea.
I believe life ends with death, and that is all.You haven't both gone shopping; just the same,in my new black leather phone book there's your nameand the disconnected number I still call.
― lord of the rongs (anagram), Thursday, 4 January 2024 11:48 (five months ago) link