What's your favourite poem?
Or ... written one yourself you'd care to share?
― jon (jon), Thursday, 10 October 2002 07:22 (twenty years ago) link
― gabriel rodriguez-doerr (gabe), Thursday, 10 October 2002 07:38 (twenty years ago) link
I have posted this by Rilke before but it's (one of) my favourite(s) and it's also short:
Time and again, however well we know the landscape of love,and the little church-yard with lamenting names,and the frightfully silent ravine wherein all the othersend: time and again we go out two together,under the old trees, lie down again and againbetween the flowers, face to face with the sky.
Other old favourites are Barrett Browning's Sonnet 22 from the Portugese, HD's 'Mid-day', RS Thomas's 'Reflections' and Roddy Lumsden's 'Because'.
― Archel (Archel), Thursday, 10 October 2002 07:40 (twenty years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Thursday, 10 October 2002 07:49 (twenty years ago) link
And when I get to Surf City I'll be shootin' the curls,And checkin' out the parties for surfer girls. When Jan and Dean recorded 'Surf City'there must have been one guy - I see this one trumpet player with his tie askewor maybe he's wearing a loose tropical-foliage shirt sitting on a metal chair waitingfor the session to reach the big chorus where Jan and Dean exultTwo girls for every boyand he's thinkingof his hundred nights on some buddy's hairy stainy sofa and the way hot dogs and coffee make a mud misery and the way one girl is far too much and besides he hasn't had the one in fourteen months, wait, it's fifteen now.Surfing - what life actually lets guys ride boards on waves? Is it all fiction? Is it a joke? Jan and Dean act like it's a fine, good joke whereas this trumpet player thinks it's actually shit, if anybody asked him, a tidal wave of shit. Nobody's asking.The producer jiggles in his headphones. He wants more drums right after all you gotta do is just wink your eye! This producer is chubby and there is no chance, my trumpet player thinks, that this chubhead gets two swingin' honeys at any party ever and besides on a given night a man only has one cock, oram I wrong? And besides, you wake up wanting five aspirin in an air lousy with lies, or half-lies.And that's with only one girl. But why am I so pissed here, he thinks, when all these guys are hot for a hit?Because I'm deep like Coltrane and they're all shallow, right? Or becauseI'm this smelly sour session man with a bent nose and they're all hip to this fine fine joke? The song is cooking, it's nearly in the can, everybody has that hot-hit lookand my trumpet man has a thought: Sexis not really it - what they're singing about -they're singing about being here.This dumb song is it:this studio, this is the only Surf City, here. And that's the great joke. Okay, surf dicks, I am hip. But there's gonna be pain in Kansas, he thinks, lifting his horn and watching for the cue, when they hear about Surf City and believe it.
― Jerry the Nipper (Jerrynipper), Thursday, 10 October 2002 07:55 (twenty years ago) link
on the road to riches and diamond ringsreal niggas do real thingshangin with the bitches is the song i singREAL NIGGAS DO REAL THINGS!
- christopher wallace rip
― s trife (simon_tr), Thursday, 10 October 2002 08:17 (twenty years ago) link
Anyhow, my pretty-much-all-time favourite is:
--Love Without Hope
Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcherSwept off his tall hat to the squire's own daughter;So let the imprisioned larks escape and flySinging about her head, as she rode by.
However, a little depressing; due to current circumstances, I am liking mostly happier things. Still sends the involuntary shivers up the spine, though, embarrassingly in the workplace...
― Liz :x, Thursday, 10 October 2002 10:38 (twenty years ago) link
― N. (nickdastoor), Thursday, 10 October 2002 10:39 (twenty years ago) link
― Liz :x, Thursday, 10 October 2002 10:54 (twenty years ago) link
My theory: the council did it to avoid council area/local area confusion. But I have no evidence for this. Hackney manages to cope with a similar ambiguity OK. Except maybe it doesn't - Hackney Council is a disgrace.
― N. (nickdastoor), Thursday, 10 October 2002 11:02 (twenty years ago) link
Some men never think of it. You did. You'd come along And say you'd nearly brought me flowers But something had gone wrong. The shop was closed. Or you had doubts - The sort that minds like ours Dream up incessantly. You thought I might not want your flowers. It made me smile and hug you then. Now I can only smile. But, Look, the flowers you nearly brought Have lasted all this while.
Very soppy I know but it kinda gets you.
― Plinky (Plinky), Thursday, 10 October 2002 11:11 (twenty years ago) link
Slim Greer went to heaven; St. Peter said, "Slim,You been a right good boy." An' he winked at him.
"You been travelin' rascal In yo'day. You kin roam once mo'; Den you come to stay.
"Put dese wings on yo' shoulders, An' save yo' feet."Slim grin, and he speak up, "Thankye, Pete."
Den Peter say, "Go To Hell an' see, All dat is doing, and Report to me.
"Be sure to remember How everything go."Slim say, "I be seein' yuh On de late watch, bo."
Slim got to cavortin' Swell as you choose, Like Lindy in de Spirit Of St. Louis Blues.
He flew an' he flew, Till at last he hitA hangar wid de sign readin' DIS IS IT.
Den he parked his wings, An' strolled aroun', Gittin' used to his feet On de solid ground.
Big bloodhound came aroarin' Like Niagry Falls,Sicked on by white devils In overhalls.
Now Slim warn't scared Cross my heart, it's a fac',An de dog went on a bayin' Some po' devil's track.
Den Slim saw a mansion An' walked right in; De Devil looked up Wid a sickly grin.
"Suttingly didn't look Fo' you, Mr. Greer,How it happens you comes To visit here?"
Slim say---"Oh, jes' thought I'd drop by a spell." "Feel at home, seh, an' here's De keys to hell."
Den he took Slim around An' showed him peopleRasin' hell as high as De first Church Steeple.
Lots of folks fightin' At de roulette wheel, Like old Rampart Street, Or leastwise Beale.
Showed him bawdy houses An' cabarets,Slim thought of New Orleans An' Memphis days.
Each devil was busy Wid a devlish broad, An' Slim cried, "Lawdy, Lawd, Lawd, Lawd."
Took him in a room Where Slim seeDe preacher wid a brownskin On each knee.
Showed him giant stills, Going everywhere, Wid a passel of devils Stretched dead drunk there.
Den he took him to de furnace Dat some devils was firing,Hot as Hell, an' Slim start A mean presspirin'.
White devils with pitchforks Threw black devils on, Slim thought he'd better Be gittin' along.
An' he says---"Dis makes Me think of home---Vicksburg, Little Rock, Jackson, Waco and Rome."
Den de devil gave Slim De big Ha-Ha; An' turned into a cracker, Wid a sheriff's star.
Slim ran fo' his wings, Lit out from de groun'Hauled it back to St. Peter, Safety boun'. III
St. Peter said, "Well, You got back quick. How's de devil? An' what's His latest trick?"
An' Slim Say, "Peter, I really cain't tell,The place was Dixie That I took for hell."
Then Peter say, "you must Be crazy, I vow, Where'n hell dja think Hell was, Anyhow?
"Git on back to de yearth, Cause I got de fear,You'se a leetle too dumb, Fo' to stay up here. . ."
― Dom Passantino (Dom Passantino), Thursday, 10 October 2002 11:44 (twenty years ago) link
Mauve world, green meBlack him, purple herYellow us, pink you.Lead pipes - fortune made.Six to four, coming secondGreen country, Blue Harringay and White City;Hick, Haec, Hoc!
(My favourite, though is 'The Ashtray', which reminds me of M. Jones for some obscure reason:
Steel rods of reason through my head!Salmon jumping, where jump I?Camels on fire - and spotted cloudsStriped horses prance the meadow wildAnd rush on to drink at life's fountains deep.Life is cream I am puce…Ching, Chang, Cholla!)
― Jerry the Nipper (Jerrynipper), Thursday, 10 October 2002 12:12 (twenty years ago) link
PS I believe Haringey really is an old place nane - of a Manor or a HUndred, like with Tower Hamlets - as opposed to the smaller and more specific locale of Harringay.
― jon (jon), Thursday, 10 October 2002 12:25 (twenty years ago) link
Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest.
Peace, peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it.
― Lara, Thursday, 10 October 2002 12:33 (twenty years ago) link
so much dependsupon
a red wheelbarrow
glazed with rainwater
beside the whitechickens.
There is something about this poem that appeals to me so much but I've never really been able to describe it. On first reading it I remember it making me smile. It's tremendously clever and evocative.
― Lara, Thursday, 10 October 2002 12:40 (twenty years ago) link
IF I TELL YOU by Martin Piper
If I tell you that I love you, will you frown, And turn away as if it's quite absurd? Or, playing safe, pretend you haven't heard, And leave my doubts unanswered while I drown In those uncertainties that drag me down? Or will your eyes burn brighter at the word, And, some sweet sharpened senses, strangely stirred, Hold out to me love's sceptre and its crown? But, if I tell you that I love you, it may be That, struggling for words so hard to phrase, You'll gather courage from my longing gaze And new-found fervour from my fingertips, And answer that you love me you love me, And I, to thank them, kiss your lovely lips
― Dom Passantino (Dom Passantino), Thursday, 10 October 2002 12:42 (twenty years ago) link
It is 12:20 in New York a Fridaythree days after Bastille day, yesit is 1959 and I go get a shoeshinebecause I will get off the 4:19 in Easthamptonat 7:15 and then go straight to dinnerand I don't know the people who will feed me
I walk up the muggy street beginning to sunand have a hamburger and a malted and buyan ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poetsin Ghana are doing these daysin Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bankand Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)doesn't even look up my balance for once in her lifeand in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlainefor Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I dothink of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore orBrendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègresof Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaineafter practically going to sleep with quandariness
and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANELiquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega andthen I go back where I came from to 6th Avenueand the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre andcasually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a cartonof Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it
and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking ofleaning on the john door in the 5 SPOTwhile she whispered a song along the keyboardto Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing
― David R. (popshots75`), Thursday, 10 October 2002 12:52 (twenty years ago) link
― PJ Miller (PJ Miller), Thursday, 10 October 2002 12:59 (twenty years ago) link
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 years ago) link
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 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 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.
― anthony easton (anthony), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:05 (twenty years ago) link
― anthony easton (anthony), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:07 (twenty 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.
― anthony easton (anthony), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:08 (twenty 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
― anthony easton (anthony), Thursday, 10 October 2002 14:10 (twenty 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 years ago) link
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.
― Aaron A., Thursday, 10 October 2002 19:20 (twenty years ago) link
― jel -- (jel), Thursday, 10 October 2002 19:23 (twenty years ago) link
― bnw (bnw), Thursday, 10 October 2002 19:40 (twenty 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 years ago) link
― Saskia, Thursday, 10 October 2002 22:58 (twenty years ago) link
― Saskia, Thursday, 10 October 2002 23:00 (twenty 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 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 years ago) link
--Ki no Tsurayuki
― nory (nory), Friday, 11 October 2002 02:45 (twenty 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 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 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 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
― gazza, Friday, 11 October 2002 07:23 (twenty 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 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.
― gazza, Friday, 11 October 2002 07:37 (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 (nineteen 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 (nineteen 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 (nineteen years ago) link
― anthony easton (anthony), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:27 (nineteen 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.
― bnw (bnw), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:33 (nineteen 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 (nineteen years ago) link
― luna (luna.c), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 18:36 (nineteen 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 (nineteen years ago) link
― Reece Lurk, Tuesday, 14 October 2003 20:54 (nineteen 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 (nineteen 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 (nineteen years ago) link
― Chris P (Chris P), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 22:22 (nineteen 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 (nineteen years ago) link
A Martian Writes A Postcard Home.
Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wingsand some are treasured for their markings -
they cause the eyes to meltor the body to shriek without pain.
I have never seen one fly, butsometimes they perch on the hand.
Mist is when the sky is tired of flightand rests its soft machine on ground:
then the world is dim and bookishlike engravings under tissue paper.
Rain is when the earth is television.It has the property of making colours darker.
Model T is a room with the lock inside -a key is turned to free the world
for movement, so quick there is a filmto watch for anything missed.
But time is tied to the wristor kept in a box, ticking with impatience.
In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,that snores when you pick it up.
If the ghost cries, they carry itto their lips and soothe it to sleep
with sounds. And yet they wake it updeliberately, by tickling with a finger.
Only the young are allowed to sufferopenly. Adults go to a punishment room
with water but nothing to eat.They lock the door and suffer the noises
alone. No one is exemptand everyone's pain has a different smell.
At night when all the colours die,they hide in pairs
and read about themselves -in colour, with their eyelids shut.
-- Craig Raine
― jed (jed_e_3), Thursday, 27 November 2003 00:49 (nineteen years ago) link
― Haikunym (Haikunym), Thursday, 27 November 2003 03:09 (nineteen years ago) link
Oh coolness! I remember back in high school, in one of my English classes, we almost spent the whole period just going over this one poem. We dissected it to where there was absolutely nothing left of it. I wish I could remember what it ended up meaning, but I do know we spent an awful lot of time discussing what the colors red and white signify, as well as the possible symbolism behind the rainwater being on the wheelbarrow so close to chickens.
― Tenacious Dee (Dee the Lurker), Thursday, 27 November 2003 05:40 (nineteen years ago) link
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments of princesShall outlive this powerful rhyme.But you shall shine more bright in its contentsThan unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.WHen wastefuk wars shall statues overturnAnd broils root out the work of masonary,Nor Mars his sword, nor wars' quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory.'Gainst death and all oblivious emnity shall you pace forth - our praise shall still find room.Even in the eyes of all posterityThat wear this world out to the ending doom.SO, till the judgement that yourself arise,You live in this, and dwell in lover' eyes.
Eveeryone go aaah!
― Johnney B (Johnney B), Thursday, 27 November 2003 13:28 (nineteen years ago) link
a fish hook,an open eye
- Margaret Atwood
― possible m (mandinina), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:33 (nineteen years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:34 (nineteen years ago) link
No use, you walk backwards,admiring your own footprints
a better one...
― possible m (mandinina), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:37 (nineteen years ago) link
― Madchen (Madchen), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:40 (nineteen years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:46 (nineteen years ago) link
grey rain the day the man said when I die let it rain that day whenever it rains then is grey to whomever time says goodbye
who set the man singing said the man who died said grey the man is grey said grey the rain is dead goodbye said the rain
whenever the man is singing then in a grey raincoat time says die wring out the rain ring it out that day save the grave for whomever the man said save the rain for a gay day sing it whenever said the grey die sighs the rain goodbye whenever
― Prude (Prude), Thursday, 27 November 2003 19:30 (nineteen years ago) link
― Bill Knott, Friday, 28 November 2003 04:20 (nineteen years ago) link
Civilisation is hooped together, broughtUnder a mle, under the semblance of peaceBy manifold illusion; but man's life is thought,And he, despite his terror, cannot ceaseRavening through century after century,Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may comeInto the desolation of reality:Egypt and Greece, good-bye, and good-bye, Rome!Hermits upon Mount Meru or Everest,Caverned in night under the drifted snow,Or where that snow and winter's dreadful blastBeat down upon their naked bodies, knowThat day brings round the night, that before dawnHis glory and his monuments are gone.
― ryan (ryan), Friday, 28 November 2003 04:49 (nineteen years ago) link
I sang a song at dusking time Beneath the evening star, And Terence left his latest rhyme To answer from afar.
Pierrot laid down his lute to weep, And sighed, "She sings for me." But Colin slept a careless sleep Beneath an apple tree.
― Curt1s St3ph3ns, Friday, 28 November 2003 04:57 (nineteen years ago) link
-- Liz :x (elizabeth.daply...), October 10th, 2002
I think there should be a separate Liz thread already, although there is no news yet of her. I don't know her, so don't feel that I am the one to start it.
― Maria :D (Maria D.), Sunday, 10 July 2005 00:39 (seventeen years ago) link
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.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,
-- Pablo Neruda
― luna.c (luna.c), Thursday, 10 October 2002 17:15 (fifteen years ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink
― call me by your name..or Finn (fionnland), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 21:00 (five years ago) link
The things about you I appreciatemay seem indelicate:I’d like to find you in the showerand chase the soap for half an hour.I’d like to have you in my powerand see your eyes dilate.I’d like to have your back to scourand other parts to lubricate.Sometimes I feel it is my fateto chase you screaming up a toweror make you cowerby asking you to differentiateNietzsche from Schopenhauer.I’d like successfully to guess your weightand win you at a fete.I’d like to offer you a flower.
I like the hair upon your shouldersfalling like water over boulders.I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.Your collar-bones have great potential(I’d like all your particulars in foldersmarked Confidential).
I like your cheeks, I like your nose,I like the way your lips disclosethe neat arrangement of your teeth(half above and half beneath)in rows.
I like your eyes, I like their fringes.The way they focus on me gives me twinges.Your upper arms drive me berserkI like the way your elbows work,on hinges.
I like your wrists, I like your glands,I like the fingers on your hands.I’d like to teach them how to count,and certain things we might exchange,something familiar for something strange.I’d like to give you just the right amountand give some change.
I like it when you tilt your cheek up.I like the way you hold a teacup.I like your legs when you unwind them,even in trousers I don’t mind them.I’d always know, without a recap,where to find them.
I like the sculpture of your ears.I like the way your profile disappearsWhenever you decide to turn and face me.I’d like to cross two hemispheresand have you chase me.I’d like to smuggle you across frontiersor sail with you at night into Tangiers.I’d like you to embrace me.
I’d like to see you ironing your skirtand cancelling other dates.I’d like to button up your shirt.I like the way your chest inflates.I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurtor frightened senseless by invertebrates.
I’d like you even if you were malignand had a yen for sudden homicide.I’d let you put insecticideinto my wine.I’d even like you if you were the Brideof Frankensteinor something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’sJekyll and Hyde.I’d even like you as my Julianof Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan.How melodramaticif you were something muttering in atticslike Mrs Rochester or a student of BooleanMathematics.
You are the end of self-abuse.You are the eternal feminine.I’d like to find a good excuseto call on you and find you in.I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin,and see you grin.I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,I’d like to make you reproduce.
I’d like you in my confidence.I’d like to be your second look.I’d like to let you try the French Defenceand mate you with my rook.I’d like to be your preferenceand henceI’d like to be around when you unhook.I’d like to be your only audience,the final name in your appointment book,your future tense.
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:33 (five years ago) link
― calstars, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:44 (five years ago) link
I think I read that first on another ilx thread tbh it's a beaut
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:45 (five years ago) link
yes but you just try saying that to a coworker these days
― #TeamHailing (imago), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:47 (five years ago) link
Post a poem u
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:49 (five 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 (five years ago) link
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:57 (five 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.
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 (five years ago) link
lonely guy just writing poem baout things
― the late great, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:05 (five 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 (five 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 (five 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 (five years ago) link
I also miss the late Simon Howard, whose blog is still up:
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:24 (five 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 (five 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 (five years ago) link
I was expecting 'The Charge of the Light Brigade'.
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:56 (five 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 (two 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 (two weeks ago) link
― The Triumphant Return of Bernard & Stubbs (Raymond Cummings), Tuesday, 23 May 2023 20:14 (two weeks ago) link