fav poems?

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may i feel said he (i'll squeal said she just once said he) it's fun said she

(may i touch said he how much said she a lot said he) why not said she

(let's go said he not too far said she what's too far said he where you are said she)

may i stay said he (which way said she like this said he if you kiss said she

may i move said he is it love said she) if you're willing said he (but you're killing said she

but it's life said he but your wife said she now said he) ow said she

(tiptop said he don't stop said she oh no said he) go slow said she

(cccome?said he ummm said she) you're divine!said he (you are Mine said she)

ee cummings

Chris, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

cummings - legend. it's because of him i find it impossible to write capitals when typing.

fav edward eslin line must surely be 'i'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance'.

like so many i got 'into' him because of 'hannah and her sisters'.

piscesboy, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

i've got a fantastic b&w picture of his gravesite that I took last fall.

Chris, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

oh ! where is his grave ?

frequent poster momus is a bit of a fan i'm imagining, as there's that reference to 'how do you like your blue eyed boy mr. death' on 'transiberianexpress'

piscesboy, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

I adored him when younger as well and I still think he's very very good. It was "what if a much of a which of a wind" that my father read to me that did it. I like how he didn't title any of his poems. I had never heard of "punk rock" at the time - or anyway had no idea what it was - but he seemed very punk to me. At the time. I'm not sure about that now, really. btw his name is properly spelled "E.E. Cummings"

Tracer Hand, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink


Chris, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

The poetry of ee cummings is as unsatisfying as insectile sex. The fertility is there, but it comes in such small packets.

Laureate Cibber, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

I've always been partial to a bit of de la Mare, and I get a shiver up my spine whenever I read The Listeners:

"Is anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor. And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the traveller's head: And he smote upon the door a second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- "Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.


C J, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

"Slim Greer In Hell" by Sterling A Brown.

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 hit

A hangar wid de sign readin'


     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 people

Rasin' 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 see

De 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'.


     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,


"Git on back to de yearth,

  Cause I got de fear,

You'se a leetle too dumb,

  Fo' to stay up here. . ."

Dom Passantino, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

Anecdote of the Jar

Wallace Stevens

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

mark s, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

wtf happened to my formatting????

C J, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

Great poem from Louise Gluck from the point of view of God, but it's too long for me to quote off the top of my head...

Ned Raggett, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

The Pope's Penis (by Sharon Olds) It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver sweaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

anthony, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

CJ, you have to actually put in <br> tags; it doesn't respond to just hitting "enter" for some reason...

mark s: "Corn won't grow at all on Rocky Top— / ground's too rocky by far. / That's why all the folks on Rocky Top / get their corn from a JAR" (from the Tennessee state song)

Tracer Hand, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

for some reason

because it lets you post in HTML. and whitespace is ignored in HTML

michael, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

Thanks, Tracer........is there any way for me to go back into it and edit? I hate to look so sloppy, especially as I'm new.

C J, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

No, only administrators can go back in time like that and I'm not one. Just post it again, with maximum shiverocity

Tracer Hand, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

Hate is only one of many responses
true, hurt and hate go hand in hand
but why be afraid of hate, it is only there
think of filth, is it really awesome
neither is hate
don't be shy of unkindness, either
it's cleansing and allows you to be direct
like an arrow that feels something

out and out meanness, too, lets love breathe
you don't have to fight off getting in too deep
you can always get out if you're not too scared

an ounce of prevention's
enough to poison the heart
don't think of others
until you have thought of yourself, are true

all of these things, if you feel them
will be graced by a certain reluctance
and turn into gold

if felt by me, will be smilingly deflected
by your mysterious concern

dan, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

(Poem, Frank O'Hara)

dan, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

This is where I direct people to that thread where I posted the lyrics to the song I wrote when I was 13...

Dan Perry, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

Misery and Splendor
Robert Hass

Summoned by conscious recollection, she
would be smiling, they might be in a kitchen talking,
before or after dinner. But they are in this other room,
the window has many small panes, and they are on a couch
embracing. He holds her tightly
as he can, she buries herself in his body.
Morning, maybe it is evening, light
is flowing through the room. Outside,
the day is slowly succeeded by night,
succeeded by day. The process wobbles wildly
and accelerates: weeks, months, years. The light in the room
does not change, so it is plain what is happening.
They are trying to become one creature,
and something will not have it. They are tender
with each other, afraid
their brief, sharp cries will reconcile them to the moment
when they fall away again. So they rub against each other,
their mouths dry, then wet, then dry.
They feel themselves at the center of a powerful
and baffled will. They feel
they are an almost animal,
washed up on the shore of a world—
or huddled against the gate of a garden—
to which they can't admit they can never be admitted.

bnw, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologzie publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.

Tracer Hand, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

"Just Keep Quiet and No One Will Notice", by Ogden Nash

Tracer Hand, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

can't resist

"More About Other People", by Ogden Nash

When people aren't asking questions
They're making suggestions
And when they're not doing one of those
They're either looking over your shoulder or stepping on your toes
And then as if that weren't enough to annoy you
They employ you.
Anybody at leisure
Incurs everybody's displeasure.
It seems to be very irking
To people at work to see other people not working,
So they tell you that work is wonderful medicine,
Just look at Firestone and Ford and Edison,
And they lecture you till they're out of breath or something
And then if you don't succumb they starve you to death or something.
All of which results in a nasty quirk:
That if you don't want to work you have to work to earn enough extra
money so that you won't have to work.

Tracer Hand, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

Summer night, Cunt.

chris sallis, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

That was anon by the way, the following is by D.H. Lawrence.

Oh be a demon outside all class! If you're a woman or even an ass still be a demon beyond the mass.

Somewhere inside you lives your own little fiend, and woe betide you if he feels demeaned, better do him justice, keep his path well cleaned.

When you've been being too human, too long, and your demon starts lashing out going it strong, don't get too frightened it's you who've been wrong.

You're not altogether such a human bird, you're as mixed as the weather, not just a good turd, so shut up pie-jaw blether, let your demon be heard.

Don't look for a saviour, you've had some, you know! Drop your sloppy behaviour and start in to show your demon rump twinkling with a hie! hop below!

If, poor little bleeder, you still feel you must follow some wonderful leader now the old ones ring hollow, then follow your demon and hark to his holloa!

I'll bet the formatting fukt up.

chris sallis, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

Like the poems Tracer - beautiful language and I agree with the sentiments wholeheartedly i.e. (from what I understood) that all English/neurotic people are incredibly tedious so let the SUPERMAN rule the day!!!

Such a shame that Ezra Pound was a fascist:

"Le paradis n'est pas artificiel But is jagged; For a flash, for an hour, Then agony, then an hour."

chris sallis, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself.

Justyn Dillingham, Tuesday, 25 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

Richard Reeve's "Victory Beach" just, y'know, gets the New Zealand landscape.
The late poems of Wallace Stevens (in particular "First Warmth" & the revision "As You Leave The Room") are so . . . final. Shiver.
& I also hold that T.S. Eliot was the first indie-rocker - the lack of music in my adolescence didn't stop me from surrendering my future happiness to a overeducated mopey white boy, etc.

"Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so." - Best first line EVER!

Ess Kay, Tuesday, 25 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

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 others
end: time and again we go out two together,
under the old trees, lie down again and again
between the flowers, face to face with the sky.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Archel, Tuesday, 25 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

This also sits near the top of my poetry hit parade. Not sure about the site creator's comments though...

Archel, Tuesday, 25 June 2002 00:00 (seventeen years ago) Permalink

Sussex Uni! WooH! Brighton rocks.

i do like to be bside the sea, Thursday, 27 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink

Surely you mean 'The-New-Unitary-Authority-of-Brighton-&-Hove Rocks'? Actually. :)

Archel, Friday, 28 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink

seven years pass...

MARILYN NELSON (translating Inge Pederson)
The Potatoes

Hospital. In sinking
yellow gardens. Water
stands still
under the trees.

In a white bed lies
my immortal father.

Behind our closed eyes
we are busily
throwing leaves into the air
to make gold rain.
When we run
our feet swish.

Come evening we rake
the litter together,
make a bonfire.

In the air above the flames
his face is peeled
vibrating, naked

his glance in mine
before it congeals.

The potatoes in the ashes
are for me

Zeno, Tuesday, 17 November 2009 15:14 (nine years ago) Permalink

Gerard Manley Hopkins
Spelt From Sibyl's Leaves

EARNEST, earthless, equal, attuneable, ' vaulty, voluminous, … stupendous
Evening strains to be tíme’s vást, ' womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night.
Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, ' her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height
Waste; her earliest stars, earl-stars, ' stárs principal, overbend us,
Fíre-féaturing heaven. For earth ' her being has unbound, her dapple is at an end, as-
tray or aswarm, all throughther, in throngs; ' self ín self steedèd and páshed — qúite
Disremembering, dísmémbering ' áll now. Heart, you round me right
With: Óur évening is over us; óur night ' whélms, whélms, ánd will end us.
Only the beak-leaved boughs dragonish ' damask the tool-smooth bleak light; black,
Ever so black on it. Óur tale, O óur oracle! ' Lét life, wáned, ah lét life wind
Off hér once skéined stained véined variety ' upon, áll on twó spools; párt, pen, páck
Now her áll in twó flocks, twó folds — black, white; ' right, wrong; reckon but, reck but, mind
But thése two; wáre of a wórld where bút these ' twó tell, each off the óther; of a rack
Where, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, ' thóughts agaínst thoughts ín groans grínd.

a used up cumrag who now plays NFL for the Bengals (acoleuthic), Tuesday, 17 November 2009 15:28 (nine years ago) Permalink

one year passes...

This thread should be much more lively than it is. Sez me.

The Trees
by Philip Larkin

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

DSMOS has arrived (kenan), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 13:12 (seven years ago) Permalink

If only for the first stanza:

A Strange Wild Song
by Lewis Carroll

He thought he saw an Elephant
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realize," he said,
"The bitterness of life!"

He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the police!"

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
"If this should stay to dine," he said,
"There won't be much for us!"

He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a Coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said,
"I should be very ill!"

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!"

DSMOS has arrived (kenan), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 13:24 (seven years ago) Permalink

there have been a couple of other rolling poetry threads since, i believe

thomp, Tuesday, 2 August 2011 13:52 (seven years ago) Permalink

Maybe not ultimate favorite but I have always loved this one by Ferlinghetti

Not like Dante
Discovering a commedia
Upon the slopes of heaven
I would paint a different kind
of Paradiso
in which the people would be naked
as they always are
in scenes like that
because it is supposed to be
a painting in their souls
but there would be no anxious angels telling them
how heaven is
the perfect picture of
a monarchy
and there would be no fires burning
in the hellish holes below
in which I might have stepped
nor any altars in the sky except
fountains of imagination

ladies love draculas like children love stray dogs (ENBB), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 13:59 (seven years ago) Permalink

aw damn the form didn't copy


ladies love draculas like children love stray dogs (ENBB), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 14:00 (seven years ago) Permalink

The Thread
by Don Paterson

Jamie made his landing in the world
so hard he ploughed straight back into the earth.
They caught him by the thread of his one breath
and pulled him up. They don't know how it held.
And so today I thank what higher will
brought us to here, to you and me and Russ,
the great twin-engined swaying wingspan of us
roaring down the back of Kirrie Hill

and your two-year-old lungs somehow out-revving
every engine in the universe.
All that trouble just to turn up dead
was all I thought that long week. Now the thread
is holding all of us: look at our tiny house,
son, the white dot of your mother waving.

that mustardless plate (Bill A), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 14:28 (seven years ago) Permalink

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to
But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you
Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead1 to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.

-- Thomas Hardy, "The Voice"

livin in my own private Biden hole (Alfred, Lord Sotosyn), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 14:31 (seven years ago) Permalink


Ian Hamilton Finlay

Count Palmiro Vicarion (Stew), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 15:54 (seven years ago) Permalink

'Siesta of a Hungarian Snake'

s sz sz SZ sz SZ sz ZS zs Zs zs zs z

Edwin Morgan

Count Palmiro Vicarion (Stew), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 15:56 (seven years ago) Permalink


for James Broughton

Oh god, let's go.
This is a poem for Kenneth Patchen.
Everywhere they are shooting people.
People people people people.
This is a poem for Allen Ginsberg.
I want to be elsewhere, elsewhere.
This is a poem about a horse that got tired.
Poor. Old. Tired. Horse.
I want to go home.
I want you to go home.
This is a poem that tells the story,
which is the story.
I don't know. I get lost.
If only they would stand still and let me.
Are you happy, sad, not happy, please come.
This is a poem for everyone.

Robert Creeley

Count Palmiro Vicarion (Stew), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 15:58 (seven years ago) Permalink

that's great. also probably the longest creeley poem i've ever read.

(oboe interlude) (schlump), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 16:17 (seven years ago) Permalink

Yeah it is.

ladies love draculas like children love stray dogs (ENBB), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 16:19 (seven years ago) Permalink

best love poem ever written (don't think it has a title but it's from Stephen Crane's The Black Rider):

Should the wide world roll away
Leaving black terror
Limitless night,
Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand
Would be to me essential
If thou and thy white arms were there
And the fall to doom a long way.

swaguirre, the wrath of basedgod (bernard snowy), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 16:38 (seven years ago) Permalink

two years pass...

I just discovered this little butthurt gem from Thomas Wyatt:

My Lute Awake

My lute awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
For when this song is sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.

As to be heard where ear is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone,
My song may pierce her heart as soon;
Should we then sigh or sing or moan?
No, no, my lute, for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection;
So that I am past remedy,
Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot,
By whom, unkind, thou hast them won,
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain
That makest but game on earnest pain.
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain,
Although my lute and I have done.

Perchance thee lie wethered and old
The winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told;
Care then who list, for I have done.

And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon;
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want as I have done.

Now cease, my lute; this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun.
Now is this song both sung and past:
My lute be still, for I have done.

signed, J.P. Morgan CEO (Hurting 2), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 03:48 (five years ago) Permalink

anne carson, "first chaldaic oracle":

There is something you should know.
And the right way to know it
is by a cherrying of your mind.

Because if you press your mind towards it
and try to know
that thing

as you know a thing,
you will not know it.
It comes out of red

with kills on both sides,
it is scrap, it is nightly,
it kings your mind.

No. Scorch is not the way
to know
that thing you must know.

But use the hum
of your wound
and flamepit out everything

right to the edge
of that thing you should know.
The way to know it

is not by staring hard.
But keep chiselled
keep Praguing the eye

of your soul and reach—
mind empty
towards that thing you should know

until you get it.
That thing you should know.
Because it is out there (orchid) outside your and, it is.

Rothko's Chicken and Waffles (donna rouge), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 04:20 (five years ago) Permalink

Ich habe eine Schlange
Meine Schlange hast viel Durst
Er geht in zum Kafe
Er hat Getranke und eine Wurst

Tom Ewing

j., Wednesday, 22 January 2014 04:29 (five years ago) Permalink

Pain—has an Element of Blank—
It cannot recollect
When it begun—or if there were
A time when it was not—

It has no Future—but itself—
Its Infinite Contain
Its Past—enlightened to perceive
New Periods—of Pain.

-Emily Dickinson

not the flashiest poem but super otm

tɹi.ʃɪp (Treeship), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 04:37 (five years ago) Permalink

Paradoxes and Oxymorons by John Ashbery

Beatrix Kiddo (Raymond Cummings), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 05:04 (five years ago) Permalink

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

This Be The Verse, Philip Larkin

His magesty's satanic walnut farm (Sanpaku), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 05:17 (five years ago) Permalink

Oops, sorry Justyn Dillingham, didn't notice your post of 2003.

His magesty's satanic walnut farm (Sanpaku), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 05:18 (five years ago) Permalink

wow donna

mustread guy (schlump), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 05:42 (five years ago) Permalink

four years pass...

Somehow this popped into my head although I probably haven't thought of it in 15 years


Again and then again . . . the year is born
To ice and death, and it will never do
To skulk behind storm-windows by the stove
To hear the postgirl sounding her French horn
When the thin tidal ice is wearing through.
Here is the understanding not to love
Our neighbor, or tomorrow that will sieve
Our resolutions. While we live, we live

To snuff the smoke of victims. In the snow
The kitten heaved its hindlegs, as if fouled,
And died. We bent it in a Christmas box
And scattered blazing weeds to scare the crow
Until the snake-tailed sea-winds coughed and howled
For alms outside the church whose double locks
Wait for St. Peter, the distorted key.
Under St. Peter's bell the parish sea

Swells with its smelt into the burlap shack
Where Joseph plucks his hand-lines like a harp,
And hears the fearful Puer natus est
Of Circumcision, and relives the wrack
And howls of Jesus whom he holds. How sharp
The burden of the Law before the beast:
Time and the grindstone and the knife of God.
The Child is born in blood, O child of blood.

—Robert Lowell

longtime caller, first time listener (man alive), Wednesday, 9 January 2019 23:03 (five months ago) Permalink

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