(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
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)
― Chris, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
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 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
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'
― Tracer Hand, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― Laureate Cibber, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
"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 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
Slim Greer went to heaven;
St. Peter said, "Slim,
You been a right good boy."
An' he winked at him.
"You been travelin' rascal
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,
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'
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
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
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,
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,
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 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
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 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― Ned Raggett, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― anthony, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― michael, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― dan, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― Dan Perry, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― bnw, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― chris sallis, Monday, 24 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
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.
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."
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 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― Ess Kay, Tuesday, 25 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― Archel, Tuesday, 25 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― i do like to be bside the sea, Thursday, 27 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
― Archel, Friday, 28 June 2002 00:00 (sixteen years ago) Permalink
MARILYN NELSON (translating Inge Pederson)The Potatoes
Hospital. In sinkingyellow gardens. Waterstands stillunder the trees.
In a white bed liesmy immortal father.
Behind our closed eyeswe are busilylaughingthrowing leaves into the airto make gold rain.When we runour feet swish.
Come evening we rakethe litter together,make a bonfire.
In the air above the flameshis face is peeledvibrating, naked
his glance in minebefore it congeals.
The potatoes in the ashesare 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
This thread should be much more lively than it is. Sez me.
The Treesby 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 Songby Lewis Carroll
He thought he saw an ElephantThat practised on a fife:He looked again, and found it wasA letter from his wife."At length I realize," he said,"The bitterness of life!"
He thought he saw a BuffaloUpon the chimney-piece:He looked again, and found it wasHis Sister's Husband's Niece."Unless you leave this house," he said,"I'll send for the police!"
He thought he saw a RattlesnakeThat questioned him in Greek:He looked again, and found it wasThe Middle of Next Week."The one thing I regret," he said,"Is that it cannot speak!"
He thought he saw a Banker's ClerkDescending from the bus:He looked again, and found it wasA Hippopotamus."If this should stay to dine," he said,"There won't be much for us!"
He thought he saw a KangarooThat worked a Coffee-mill:He looked again, and found it wasA Vegetable-Pill."Were I to swallow this," he said,"I should be very ill!"
He thought he saw a Coach-and-FourThat stood beside his bed:He looked again, and found it wasA 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 heavenI would paint a different kind of Paradisoin which the people would be naked as they always are in scenes like that because it is supposed to be a painting in their soulsbut 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 belowin 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 Threadby Don Paterson
Jamie made his landing in the worldso hard he ploughed straight back into the earth.They caught him by the thread of his one breathand pulled him up. They don't know how it held.And so today I thank what higher willbrought us to here, to you and me and Russ,the great twin-engined swaying wingspan of usroaring down the back of Kirrie Hill
and your two-year-old lungs somehow out-revvingevery engine in the universe.All that trouble just to turn up deadwas all I thought that long week. Now the threadis 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 wereWhen you had changed from the one who was all to me,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 townWhere you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessnessTravelling 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
Eve-ningwillcomethey willsewthe blue sail
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
― 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.
― 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 awayLeaving black terrorLimitless night,Nor God, nor man, nor place to standWould be to me essentialIf thou and thy white arms were thereAnd the fall to doom a long way.
― swaguirre, the wrath of basedgod (bernard snowy), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 16:38 (seven years ago) Permalink
I just discovered this little butthurt gem from Thomas Wyatt:
My Lute Awake
My lute awake! perform the lastLabour 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 cruellyRepulse 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 gotOf 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 disdainThat makest but game on earnest pain.Think not alone under the sunUnquit to cause thy lovers plain,Although my lute and I have done.
Perchance thee lie wethered and oldThe 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 repentThe time that thou hast lost and spentTo 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 lastLabour 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 (four years ago) Permalink
anne carson, "first chaldaic oracle":
There is something you should know.And the right way to know itis by a cherrying of your mind.
Because if you press your mind towards itand try to knowthat 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 wayto knowthat thing you must know.
But use the humof your woundand flamepit out everything
right to the edgeof that thing you should know.The way to know it
is not by staring hard.But keep chiselledkeep Praguing the eye
of your soul and reach—mind emptytowards 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 (four years ago) Permalink
Ich habe eine SchlangeMeine Schlange hast viel DurstEr geht in zum KafeEr hat Getranke und eine Wurst
― j., Wednesday, 22 January 2014 04:29 (four years ago) Permalink
Pain—has an Element of Blank—It cannot recollectWhen it begun—or if there wereA time when it was not—
It has no Future—but itself—Its Infinite ContainIts Past—enlightened to perceiveNew Periods—of Pain.
not the flashiest poem but super otm
― tɹi.ʃɪp (Treeship), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 04:37 (four years ago) Permalink
also this one is incredible, but i can't find the text anywhere in a cut and pastable form: http://books.google.com/books?id=Z0eoYZGA2RMC&pg=PA19&lpg=PA19&dq=your+child+lacks+a+credible+god+term+ben+lerner&source=bl&ots=XaFEWS4Fi4&sig=KqAWX7kcZknsaaYTPJVqDrJ61Ko&hl=en&sa=X&ei=Gk7fUsWJJe7KsQTppIDgDg&ved=0CCoQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=your%20child%20lacks%20a%20credible%20god%20term%20ben%20lerner&f=false
― tɹi.ʃɪp (Treeship), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 04:51 (four years ago) Permalink
Paradoxes and Oxymorons by John Ashbery
― Beatrix Kiddo (Raymond Cummings), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 05:04 (four 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 (four 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 (four years ago) Permalink
― mustread guy (schlump), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 05:42 (four years ago) Permalink
Somehow this popped into my head although I probably haven't thought of it in 15 years
NEW YEAR’S DAY
Again and then again . . . the year is bornTo ice and death, and it will never doTo skulk behind storm-windows by the stoveTo hear the postgirl sounding her French hornWhen the thin tidal ice is wearing through.Here is the understanding not to loveOur neighbor, or tomorrow that will sieveOur resolutions. While we live, we live
To snuff the smoke of victims. In the snowThe kitten heaved its hindlegs, as if fouled,And died. We bent it in a Christmas boxAnd scattered blazing weeds to scare the crowUntil the snake-tailed sea-winds coughed and howledFor alms outside the church whose double locksWait for St. Peter, the distorted key.Under St. Peter's bell the parish sea
Swells with its smelt into the burlap shackWhere Joseph plucks his hand-lines like a harp,And hears the fearful Puer natus estOf Circumcision, and relives the wrackAnd howls of Jesus whom he holds. How sharpThe 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.
― longtime caller, first time listener (man alive), Wednesday, 9 January 2019 23:03 (one week ago) Permalink