On a day like any other day, like "yesterday or centuries before," in a town with the one remembered street, shaded by the buckeye and the sycamore-- the street long and true as a theorem, the day like yesterday or the day before, the street you walked down centuries before-- the story the same as the others flooding in from the cardinal points is turning to take a good look at you. Every creature, intelligent or not, has disappeared-- the humans, phosphorescent, the duplicating pets, the guppies and spaniels, the Woolworth's turtle that cost forty-nine cents (with the soiled price tag half-peeled on its shell)-- but, from the look of things, it only just happened. The wheels of the upside-down tricycle are spinning. The swings are empty but swinging. And the shadow is still there, and there is the object that made it, riding the proximate atmosphere, oblong and illustrious above the dispeopled bedroom community, venting the memories of those it took[...]
The Disappearances - Vijay Seshadri
― bnw (bnw), Thursday, 13 May 2004 02:10 (nineteen years ago) link
― the pomefox, Thursday, 13 May 2004 13:05 (nineteen years ago) link
― aimurchie, Friday, 14 May 2004 10:18 (nineteen years ago) link
1 You blame me that I do not write 2 with the accent of the age: 3 the eunuch voice of scholarship, 4 or the reformer's rage 5 (blurred by a fag-end in the twisted lip). 6 You blame me that I do not call 7 truculent nations to unite. 8 I answer that my poems all 9 are woven out of love's loose ends; 10 for myself and for my friends.
11 You blame me that I do not face 12 the banner-headline fact 13 of rape and death in bungalows, 14 cities and workmen sacked. 15 Tomorrow's time enough to rant of those, 16 when the whirlpool sucks us in. 17 Turn away from the bitter farce, 18 or have you now forgotten 19 that cloud, star, leaf, and water's dance 20 are facts of life, and worth your glance?
21 You blame me that I do not look 22 at cities, swivelled, from 23 the eye of the crazy gunman, or 24 the man who drops the bomb. 25 Twenty years watching from an ivory tower 26 taller than your chimney-stack, 27 I have seen fields beyond the smoke: 28 and think it better that I make 29 in the sloganed wall the people pass, 30 a window---not a looking-glass.
― cozen (Cozen), Friday, 14 May 2004 13:40 (nineteen years ago) link
― aimurchie, Friday, 14 May 2004 15:16 (nineteen years ago) link
― Fred (Fred), Saturday, 15 May 2004 09:59 (nineteen years ago) link
(TSE, of course. Some poetry to celebrate my birthday! Among some talk --and time for-- you and me.!)
― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Saturday, 15 May 2004 18:04 (nineteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Saturday, 15 May 2004 18:20 (nineteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Saturday, 15 May 2004 18:26 (nineteen years ago) link
― Gregory Henry (Gregory Henry), Saturday, 15 May 2004 18:59 (nineteen years ago) link
― cozen (Cozen), Saturday, 15 May 2004 20:12 (nineteen years ago) link
"The Truth About Horace."
It is very aggravatingTo hear the solemn pratingOf the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude;When we know that with the ladiesHe was always raising HadesAnd with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued.
There's really not much harm in aLarge number of his carminaBut these people find alarm in a Few records of his acts;So they'd squelch the muse caloric,And to students sophomoricThey'd present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts.
We have always thought 'em lazy;Now we adjudge 'em crazy!Why, Horace was a daisy That was very much alive!And the wisest of us know himAs his Lydia verses show him,--Go, read that virile poem,-- It is No. 25.
He was a very owl, sir,And starting out to prowl, sir,You bet he made Rome howl, sir, Until he filled his date;With a massic-laden dittyAnd a classic maiden prettyHe painted up the city, And Maecenas paid the freight!
― Begs2Differ (Begs2Differ), Sunday, 16 May 2004 13:26 (nineteen years ago) link
The pedigree of HoneyDoes not concern the Bee,Nor lineage of EcstasyDelay the ButterflyOn spangle journeys to the peakOf some perceiveless thing—The right of way to TripoliA more essential thing.
--
The Pedigree of HoneyDoes not concern the Bee—A Clover, any time, to him,Is Aristocracy—
~Emily Dickinson
― yesabibliophile (yesabibliophile), Sunday, 16 May 2004 13:35 (nineteen years ago) link
[...]Here I am, floating through the skywith my head on wrongso that my hair tickles my neckand my chin sticks up,and the lovers kissing in the gardenlook comical, their feet strainingto touch the ground.It's been a long time since someonekissed me in the garden.My mouth's up too high.[...]
Rene Wenger - "After Chagall"
― bnw (bnw), Monday, 17 May 2004 01:42 (nineteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Monday, 17 May 2004 05:03 (nineteen years ago) link
― Begs2Differ (Begs2Differ), Monday, 17 May 2004 13:12 (nineteen years ago) link
The tide comes in and goes out again, I do not wantTo be always stressing either its flux or its permanence, I do not want to be a tragic or philosophic chorusBut to keep my eye only on the nearer futureAnd after that let the sea flow over us.
Come then all of you, come closer, form a circle, Join hands and make believe that joinedHands will keep away the wolves of waterWho howl along our coast. And be it assumedThat no one hears them among the talk and laughter.
['Wolves' - Louis Macneice]
― Jerry the Nipper (Jerrynipper), Monday, 17 May 2004 13:58 (nineteen years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Monday, 17 May 2004 14:31 (nineteen years ago) link
1 For three days and three nights, he has listened 2 to the pounding of a terrible jug band 3 now reduced to a wheezy concertina 4 and the disinterested thump of a tea-chest bass. 5 It seems safe to look: wires trail on the pillowcase, 6 a drip swings overhead; then the clear tent 7 becomes his father's clapped-out Morris Minor, 8 rattling towards home. The windscreen presents 9 the unshattered myth of a Scottish spring; 10 with discreet complicity, the road 11 swerves to avoid the solitary cloud. 12 On an easy slope, his father lets the engine 13 cough into silence. Everything is still. 14 He frees the brake: the car surges uphill.
- Don Paterson
― cozen (Cozen), Monday, 17 May 2004 17:56 (nineteen years ago) link
- Federico Garcia Lorca
― cozen (Cozen), Monday, 17 May 2004 18:06 (nineteen years ago) link
― lauren (laurenp), Monday, 17 May 2004 18:56 (nineteen years ago) link
― lauren (laurenp), Monday, 17 May 2004 18:57 (nineteen years ago) link
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast, An' weary Winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald. To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear!
― aimurchie, Tuesday, 18 May 2004 03:55 (nineteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 07:13 (nineteen years ago) link
― aimurchie, Tuesday, 18 May 2004 10:06 (nineteen years ago) link
― cozen (Cozen), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 10:07 (nineteen years ago) link
― aimurchie, Tuesday, 18 May 2004 11:01 (nineteen years ago) link
― Scott & Anya (thoia), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 13:37 (nineteen years ago) link
― Scott & Anya (thoia), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 13:38 (nineteen years ago) link
(translated by K. Kalocsay)
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 17:22 (nineteen years ago) link
what language is that translated to/from, chris?
― bnw (bnw), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 17:34 (nineteen years ago) link
you sweetly laughing, when all mysenses have been torn from me: for, Lesbia,as soon as I see you I've nothing left[...]
but my tongue is choked, my limbs shiver aflame, my ears echo with their own ringing, my eyesshroud in night.
Leisure, Catullus, is bad for you:at leisure you luxuriate and lust too much.before now, leisure has ruined kingsand great cities.
Catullus 51, translated by me (with much (poetic) licence. pls to forgive).
Casuistry, is that in Esperanto, or?
― cis (cis), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 17:45 (nineteen years ago) link
It's translated from English, but now I'm going to get all coy.
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 19:03 (nineteen years ago) link
in shoeless corridors, the lights burn. how isolated, like a fort, it is -the headed paper, made for writing home(if home existed) letters of exile: now night comes on. waves fold behind villages.
philip larkin - friday night in the royal station hotel
― lauren (laurenp), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 21:02 (nineteen years ago) link
― cis (cis), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 21:25 (nineteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 18 May 2004 22:09 (nineteen years ago) link
(from Ghost of a Pear by Ayala Kingsley)
― Archel (Archel), Friday, 21 May 2004 08:51 (nineteen years ago) link
― bnw (bnw), Friday, 21 May 2004 12:28 (nineteen years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Friday, 21 May 2004 13:10 (nineteen years ago) link
Tell themI was a persimmon eaterwho liked haiku
--Masaoka Shiki, the fourth "great master" of haiku (the other three are Basho, Buson, and Issa)
― Begs2Differ (Begs2Differ), Saturday, 22 May 2004 00:07 (nineteen years ago) link
Amatory Epigram(to Aristotle or Ignatius Loyola)
I'd have to be drunk to fuck around with youAnd sober to liveTherefore I am dying
[Bernadette Mayer]
― Casuistry (Chris P), Saturday, 22 May 2004 05:27 (nineteen years ago) link
I drank at every vine.The last was like the first.I came upon no wineAs wonderful as thirst.
I gnawed at every root.I ate of every plant.I came upon no fruitSo wonderful as want.
Feed the grape and beanTo the vintner and monger;I will lie down leanWith my thirst and my hunger.
--Edna St. Vincent Millay
― Begs2Differ (Begs2Differ), Saturday, 22 May 2004 12:08 (nineteen years ago) link
"Air For Mercury" - Brenda Hillman
― bnw (bnw), Saturday, 22 May 2004 15:13 (nineteen years ago) link
Once when our blacktop citywas still a topsoil townwe carried to Formicopolisa cantaloupe rind to shareand stooped to plop it downin their populous Times Squareat the subway of the ants
and saw that hemisphereblacken and rise and dancewith antmen out of handwild for their melon toddiesjust like our world next yearno place to step or standexcept on bodies.
Virginia Hamilton Adair
― Begs2Differ (Begs2Differ), Saturday, 22 May 2004 15:23 (nineteen years ago) link
My book was closed,I read no more,Watching the fire danceOn the floor.
I have left my book,I have left my room,For I heard you singingThrough the gloom.
Singing and singingA merry air,Lean out of the window,Goldenhair.-James Joyce, Chamber Music
― Fred (Fred), Saturday, 22 May 2004 15:53 (nineteen years ago) link
In Breughel's great picture, The Kermess,the dancers go round, they go round andaround, the squeal and the blare and thetweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddlestipping their bellies, (round as the thick-sided glasses whose wash they impound)their hips and their bellies off balanceto turn them. Kicking and rolling aboutthe Fair Grounds, swinging their butts, thoseshanks must be sound to bear up under suchrollicking measures, prance as they dancein Breughel's great picture, The Kermess.
--William Carlos Mofo Williams
― Begs2Differ (Begs2Differ), Sunday, 23 May 2004 12:35 (nineteen years ago) link
― yesabibliophile (yesabibliophile), Sunday, 23 May 2004 13:24 (nineteen years ago) link
When the day comes, as the day surely must,when it is asked of you, and you refuseto take that lover's wound again, that cupof emptiness that is our one completion,
I'd say go here, maybe, to our unsunginnermost isle: Kilda's antithesis,yet still with it own tiny stubborn anthem,its yellow milkwort and its stunted kye.
Leaving the motherland by a two-car raft,the littlest of the fleet, you cross the minchto find yourself, if anything, now deeperin her arms than ever - sharing her breath,
watching the red vans sliding silentlybetween her hills. In such intimate exile,who'd believe the burn behind the housethe straitened ocean written on the map?
Here, beside the fordable Atlantic,reborn into a secret candidacy,the fontanelles reopen one by onein the palms, then the breastbone and the brow,
aching at the shearwater's wail, the rowanthat falls beyond all seasons. One morningyou hover on the threshold, knowing for certainthe first touch of the light will finish you.
- Don Paterson.
― cozen (Cozen), Monday, 24 May 2004 18:20 (nineteen years ago) link
Today's poem, by Aram Saroyan:
priit
― Casuistry (Chris P), Monday, 24 May 2004 23:00 (nineteen years ago) link
I tell with severity, I think what I feel.Words are ideas.The purling river passes, and not its sound,Which is ours, not the river's.So I wanted my verse: mine and not-mine,To be read by me.
--Ricardo Reis
― Begs2Differ (Begs2Differ), Tuesday, 25 May 2004 00:04 (nineteen years ago) link