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 (ten years ago) link
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 (ten years ago) link
Ich habe eine SchlangeMeine Schlange hast viel DurstEr geht in zum KafeEr hat Getranke und eine Wurst
Tom Ewing
― j., Wednesday, 22 January 2014 04:29 (ten years ago) link
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.
-Emily Dickinson
not the flashiest poem but super otm
― tɹi.ʃɪp (Treeship), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 04:37 (ten years ago) link
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 (ten years ago) link
Paradoxes and Oxymorons by John Ashbery
― Beatrix Kiddo (Raymond Cummings), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 05:04 (ten years ago) link
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 (ten years ago) link
Oops, sorry Justyn Dillingham, didn't notice your post of 2003.
― His magesty's satanic walnut farm (Sanpaku), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 05:18 (ten years ago) link
wow donna
― mustread guy (schlump), Wednesday, 22 January 2014 05:42 (ten years ago) link
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.
—Robert Lowell
― longtime caller, first time listener (man alive), Wednesday, 9 January 2019 23:03 (five years ago) link
this one by patrick pearse has been on mine
The Wayfarer
The beauty of the world hath made me sad,This beauty that will pass;Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joyTo see a leaping squirrel in a tree,Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,Or little rabbits in a field at evening,Lit by a slanting sun,Or some green hill where shadows drifted bySome quiet hill where mountainy man hath sownAnd soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven;Or children with bare feet upon the sandsOf some ebbed sea, or playing on the streetsOf little towns in Connacht,Things young and happy.And then my heart hath told me:These will pass,Will pass and change, will die and be no more,Things bright and green, things young and happy;And I have gone upon my waySorrowful.
― Punster McPunisher, Sunday, 5 December 2021 05:10 (two years ago) link