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