*Poem of the day thread

Discussion in 'books, films, TV, radio & writing' started by RubyToogood, Aug 4, 2002.

  1. butchersapron

    butchersapron blood on the walls

    Mean to post something on tuesday in memory of this (and no, i've not read 100 years of solitude):

    On the Late Massacre in Piedmont


    Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
    Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,
    Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
    When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones;
    Forget not: in thy book record their groans
    Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold
    Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd
    Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
    The vales redoubl'd to the hills, and they
    To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
    O'er all th' Italian fields where still doth sway
    The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
    A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way
    Early may fly the Babylonian woe.


    John Milton
     
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  2. Pickman's model

    Pickman's model Every man and every woman is a star

  3. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    But ’tis strange.
    And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
    The instruments of darkness tell us truths…
     
  4. bubblesmcgrath

    bubblesmcgrath Well-Known Member

    "Late Lament"

    Breathe deep the gathering gloom,
    Watch lights fade from every room.
    Bedsitter people look back and lament,
    Another day's useless energy spent.

    Impassioned lovers wrestle as one,
    Lonely man cries for love and has none.
    New mother picks up and suckles her son,
    Senior citizens wish they were young.

    Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
    Removes the colours from our sight.
    Red is grey and yellow white.
    But we decide which is right.
    And which is an illusion?
     
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  5. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    I have not in fact been alone:
    there have always been strangers
    some in scattered parts of this land
    or in countries unvisited

    others though the great chain
    of the centuries
    who without ever meeting
    it is possible to trust

    in the truth of yin
    that is always gentle
    like water flowing
    to the lowest places Tao Te Ching viii

    the Tao where the soft and gentle
    overcome the hard and strong
    because truth being that which is
    can never be destroyed

    and reminds us that America
    the land of nonviolence violence
    snake handlers peace workers baseball movies
    sweat lodges genealogists and stock car races

    is undefinable
    from the jazz of Ledbelly
    and concerts of the Grateful Dead
    to the Wiffenpoof song

    from Whitman’s hopes for the unwritten
    to the New Yorker poets
    with a toad in their lawn mower
    or snake in their burning brush pile

    the land which Reiko aged eighteen
    refused to leave
    when her parents returned
    to tradition-bound Japan.

    Uncertain as always
    whether this republic is past saving
    or whether some of us still tread
    the perilous path of the future

    part of me just meditates
    on the new and more flourishing wildlife
    that is improving Point Reyes
    ten years after the Mount Vision fire.

    From the glories of the Tang Dynasty
    I recall only one date: the year
    the usurper An Lushan
    drove both Wang Wei and Du Fu

    far from the corrupt court
    into the mountains
    where for the first time they were free
    to write the only poems we remember
     
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  6. Sirena

    Sirena Don't monkey with the buzzsaw

  7. butchersapron

    butchersapron blood on the walls

    1869 -- England: "Extraordinary meteor" seen in the sky, Weston-super-Mare, near Bristol; five hours later three shocks felt said to have been earthquakes [Chudleigh Weekly Express] Source: Charles Fort, The Book of the Damned.

    Year of meteors! brooding year!
    I would bind in words retrospective, some of your deeds and signs;
    I would sing your contest for the 19th Presidentiad;
    I would sing how an old man, tall, with white hair, mounted the
    scaffold in Virginia;
    (I was at hand--silent I stood, with teeth shut close--I watch'd;
    I stood very near you, old man, when cool and indifferent, but
    trembling with age and your unheal'd wounds, you mounted the
    scaffold;)
    --I would sing in my copious song your census returns of The States,
    The tables of population and products--I would sing of your ships and
    their cargoes,
    The proud black ships of Manhattan, arriving, some fill'd with
    immigrants, some from the isthmus with cargoes of gold;
    Songs thereof would I sing--to all that hitherward comes would I
    welcome give; 10
    And you would I sing, fair stripling! welcome to you from me, sweet
    boy of England!
    Remember you surging Manhattan's crowds, as you pass'd with your
    cortege of nobles?
    There in the crowds stood I, and singled you out with attachment;
    I know not why, but I loved you... (and so go forth little song,
    Far over sea speed like an arrow, carrying my love all folded,
    And find in his palace the youth I love, and drop these lines at his
    feet;)
    --Nor forget I to sing of the wonder, the ship as she swam up my bay,
    Well-shaped and stately the Great Eastern swam up my bay, she was 600
    feet long,
    Her, moving swiftly, surrounded by myriads of small craft, I forget
    not to sing;
    --Nor the comet that came unannounced out of the north, flaring in
    heaven; 20
    Nor the strange huge meteor procession, dazzling and clear, shooting
    over our heads,
    (A moment, a moment long, it sail'd its balls of unearthly light over
    our heads,
    Then departed, dropt in the night, and was gone;)
    --Of such, and fitful as they, I sing--with gleams from them would I
    gleam and patch these chants;
    Your chants, O year all mottled with evil and good! year of
    forebodings! year of the youth I love!
    Year of comets and meteors transient and strange!--lo! even here, one
    equally transient and strange!
    As I flit through you hastily, soon to fall and be gone, what is this
    book,
    What am I myself but one of your meteors?

    Walt Whitman. 1859

    It was John Brown on the scaffold btw. History's Greatest Meteor.​
     
    Last edited: Jan 10, 2017
  8. Santino

    Santino lovelier than lovely

    What is this?
     
  9. Pickman's model

    Pickman's model Every man and every woman is a star

  10. Pickman's model

    Pickman's model Every man and every woman is a star

  11. chainsawjob

    chainsawjob Cautiously impulsive

    Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses
    your understanding.

    Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its
    heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

    And could you keep your heart in wonder at the
    daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem
    less wondrous than your joy;

    And you would accept the seasons of your heart,
    even as you have always accepted the seasons that
    pass over your fields.

    And you would watch with serenity through the
    winters of your grief.

    Much of your pain is self-chosen.
    It is the bitter potion
    by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

    Therefore trust the physician,
    and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:

    For his hand, though heavy and hard,
    is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen

    And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips,
    has been fashioned of the clay
    which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.

    Kahlil Gibran
     
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  12. stockwelljonny

    stockwelljonny Wait here I have gone to get help

    Hinterhof
    by James Fenton

    Stay near to me and I'll stay near to you —
    As near as you are dear to me will do,
    Near as the rainbow to the rain,
    The west wind to the windowpane,
    As fire to the hearth, as dawn to dew.

    Stay true to me and I'll stay true to you —
    As true as you are new to me will do,
    New as the rainbow in the spray,
    Utterly new in every way,
    New in the way that what you say is true.

    Stay near to me, stay true to me. I'll stay
    As near, as true to you as heart could pray.
    Heart never hoped that one might be
    Half of the things you are to me —
    The dawn, the fire, the rainbow and the day
     
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  13. Sirena

    Sirena Don't monkey with the buzzsaw

    Sir Patrick Spens

    The king sits in Dunfermline toune
    drinking the blude reid wine,
    "O whar can I get skeely skipper,
    To sail this ship o' mine?"

    Up and spak an eldern knicht,
    Sat at the kings richt kne:
    "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
    That sails upon the se."

    The king has written a braid letter,
    And signed it wi his hand,
    And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
    Was walking on the strand.

    To Noroway! to Noroway!
    to Noroway oer the faem!
    The king's daughter to Noroway
    'Tis thou maun bring her hame.

    The first line that Sir Patrick red,
    A loud lauch lauched he;
    The next line that Sir Patrick red,
    A teir blinded his ee.

    "O wha is this has don this deid,
    This ill deid don to me,
    To send me out this time o' yeir,
    To sail upon the sea!

    "Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men,
    Our guid ship sails the morne":
    "O say na sae, my master deir,
    I feir a deadlie storme.

    "Yestreen I saw the new moone,
    Wi the auld moone in her arme,
    And I feir, I feir, my master deir,
    That we will cum to harme."

    O loth, o loth,
    The Scots lords were
    To weet their cork-heild schoone;
    Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
    Thair hats they swam aboone.

    O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
    Wi' their fans into their hand
    Or ere they see Sir Patrick Spens
    Come sailing to the strand.

    O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
    Wi thair gold kems in their hair,
    Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
    For they'll se thame na mair.

    Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
    Tis fiftie fathom deip,
    And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
    The Scots lords at his feit.
     
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  14. Ceej

    Ceej Where is my mind?

    Happy 98th Birthday, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who decades ago wrote:

    “Pity the nation whose people are sheep,
    and whose shepherds mislead them.
    Pity the nation whose leaders are liars, whose sages are silenced,
    and whose bigots haunt the airwaves.
    Pity the nation that raises not its voice,
    except to praise conquerors and acclaim the bully as hero
    and aims to rule the world with force and by torture.
    Pity the nation that knows no other language but its own
    and no other culture but its own.
    Pity the nation whose breath is money
    and sleeps the sleep of the too well fed.
    Pity the nation — oh, pity the people who allow their rights to erode
    and their freedoms to be washed away.
    My country, tears of thee, sweet land of liberty.”

    ― Lawrence Ferlinghetti
     
  15. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    A New Dream of Politics by Ben Okri

    They say there is only one way for politics.
    That it looks with hard eyes at the hard world
    And shapes it with a ruler’s edge,
    Measuring what is possible against
    Acclaim, support, and votes.

    They say there is only one way to dream
    For the people, to give them not what they need
    But food for their fears.
    We measure the deeds of politicians
    By their time in power.

    But in ancient times they had another way.
    They measured greatness by the gold
    Of contentment, by the enduring arts,
    The laughter at the hearths,
    The length of silence when the bards
    Told of what was done by those who
    Had the courage to make their lands
    Happy, away from war, spreading justice
    And fostering health,
    The most precious of the arts
    Of governance.

    But we live in times that have lost
    This tough art of dreaming
    The best for its people,
    Or so we are told by cynics
    And doomsayers who see the end
    Of time in blood-red moons.

    Always when least expected an unexpected
    Figure rises when dreams here have
    Become like ashes. But when the light
    Is woken in our hearts after the long
    Sleep, they wonder if it is a fable.

    Can we still seek the lost angels
    Of our better natures?
    Can we still wish and will
    For poverty’s death and a newer way
    To undo war, and find peace in the labyrinth
    Of the Middle East, and prosperity
    In Africa as the true way
    To end the feared tide of immigration?

    We dream of a new politics
    That will renew the world
    Under their weary suspicious gaze.
    There’s always a new way,
    A better way that’s not been tried before.
     
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  16. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Try to Praise the Mutilated World BY ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI

    Try to praise the mutilated world.
    Remember June's long days,
    and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
    The nettles that methodically overgrow
    the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
    You must praise the mutilated world.
    You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
    one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
    while salty oblivion awaited others.
    You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
    you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
    You should praise the mutilated world.
    Remember the moments when we were together
    in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
    Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
    You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
    and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
    Praise the mutilated world
    and the gray feather a thrush lost,
    and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
    and returns.
     
  17. ShiftyBagLady

    ShiftyBagLady Thinks she is a flower to be looked at

    For the Anniversary of My Death
    BY W. S. MERWIN

    Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
    When the last fires will wave to me
    And the silence will set out
    Tireless traveler
    Like the beam of a lightless star

    Then I will no longer
    Find myself in life as in a strange garment
    Surprised at the earth
    And the love of one woman
    And the shamelessness of men
    As today writing after three days of rain
    Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
    And bowing not knowing to what
     
  18. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
    Or close the wall up with our English dead.
    In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
    As modest stillness and humility:
    But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
    Then imitate the action of the tiger;
    Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
    Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
    Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
    Let pry through the portage of the head
    Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
    As fearfully as doth a galled rock
    O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
    Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
    Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
    Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
    To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
    Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
    Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
    Have in these parts from morn till even fought
    And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
    Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
    That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
    Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
    And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
    Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
    The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
    That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
    For there is none of you so mean and base,
    That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
    I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
    Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
    Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
    Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George
     
  19. Santino

    Santino lovelier than lovely


    This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
    Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth,
    Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
    For Christian service and true chivalry,
    As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
    Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son,
    This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
    Dear for her reputation through the world,
    Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
    Like to a tenement or pelting farm:
    England, bound in with the triumphant sea
    Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
    Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
    With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds:
    That England, that was wont to conquer others,
    Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
     
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  20. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    all I want to do is
    make poetry famous

    all I want to do is
    burn my initials into the sun

    all I want do do is
    read poetry from the middle of a
    burning building
    standing in the fast lane of the
    freeway
    falling from the top of the
    Empire State Building

    the literary world
    sucks dead dog dick

    I’d rather be Richard Speck
    than Gary Snyder
    I’d rather ride a rocketship to hell
    than a Volvo to Bolinas

    I’d rather
    sell arms to the Martians
    than wait sullenly for a
    letter from some diseased clown with a
    three-piece mind
    telling me that I’ve won a
    bullet-proof pair of rose-colored glasses
    for my poem “Autumn in the Spring”

    I want to be
    hated
    by everyone who teaches for a living

    I want people to hear my poetry and
    get headaches
    I want people to hear my poetry and
    vomit

    I want people to hear my poetry and
    weep, scream, disappear, start bleeding,
    eat their television sets, beat each other to death with
    swords and

    go out and get riotously drunk on
    someone else’s money
     
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  21. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    The Garden By Andrew Marvell

    How vainly men themselves amaze
    To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
    And their uncessant labours see
    Crown’d from some single herb or tree,
    Whose short and narrow verged shade
    Does prudently their toils upbraid;
    While all flow’rs and all trees do close
    To weave the garlands of repose.

    Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
    And Innocence, thy sister dear!
    Mistaken long, I sought you then
    In busy companies of men;
    Your sacred plants, if here below,
    Only among the plants will grow.
    Society is all but rude,
    To this delicious solitude.

    No white nor red was ever seen
    So am’rous as this lovely green.
    Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
    Cut in these trees their mistress’ name;
    Little, alas, they know or heed
    How far these beauties hers exceed!
    Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,
    No name shall but your own be found.

    When we have run our passion’s heat,
    Love hither makes his best retreat.
    The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
    Still in a tree did end their race:
    Apollo hunted Daphne so,
    Only that she might laurel grow;
    And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
    Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

    What wond’rous life in this I lead!
    Ripe apples drop about my head;
    The luscious clusters of the vine
    Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
    The nectarine and curious peach
    Into my hands themselves do reach;
    Stumbling on melons as I pass,
    Ensnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass.

    Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
    Withdraws into its happiness;
    The mind, that ocean where each kind
    Does straight its own resemblance find,
    Yet it creates, transcending these,
    Far other worlds, and other seas;
    Annihilating all that’s made
    To a green thought in a green shade.

    Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,
    Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root,
    Casting the body’s vest aside,
    My soul into the boughs does glide;
    There like a bird it sits and sings,
    Then whets, and combs its silver wings;
    And, till prepar’d for longer flight,
    Waves in its plumes the various light.

    Such was that happy garden-state,
    While man there walk’d without a mate;
    After a place so pure and sweet,
    What other help could yet be meet!
    But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share
    To wander solitary there:
    Two paradises ’twere in one
    To live in paradise alone.

    How well the skillful gard’ner drew
    Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new,
    Where from above the milder sun
    Does through a fragrant zodiac run;
    And as it works, th’ industrious bee
    Computes its time as well as we.
    How could such sweet and wholesome hours
    Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs!
     
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  22. bubblesmcgrath

    bubblesmcgrath Well-Known Member

    The Sea And The Hills

    Who hath desired the Sea? -- the sight of salt water unbounded --
    The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber wind-hounded?
    The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grey, foamless, enormous, and growing --
    Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing --
    His Sea in no showing the same his Sea and the same 'neath each showing:
    His Sea as she slackens or thrills?
    So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills!

    Who hath desired the Sea? -- the immense and contemptuous surges?
    The shudder, the stumble, the swerve, as the star-stabbing bow-sprit emerges?
    The orderly clouds of the Trades, the ridged, roaring sapphire thereunder --
    Unheralded cliff-haunting flaws and the headsail's low-volleying thunder --
    His Sea in no wonder the same his Sea and the same through each wonder:
    His Sea as she rages or stills?
    So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.

    Who hath desired the Sea? Her menaces swift as her mercies?
    The in-rolling walls of the fog and the silver-winged breeze that disperses?
    The unstable mined berg going South and the calvings and groans that declare it --
    White water half-guessed overside and the moon breaking timely to bare it --
    His Sea as his fathers have dared -- his Sea as his children shall dare it:
    His Sea as she serves him or kills?
    So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.

    Who hath desired the Sea? Her excellent loneliness rather
    Than forecourts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather
    Inland, among dust, under trees -- inland where the slayer may slay him --
    Inland, out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him
    His Sea from the first that betrayed -- at the last that shall never betray him:
    His Sea that his being fulfils?
    So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.

    Rudyard Kipling
     
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  23. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    ON NOTHING by Jamie McKendrick

    I do not think it is absurd for you to say that nothing is something,
    since no one can deny that 'nothing' is a noun.

    Anselm of Canterbury

    If nothing is the opposite of something
    then it too is something and not nothing.
    Or is that just language rushing in
    to fill what makes the intellect recoil?

    It's us not nature that abhors a vacuum,
    though in frictionless space there's still a fraction
    more than nothing, if not enough of it
    to slow the planets in their orbits.

    But the full moon hides its emptiness
    and every plenitude its opposite;
    the present buckles into nowlessness

    that lasts for never as a dark star draws
    downward threads of light. There nothing exists,
    couching like a sphinx among the rubble
     
  24. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    A ROOM WITH A VIEW by Ian Duhig

    I don’t know how any civilized person can watch TV, let alone own a set - W.H. Auden

    But now I see civilization through new square eyes
    since buying a TV with two square metres of screen.
    Better than Debord at seeing through the spectacle
    to the bone beneath the bling, it focusses as fairly
    on the diva’s bleached moustache as choral acne,
    with equal liquid-crystal clarity from gods to stalls.
    Brilliant as walls of Pre-Raphaelites, TV is wallpaper
    beyond Morris, more human because it is moving,
    which can inspire us all to poetry as it did Ashbery,
    like the campfires our half-ape ancestors watched,
    evolving so they'd be able to change the channel.
     
  25. ShiftyBagLady

    ShiftyBagLady Thinks she is a flower to be looked at

    Dry Loaf
    By Wallace Stevens

    It is equal to living in a tragic land
    To live in a tragic time.
    Regard now the sloping, mountainous rocks
    And the river that batters its way over stones,
    Regard the hovels of those that live in this land.

    That was what I painted behind the loaf,
    The rocks not even touched by snow,
    The pines along the river and the dry men blown
    Brown as the bread, thinking of birds
    Flying from burning countries and brown sand shores,

    Birds that came like dirty water in waves
    Flowing above the rocks, flowing over the sky,
    As if the sky was a current that bore them along,
    Spreading them as waves spread flat on the shore,
    One after another washing the mountains bare.

    It was the battering of drums I heard
    It was hunger, it was the hungry that cried
    And the waves, the waves were soldiers moving,
    Marching and marching in a tragic time
    Below me, on the asphalt, under the trees.

    It was soldiers went marching over the rocks
    And still the birds came, came in watery flocks,
    Because it was spring and the birds had to come.
    No doubt that soldiers had to be marching
    And that drums had to be rolling, rolling, rolling.
     
  26. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    I sometimes fear that
    people think that fascism arrives in fancy dress
    worn by grotesques and monsters
    as played out in endless re-runs of the Nazis.

    Fascism arrives as your friend.
    It will restore your honour,
    make you feel proud,
    protect your house,
    give you a job,
    clean up the neighbourhood,
    remind you of how great you once were,
    clear out the venal and the corrupt,
    remove anything you feel is unlike you...

    It doesn't walk in saying,
    "Our programme means militias, mass imprisonments, transportations, war and persecution."
     
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  27. bluescreen

    bluescreen Je est un autre

  28. ShiftyBagLady

    ShiftyBagLady Thinks she is a flower to be looked at

    The Ball Poem
    By John Berryman

    What is the boy now, who has lost his ball.
    What, what is he to do? I saw it go
    Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then
    Merrily over—there it is in the water!
    No use to say 'O there are other balls':
    An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy
    As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down
    All his young days into the harbour where
    His ball went. I would not intrude on him,
    A dime, another ball, is worthless. Now
    He senses first responsibility
    In a world of possessions. People will take balls,
    Balls will be lost always, little boy,
    And no one buys a ball back. Money is external.
    He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,
    The epistemology of loss, how to stand up
    Knowing what every man must one day know
    And most know many days, how to stand up
    And gradually light returns to the street,
    A whistle blows, the ball is out of sight.
    Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark
    Floor of the harbour . . I am everywhere,
    I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move
    With all that move me, under the water
    Or whistling, I am not a little boy.
     
    DotCommunist and chainsawjob like this.
  29. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Period by R.S. Thomas

    It was a time when wise men
    Were not silent, but stifled
    By vast noise. They took refuge
    in books that were not read.

    Two counsellors had the ear
    Of the public. One cried 'Buy'
    Day and Night, and the other,
    More plausibly, 'Sell your repose'.
     
  30. chainsawjob

    chainsawjob Cautiously impulsive

    The Ruin

    (translated from Old English by M. Alexander)

    Well-wrought this wall: Wierds broke it.
    The stronghold burst…
    Snapped rooftrees, towers fallen,
    the work of the Giants, the stonesmiths,
    mouldereth.
    Rime scoureth gatetowers
    rime on mortar.
    Shattered the showershields, roofs ruined,
    age under-ate them.
    And the wielders & wrights?
    Earthgrip holds them – gone, long gone
    fast in gravesgrasp while fifty fathers
    and sons have passed.
    Wall stood,
    grey lichen, red stone, kings fell often,
    stood under storms, high arch crashed –
    stands yet the wallstone, hacked by weapons,
    by files grim-ground…
    …shone the old skilled work
    …sank to loam-crust

    Mood quickened mind, and man of wit,
    cunning in rings, bound bravely the wallbase
    with iron, a wonder.

    Bright were the buildings, halls where springs ran,
    high, horngabled, much throng-noise;
    these many meadhalls men filled
    with loud cheerfulness: Weird changed that.

    Came days of pestilence, on all sides men fell dead,
    death fetched off the flower of the people;
    where they stood to fight, waste places
    and on the acropolis, ruins.
    Hosts who would build again
    shrank to the earth. Therefore are these courts dreary
    and that red arch twisteth tiles,
    wryeth from roof-ridge, reacheth groundwards…
    Broken blocks…

    There once many a man
    mood-glad, gold-bright, of gleams garnished,
    flushed with wine-pride, flashing war-gear,
    gazed on wrought gemstones, on gold, on silver,
    on wealth held and hoarded, on light-filled amber,
    on this bright burg of broad dominion.

    Stood stone houses; wide streams welled
    hot from source, and a wall all caught
    in its bright bosom, and the baths were
    hot at hall’s hearth; that was fitting…

    ………… Thence hot streams, loosed, ran over hoar stone
    unto the ring-tank…
    …It is a kingly thing
    …city…
     
    Dillinger4 and bluescreen like this.

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