*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

    On the death of Kazimir Malevich

    Ripping the stream of memory,
    You look around and your face is pride-stricken.
    Your name is — Kazimir.
    The sun of your salvation wanes and you look at it.
    Beauty has supposedly torn apart your earth’s mountains,
    No area can frame your figure.
    Give me those eyes of yours! I’ll throw open a window in my head!
    Man, why have you stricken your face with pride?
    Your life is only a fly and your desire is succulent food.
    No glow comes from the sun of your salvation.
    Thunder will lay low the helmet of your head.
    Pe — is the inkpot of your words.
    Trr — is your desire.
    Agalthon — is your skinny memory.
    Hey, Kazimir! Where’s your desk?
    Looks as if it’s not here, and your desire is — Trr.
    Hey, Kazimir! Where’s your friend?
    She is also gone, and your memory’s inkpot is — Pe.
    Eight years have crackled away in those ears of yours.
    Fifty minutes have beat away in that heart of yours.
    Ten times has the river flowed before you.
    The inkpot of your desire Trr and Pe has ended.
    “Imagine that!” you say, and your memory is — Agalthon.
    There you stand, pushing apart smoke with your hands supposedly.
    The pride-stricken expression on that face of yours wanes,
    And your memory and your desire Trr disappear.

    May 17, 1935

    Daniil Kharms
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  2. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit


    Once each year
    After a warm day in April
    When darkness comes to the desert
    Uninvited but planning to spend the night
    Something hits me like a shovel
    And I am stunned into believing
    Anything is possible

    There is no overture to frenzy
    I simply look up and see Scorpio
    Most dangerous of friends
    With the last two stars in his tail
    Blinking like lights at a railroad crossing
    While in one claw he holds the top
    Of a mountain in Mexico

    And suddenly I know
    Everything I need is waiting for me
    South of here in another country
    And I have been walking through empty
    Rooms and talking to furniture

    Then I say to myself
    Why would I stay home and listen to Bach
    Such precision could have happened
    To anyone to an infinite number of monkeys with harpsichords

    And next morning I start south
    With my last chances flapping their wings
    While birds of passage stream over me
    In the opposite direction

    I never find what I am looking for
    And each time I return older
    With my ugliness intact
    But with the knowledge that if it isn’t there
    In the darkness under Scorpio
    It isn’t anywhere
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  3. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Moon by JH Prynne

    The night is already quiet and I am
    bound in the rise and fall: learning
    to wish always for more. This is the
    means, the extension to keep very steady

    so that the culmination
    will be silent too and flow
    with no trace of devoutness.

    Since I must hold to the gradual in
    this, as no revolution but a slow change
    like the image of snow. The challenge is
    not a moral excitement, but the expanse,

    the continuing patience
    dilating into forms so
    much more than compact.

    I would probably not even choose to inhabit the
    wish as delay: it really is dark and the knowledge
    of the unseen is a warmth which spreads into
    the level ceremony of diffusion. The quiet

    suggests that the act taken
    extends so much further, there
    is this insurgence of form:

    we are more pliant than the mercantile notion
    of choice will determine-we go in this way
    on and on and the unceasing image of hope
    is our place in the world. We live there and now

    at night I recognise the signs
    of this, the calm is a
    modesty about conduct in

    the most ethical sense. We disperse into the ether
    as waves, we slant down into a precluded notion
    of choice which becomes the unlearned habit of
    wish: where we live, as we more often are than

    we know. If we expand
    into this wide personal vacancy
    we could become the extent

    of all the wishes that are now too far beyond
    us. A community of wish, as the steppe
    on which the extension would sprinkle out
    the ethic density, the compact modern home.

    The consequence of this
    pastoral desire is prolonged
    as our condition, but

    I know there is more than the mere wish to
    wander at large, since the wish itself diffuses
    beyond this and will never end: these are songs
    to the night under no affliction, knowing that

    the wish is gift to the
    spirit, is where we may
    dwell as we would

    go over and over within the life of the heart
    and the grace which is open to both east and west.
    These are psalms for the harp and the shining
    stone: the negligence and still passion of night.
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  4. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Under the Poplars by Cesar Vallejo

    for José Eulogio Garrido

    Like priestly imprisoned poets,
    the poplars of blood have fallen asleep.
    On the hills, the flocks of Bethlehem
    chew arias of grass at sunset.

    The ancient shepherd, who shivers
    at the last martyrdoms of light,
    in his Easter eyes has caught
    a purebred flock of stars.

    Formed in orphanhood, he goes down
    with rumors of burial to the praying field,
    and the sheep bells are seasoned with shadow.

    It survives, the blue warped
    in iron, and on it, pupils shrouded,
    a dog etches its pastoral howl.
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  5. Ceej

    Ceej Where is my mind?

    On this saddest of days - by Mike Gary
    Mancunian poet.

    We are the threads that weave,
    we are the busy bee's
    we are the fabric and the seams,
    the reason why we achieve.
    we are the warp and weft,
    we earn our daily bread and we work because hard work brings success
    we're born out of industry, we're cotton song through history
    we're revolutionary, we work while others sleep,
    we're in the bricks and mortars, with the mothers, fathers sons and daughters
    the very DNA of what makes this city great
    we are the wool ,the whine, the twine, crafted, tailored and designed
    we're the sign of the cross, we're temples, synagogues and mosques,
    we interlock and bisect, we criss cross and interject,
    we are the textile of time,
    the fundamentals of life
    we are the battlers and fighters, we invented all-nighters
    we're in the pulse the heartic sound,
    we are the earth the sky the clouds
    we are the contour lines, we are the isobars
    we're ugly, beautiful, we carry battle scars
    Success is our main goal,
    our defence is our attack
    if you give us your soul, we'll give you our heart and souls back.
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  6. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    From Visions of the Daughters of Albion by William Blake

    They told me that the night and day were all that I could see;
    They told me that I had five senses to enclose me up;
    And they enclos’d my infinite brain into a narrow circle,
    And sunk my heart into the Abyss, a red, round globe, hot burning,
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  7. ShiftyBagLady

    ShiftyBagLady Thinks she is a flower to be looked at

    Misery and Splendor

    Summoned by conscious recollection, she
    would be smiling, they might be in a kitchen talking,
    before or after dinner. But they are in this other room,
    the window has many small panes, and they are on a couch
    embracing. He holds her as tightly
    as he can, she buries herself in his body.
    Morning, maybe it is evening, light
    is flowing through the room. Outside,
    the day is slowly succeeded by night,
    succeeded by day. The process wobbles wildly
    and accelerates: weeks, months, years. The light in the room
    does not change, so it is plain what is happening.
    They are trying to become one creature,
    and something will not have it. They are tender
    with each other, afraid
    their brief, sharp cries will reconcile them to the moment
    when they fall away again. So they rub against each other,
    their mouths dry, then wet, then dry.
    They feel themselves at the center of a powerful
    and baffled will. They feel
    they are an almost animal,
    washed up on the shore of a world—
    or huddled against the gate of a garden—
    to which they can’t admit they can never be admitted.
  8. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Vain Warnings by Silvina Ocamp

    Be careful with your imagination.
    Someplace on earth it remains, all the time it follows us
    little by little turning into crude or delicate reality
    what man or beast, plants or stones imagined.
    The sick with fever, those who shake, those who want to and cannot speak,
    in waiting rooms, amid pages of newspapers, oranges,
    those who gaze at the ceiling or else the sun, injured,
    those who embrace unlawfully, not knowing why
    or in the blue precinct of marriage, those disfigured by hearty laughter,
    the children, the slaves, the unjust, those who go shopping, handle meat,
    the prisoners, soldiers, tyrants, with faces of singers,
    the swimmers, the eager executioners, those who blaspheme,
    those who beg or give, the missionaries, the anarchists,
    the submissive, the proud, the solitary, those who don’t understand,
    those who work constantly,
    those who get tired after never doing anything
    again don’t do anything without a break, irreducibly, the unborn,
    those who carry signs in their fur, letters, drawings,
    mysteries that no one has deciphered,
    those who wash everything all day long like the raccoon,

    the foul-smelling that scavenge for bones or excrement,
    wallowing about to stink even more,
    those who simply appear spiritual, or musical, or poetic,
    those who devour others like them
    or themselves because driven mad,
    those that are streaked, with spots, with silver scales and tails,
    the ferocious and the domesticated, those who love,
    those who eat each other in order to fecundate,
    those who live only on grass or precious milk
    or those who need to eat rotten meat
    those who crawl or the most beautiful, with princely feathers
    those whom the water gathers among its glass, clear green or black
    in the dark molds of the earth, buried,

    those who take so long in dying that they do not die
    and seem like plants or else stones, with the additions of time
    those who barely live by a miracle, by suicide, on nothing
    everything that they have imagined
    and that we mortals imagine
    forms the reality of the world.
  9. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    The End of the World by Archibald McLeish

    • Quite unexpectedly as Vasserot
      The armless ambidextrian was lighting
      A match between his great and second toe
      And Ralph the Lion was engaged in biting
      The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
      Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
      In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb —
      Quite unexpectedly the top blew off.

      And there, there overhead, there, there, hung over
      Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
      There in the starless dark, the poise, the hover,
      There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
      There in the sudden blackness, the black pall
      Of nothing, nothing, nothing — nothing at all.
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  10. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Somoza Unveils Somoza’s Statue of Somoza at the Somoza Stadium

    (Ernesto Cardenal, 1954, trans. Donald Walsh)

    It’s not that I think the people raised this statue to me,
    because I know better than you that I ordered it myself.
    Nor that I have any illusions about passing with it into posterity
    because I know the people will one day tear it down.
    Nor that I wished to erect to myself in life
    the monument you’ll not erect to me in death:
    I put up this statue just because I know you’ll hate it.
  11. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit


    (Czeslaw Milosz, 1968, trans. the author and Robert Pinsky)

    Human reason is beautiful and invincible.
    No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books,
    No sentence of banishment can prevail against it.
    It establishes the universal ideas in language,
    And guides our hand so we write Truth and Justice
    With capital letters, lie and oppression with small.
    It puts what should be above things as they are,
    It is an enemy of despair and a friend of hope.
    It does not know Jew from Greek or slave from master,
    Giving us the estate of the world to manage.
    It saves austere and transparent phrases
    From the filthy discord of tortured words.
    It says that everything is new under the sun,
    Opens the congealed fist of the past.
    Beautiful and very young are Philo-Sophia
    And poetry, her ally in the service of the good.
    As late as yesterday Nature celebrated their birth,
    The news was brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo,
    Their friendship will be glorious, their time has no limit,
    Their enemies have delivered themselves to destruction.
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  12. BoatieBird

    BoatieBird Well-Known Member


    In which her body was a question-mark

    querying her lies; her mouth a ballot-box that bit the hand that fed. Her eyes? They swivelled for a jackpot win. Her heart was a stolen purse;
    her rhetoric an empty vicarage, the windows smashed.

    Then her feet grew sharp stilettos, awkward.

    Then she had balls, believe it.

    When she woke,

    her nose was bloody, difficult.

    The furious young

    ran towards her through the fields of wheat.

    Carol Ann Duffy
  13. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    You and Gold and What Awaits You by Roque Dalton

    In capitalism it’s a lie to say:
    “Take care, you’re worth your weight in gold.”
    Because in capitalism only the owners
    of gold are worth their weight in gold.

    In the construction of socialism
    one no longer lies and it can be said:
    “You’re worth more than gold, but
    it’s necessary to take care of
    the gold of social property,
    Foreign exchange is important.”

    Only in communism can it be said:
    “You’re worth what you’re worth.
    Gold has nothing to do with what you’re worth.”

    In communism gold only has value
    through the use workers and citizens
    give it,
    for example in dentistry
    in decoration
    or in adorning the necks
    or ears of girls.
  14. stockwelljonny

    stockwelljonny Wait here I have gone to get help

    Karen Solie
    Crail Spring
    Surprised on returning to find the flat
    flooded with light. Merciless,
    evaporative, even when overcast, and,
    as the solstice neared, sanctimonious
    in its imperative to productivity.
    An expert with his pen-light wondering
    how you let it get this bad. That tone.
    We were out all day in the clarity
    of errors that had multiplied
    into reality. Extra weight exposed
    by the indignity of seasonal clothes,
    and suspicious the promise
    of those first fine days wouldn’t be
    borne out. Children wept with exhaustion
    in the playground past eleven, birds
    goaded awake at three. So when the haar
    sailed in, flags flying, party in a bag,
    and took over the streets, we rejoiced
    to see our choices diminish along
    with the outlines of what they’d wrought.
    Otherwise, not a fucking thing, and we
    decided to make a long weekend of it.
  15. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    XVI Poem by Roque Dalton

    Laws are created to be followed
    By the poor.
    Laws are made by the rich
    To bring some order to exploitation.
    The poor are the only law abiders in history.
    When the poor make laws
    The rich will be no more.
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  16. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Eighteen Seventy by Arthur Rimbaud

    You Dead of ninety-two and ninety-three,
    Who, pale from the great kiss of Liberty,
    Crushed, calm, beneath your wooden shoes
    That yoke that weighs on human brows and souls:

    Men exalted, great in agony,
    You whose hearts raged with love, in misery,
    O soldiers that Death, noble Lover, has sown
    In all the old furrows, so they’ll be reborn:

    You whose blood washed every soiled grandeur,
    Dead of Valmy, Dead of Fleurus, Dead of Italy,
    O millions of Christs with eyes gentle and sombre:

    We’ve let you fall asleep with the Republic,
    We, cowering under kings as if under blows.
    – They’re telling tales of you so we’ll remember!
    chainsawjob likes this.
  17. stockwelljonny

    stockwelljonny Wait here I have gone to get help

    In Paris With You - James Fenton

    Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
    And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
    I'm one of your talking wounded.
    I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
    But I'm in Paris with you.

    Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
    And resentful at the mess I've been through.
    I admit I'm on the rebound
    And I don't care where are we bound.
    I'm in Paris with you.

    Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
    If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
    If we skip the Champs Elysées
    And remain here in this sleazy

    Old hotel room
    Doing this and that
    To what and whom
    Learning who you are,
    Learning what I am.

    Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
    The little bit of Paris in our view.
    There's that crack across the ceiling
    And the hotel walls are peeling
    And I'm in Paris with you.

    Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
    I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
    I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
    I'm in Paris with... all points south.
    Am I embarrassing you?
    I'm in Paris with you.
  18. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    O Sultan, my master, if my clothes
    are ripped and torn
    it is because your dogs with claws
    are allowed to tear me.
    And your informers every day are those
    who dog my heels …
    the reason you’ve lost wars twice
    was because you’ve been walled in from
    mankind’s cause and voice
  19. Pickman's model

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

    a poem by Ben Okri

    'It was like a burnt matchbox in the sky.
    It was black and long and burnt in the sky.
    You saw it through the flowering stump of trees.
    You saw it beyond the ochre spire of the church.
    You saw it in the tears of those who survived.
    You saw it through the rage of those who survived.
    You saw it past the posters of those who had burnt to ashes.
    You saw it past the posters of those who jumped to their deaths.
    You saw it through the TV images of flames through windows
    Running up the aluminium cladding
    You saw it in print images of flames bursting out from the roof.
    You heard it in the voices loud in the streets.
    You heard it in the cries in the air howling for justice.
    You heard it in the pubs the streets the basements the digs.
    You heard it in the wailing of women and the silent scream
    Of orphans wandering the streets
    You saw it in your baby who couldn’t sleep at night
    Spooked by the ghosts that wander the area still trying
    To escape the fires that came at them black and choking.
    You saw it in your dreams of the dead asking if living
    Had no meaning being poor in a land
    Where the poor die in flames without warning.
    But when you saw it with your eyes it seemed what the eyes
    Saw did not make sense cannot make sense will not make sense.
    You saw it there in the sky, tall and black and burnt.
    You counted the windows and counted the floors
    And saw the sickly yellow of the half burnt cladding
    And what you saw could only be seen in nightmare.
    Like a war-zone come to the depths of a fashionable borough.
    Like a war-zone planted here in the city.
    To see with the eyes that which one only sees
    In nightmares turns the day to night, turns the world upside down.

    Those who were living now are dead
    Those who were breathing are from the living earth fled.
    If you want to see how the poor die, come see Grenfell Tower.
    See the tower, and let a world-changing dream flower.

    Residents of the area call it the crematorium.
    It has revealed the undercurrents of our age.
    The poor who thought voting for the rich would save them.
    The poor who believed all that the papers said.
    The poor who listened with their fears.
    The poor who live in their rooms and dream for their kids.
    The poor are you and I, you in your garden of flowers,
    In your house of books, who gaze from afar
    At a destiny that draws near with another name.
    Sometimes it takes an image to wake up a nation
    From its secret shame. And here it is every name
    Of someone burnt to death, on the stairs or in their room,
    Who had no idea what they died for, or how they were betrayed.
    They did not die when they died; their deaths happened long
    Before. It happened in the minds of people who never saw
    Them. It happened in the profit margins. It happened
    In the laws. They died because money could be saved and made.

    Those who are living now are dead
    Those who were breathing are from the living earth fled.
    If you want to see how the poor die, come see Grenfell Tower
    See the tower, and let a world-changing dream flower.

    They called the tower ugly; they named it an eyesore.
    All around the beautiful people in their beautiful houses
    Didn’t want the ugly tower to ruin their house prices.
    Ten million was spent to encase the tower in cladding.
    Had it ever been tested before except on this eyesore,
    Had it ever been tested for fire, been tried in a blaze?
    But it made the tower look pretty, yes it made the tower look pretty.
    But in twenty four storeys, not a single sprinkler.
    In twenty four storeys not a single alarm that worked.
    In twenty four storeys not a single fire escape,
    Only a single stairwell designed in hell, waiting
    For an inferno. That’s the story of our times.
    Make it pretty on the outside, but a death trap
    On the inside. Make the hollow sound nice, make
    The empty look nice. That’s all they will see,
    How it looks, how it sounds, not how it really is, unseen.
    But if you really look you can see it, if you really listen
    You can hear it. You’ve got to look beneath the cladding.
    There’s cladding everywhere. Political cladding,
    Economic cladding, intellectual cladding — things that look good
    But have no centre, have no heart, only moral padding.
    They say the words but the words are hollow.
    They make the gestures and the gestures are shallow.
    Their bodies come to the burnt tower but their souls don’t follow.

    Those who were living are now dead
    Those who were breathing are from the living earth fled.
    If you want to see how the poor die, come see Grenfell Tower
    See the tower, and let a world-changing deed flower.

    The voices here must speak for the dead.
    Speak for the dead. Speak for the dead.
    See their pictures line the walls. Poverty is its own
    Colour, its own race. They were Muslim and Christian,
    Black and white and colours in between. They were young
    And old and beautiful and middle aged. There were girls
    In their best dresses with hearts open to the future.
    There was an old man with his grandchildren;
    There was Amaya Tuccu, three years old,
    Burnt to ashes before she could see the lies of the world.
    There are names who were living beings who dreamt
    Of fame or contentment or education or love
    Who are now ashes in a burnt out shell of cynicism.
    There were two Italians, lovely and young,
    Who in the inferno were on their mobile phone to friends
    While the smoke of profits suffocated their voices.
    There was the baby thrown from many storeys high
    By a mother who knew otherwise he would die.
    There were those who jumped from their windows
    And those who died because they were told to stay
    In their burning rooms. There was the little girl on fire
    Seen diving out from the twentieth floor. Need I say more.

    Those who are living now are dead
    Those who were breathing are from the living earth fled.
    If you want to see how the poor die, come see Grenfell Tower
    See the tower, and let a world-changing dream flower.

    Always there’s that discrepancy
    Between what happens and what we are told.
    The official figures were stuck at thirty.
    Truth in the world is rarer than gold.
    Bodies brought out in the dark
    Bodies still in the dark.
    Dark the smoke and dark the head.
    Those who were living are now dead.

    And while the tower flamed they were tripping
    Over bodies at the stairs
    Because it was pitch black.
    And those that survived
    Sleep like refugees on the floor
    Of a sports centre.
    And like creatures scared of the dark,
    A figure from on high flits by,
    Speaking to the police and brave firefighters,
    But avoiding the victims,
    Whose hearts must be brimming with dread.
    Those who were breathing are from the living earth fled.

    But if you go to Grenfell Tower, if you can pull
    Yourselves from your tennis games and your perfect dinners
    If you go there while the black skeleton of that living tower
    Still stands unreal in the air, a warning for similar towers to fear,
    You will breathe the air thick with grief
    With women spontaneously weeping
    And children wandering around stunned
    And men secretly wiping a tear from the eye
    And people unbelieving staring at this sinister form in the sky
    You will see the trees with their leaves green and clean
    And will inhale the incense meant
    To cleanse the air of unhappiness
    You will see banks of flowers
    And white paper walls sobbing with words
    And candles burning for the blessing of the dead
    You will see the true meaning of community
    Food shared and stories told and volunteers everywhere
    You will breathe the air of incinerators
    Mixed with the essence of flower.
    If you want to see how the poor die, come see Grenfell Tower.

    Make sense of these figures if you will
    For the spirit lives where truth cannot kill.
    Ten million spent on the falsely clad
    In a fire where hundreds lost all they had.
    Five million offered in relief
    Ought to make a nation alter its belief.
    An image gives life and an image kills.
    The heart reveals itself beyond political skills.
    In this age of austerity
    The poor die for others’ prosperity.
    Nurseries and libraries fade from the land.
    A strange time is shaping on the strand.
    A sword of fate hangs over the deafness of power.
    See the tower, and let a new world-changing thought flower.'
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  20. bubblesmcgrath

    bubblesmcgrath Well-Known Member

    That is powerful.....
    Extremely upsetting but needed.
    Pickman's model likes this.
  21. ShiftyBagLady

    ShiftyBagLady Thinks she is a flower to be looked at

    By Galway Kinnell

    Wait, for now.
    Distrust everything, if you have to.
    But trust the hours. Haven't they
    carried you everywhere, up to now?
    Personal events will become interesting again.
    Hair will become interesting.
    Pain will become interesting.
    Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
    Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
    their memories are what give them
    the need for other hands. And the desolation
    of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
    carved out of such tiny beings as we are
    asks to be filled; the need
    for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

    Don't go too early.
    You're tired. But everyone's tired.
    But no one is tired enough.
    Only wait a while and listen.
    Music of hair,
    Music of pain,
    music of looms weaving all our loves again.
    Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
    most of all to hear,
    the flute of your whole existence,
    rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.
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  22. Yossarian

    Yossarian free shrugs

    Leda and the Swan
    William Yeats

    A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
    Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
    By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
    He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

    How can those terrified vague fingers push
    The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
    And how can body, laid in that white rush,
    But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

    A shudder in the loins engenders there
    The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
    And Agamemnon dead.
    Being so caught up,
    So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
    Did she put on his knowledge with his power
    Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
  23. ShiftyBagLady

    ShiftyBagLady Thinks she is a flower to be looked at

    My Grandmother's Love Letters
    Hart Crane
    There are no stars tonight
    But those of memory.
    Yet how much room for memory there is
    In the loose girdle of soft rain.

    There is even room enough
    For the letters of my mother’s mother,
    That have been pressed so long
    Into a corner of the roof
    That they are brown and soft,
    And liable to melt as snow.

    Over the greatness of such space
    Steps must be gentle.
    It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
    It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

    And I ask myself:

    "Are your fingers long enough to play
    Old keys that are but echoes:
    Is the silence strong enough
    To carry back the music to its source
    And back to you again
    As though to her?"

    Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
    Through much of what she would not understand;
    And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
    With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.
  24. Yossarian

    Yossarian free shrugs

    The Octopus
    Kay Ryan

    The octopus has
    eight of something.
    If they’re legs then
    all the arms are
    missing. Nature often
    makes mistakes in
    distribution. You’d
    think it would be
    more distressing. Too
    many rubber legs with
    suckers, too many sets
    of teeth on top each other:
    some button in the
    shop stuck on or off.
    Sometimes a brain-feed
    sticks until the brain
    that gets delivered has
    a hundred times the
    strength it needs in
    nature. Which changes
    nature. A hundred
    other creatures
    gang together in a chain
    of mutual interest
    they wouldn’t have perceived
    without the strange intelligence.
    lang rabbie and stockwelljonny like this.
  25. Yossarian

    Yossarian free shrugs

    The Plough of Time
    Lawrence Ferlinghetti

    Night closed my windows and
    The sky became a crystal house
    The crystal windows glowed
    The moon
    shown through them
    through the whole house of crystal
    A single star beamed down
    its crystal cable
    and drew a plough through the earth
    unearthing bodies clasped together
    couples embracing
    around the earth
    They clung together everywhere
    emitting small cries
    that did not reach the stars
    The crystal earth turned
    and the bodies with it
    And the sky did not turn
    nor the stars with it
    The stars remained fixed
    each with its crystal cable
    beamed to earth
    each attached to the immense plough
    furrowing our lives
    Dillinger4 and chainsawjob like this.
  26. Yossarian

    Yossarian free shrugs

    A Dream
    Susan Paddon

    I imagine this boy,
    a small boy. Someone to have driven toy cars with,
    built complicated forts with, deep
    in the woods. I see him

    My mother is there. She is rosy-cheeked
    and no taller than the seat of a chair.
    She keeps her distance, watches me and the boy play.
    Each time I almost get close to her, she moves on,

    Since no one else is around,
    I concentrate on the boy.
    We throw marbles in the sand
    out of purple and gold bags;
    grow old and tired enough
    to fall asleep.

    I've heard a lot of people
    have this dream.
    Dillinger4 and chainsawjob like this.
  27. V.T. O'Brien

    V.T. O'Brien New Member

    Ireland by Paul Muldoon

    The Volkswagen parked in the gap,
    But gently ticking over.
    You wonder if it's lovers
    And not men hurrying back
    Across two fields and a river.
    ShiftyBagLady and Yossarian like this.
  28. killer b

    killer b No Hateration, No Holeration. in this Dancery

    wishes for sons

    i wish them cramps.
    i wish them a strange town
    and the last tampon.
    i wish them no 7-11.

    i wish them one week early
    and wearing a white skirt.
    i wish them one week late.

    later i wish them hot flashes
    and clots like you
    wouldn't believe. let the
    flashes come when they
    meet someone special.
    let the clots come
    when they want to.

    let them think they have accepted
    arrogance in the universe,
    then bring them to gynecologists
    not unlike themselves.
  29. Pickman's model

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

    The Censure of the Parliament Fart (1607)

    Never was bestowed such art
    Upon the tuning of a Fart.
    Downe came grave auntient Sir John Crooke
    And redd his message in his booke.
    Fearie well, Quoth Sir William Morris, Soe:
    But Henry Ludlowes Tayle cry'd Noe.
    Up starts one fuller of devotion
    Then Eloquence; and said a very ill motion
    Not soe neither quoth Sir Henry Jenkin
    The Motion was good; but for the stincking
    Well quoth Sir Henry Poole it was a bold tricke
    To Fart in the nose of the bodie pollitique
    Indeed I must confesse quoth Sir Edward Grevill
    The matter of it selfe was somewhat uncivill
    Thanke God quoth Sir Edward Hungerford
    That this Fart proved not a Turdd
  30. Pickman's model

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

    ilkley gazette 24/10/1891
    chainsawjob and ShiftyBagLady like this.

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