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*Poem of the day thread

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

  1. Pickman's model

    Pickman's model The word of Sin is Restriction

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    huddersfield daily chronicle, 30/08/1899
     
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  2. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    On the Beach at Night Alone by Walt Whitman

    On the beach at night alone,
    As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
    As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future.

    A vast similitude interlocks all,
    All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,
    All distances of place however wide,
    All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
    All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
    All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,
    All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
    All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any globe,
    All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
    This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d,
    And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.
     
  3. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    On Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

    The sea is calm to-night,
    The tide is full, the moon lies fair
    Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
    Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
    Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
    Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
    Only, from the long line of spray
    Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
    Listen! you hear the grating roar
    Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
    At their return, up the high strand,
    Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
    With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
    The eternal note of sadness in.

    Sophocles long ago
    Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
    Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
    Of human misery; we
    Find also in the sound a thought,
    Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

    The sea of faith
    Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
    Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
    But now I only hear
    Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
    Retreating, to the breath
    Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
    And naked shingles of the world.

    Ah, love, let us be true
    To one another! for the world which seems
    To lie before us like a land of dreams,
    So various, so beautiful, so new,
    Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
    Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
    And we are here as on a darkling plain
    Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
    Where ignorant armies clash by night.
     
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  4. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    In Warsaw by Czeslaw Milosz

    What are you doing here, poet, on the ruins
    Of St. John's Cathedral this sunny
    Day in spring?

    What are you thinking here, where the wind
    Blowing from the Vistula scatters
    The red dust of the rubble?

    You swore never to be
    A ritual mourner.
    You swore never to touch
    The deep wounds of your nation
    So you would not make them holy
    With the accursed holiness that pursues
    Descendants for many centuries.

    But the lament of Antigone
    Searching for her brother
    Is indeed beyond the power
    Of endurance. And the heart
    Is a stone in which is enclosed,
    Like an insect, the dark love
    Of a most unhappy land.

    I did not want to love so.
    That was not my design.
    I did not want to pity so.
    That was not my design.
    My pen is lighter
    Than a hummingbird's feather. This burden
    Is too much for it to bear.
    How can I live in this country
    Where the foot knocks against
    The unburied bones of kin?

    I hear voices, see smiles. I cannot
    Write anything; five hands
    Seize my pen and order me to write
    The story of their lives and deaths.
    Was I born to become
    a ritual mourner?
    I want to sing of festivities,
    The greenwood into which Shakespeare
    Often took me. Leave
    To poets a moment of happiness,
    Otherwise your world will perish.

    It's madness to live without joy
    And to repeat to the dead
    Whose part was to be gladness
    Of action in thought and in the
    Only two salvaged words:
    Truth and justice.
     
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  5. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    before you read this book by Peter Dale Scott

    take a morning walk outside
    and imagine over your head
    the white stars

    you are quite confident are there
    because you have seen them
    though only at night

    and then when your mind has expanded
    think of the earth’s surface you tread on
    curving away to maybe Paris

    the next takes a little doing
    but when you have the stars and curve in mind
    imagine how the space over your head

    is mirrored darkly
    with all last evening’s stars
    deep down under your feet

    until you feel our planet
    surrounded
    smaller even than a bit of dust

    Bless the Huge Unknown
    within us
    that can do this

    and ask compassion
    for those on this crowded soil
    who are suffering



    Now you can read
    but begin with something great
    perhaps a Song of Innocence by Blake.
     
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  6. butchersapron

    butchersapron blood on the walls

    It was the first wound of Jesus that spoke out loud and bold
    ‘Oh I who nestle by his heart know it is nearly cold’.

    It was the second wound of Jesus that spoke from his right
    breast
    ‘Oh I who gauge his failing breath know it has nearly ceased.’

    It was the third wound of Jesus that spoke from his left palm
    ‘Oh I who feel his racing pulse know it will soon be calm’.

    It was the fourth wound of Jesus that was so pale and wan
    ‘Oh I who am in his right hand know how death draws on’.

    It was the fifth wound of Jesus that cried from his left foot
    ‘Oh I who mark his falling blood know it is nearly out’.

    It was the sixth wound of Jesus that answered in great pain
    ‘Oh I can vouch that I have seen almost the last drop drain’.

    It was the seventh wound of Jesus that spoke out ‘Seven, seven
    ‘Seven are the deadly wounds that call out against heaven’.

    R.A.K Mason
     
  7. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    The Poor Poet by Czselaw Milosz

    The first movement is singing,
    A free voice, filling mountains and valleys.
    The first movement is joy,
    But it is taken away.

    And now that the years have transformed my blood
    And thousands of planetary systems have been born and died in my flesh.

    I sit, a sly and angry poet
    With malevolently squinted eyes,
    And, weighing a pen in my hand,
    I plot revenge.

    I poise the pen and it puts forth twigs and leaves, it is covered with blossoms
    And the scent of that tree is impudent, for there, on the real earth,
    Such trees do not grow, and like an insult
    To suffering humanity is the scent of that tree.

    Some take refuge in despair, which is sweet
    Like strong tobacco, like a glass of vodka drunk in the hour of annihilation.
    Others have the hope of fools, rosy as erotic dreams.

    Still others find peace in the idolatry of country,
    Which can last for a long time,
    Although little longer than the nineteenth century lasts.

    But to me a cynical hope is given,
    For since I opened my eyes I have seen only the glow of fires, massacres,
    Only injustice, humiliation, and the laughable shame of braggarts.
    To me is given the hope of revenge on others and on myself,
    For I was he who knew
    And took from it no profit for myself.
     
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  8. Yossarian

    Yossarian free shrugs

    Industrial Poem
    Peter Trower (1930-2017)

    That night, Slim Abernathy
    pushed the wrong button and wrapped his friend
    three times around a drive-shaft
    in directions the bones won’t bend.

    They shut her down and eased him out
    broken most ways a man can break
    yet he clung to his ruin for twenty-four hours
    like a man to a life-raft for his death’s sake.

    But they’d hardly hurried him away from there
    as we stood around shockdrunk, incapable of help
    when they cranked those expensive wheels up again
    and started rolling more goddamn pulp.

    “Hamburger for lunch tonight, boys!”
    joked a foreman to the crew.
    I wished he’d smelled our hate but he never even flinched
    as the red-flecked sheets came through.
     
  9. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Airport Poem: Ethics of Survival by JH Prynne

    The century roar is a desert carrying
    too much away, the plane skids off
    with an easy hopeless departure.

    The music, that it should
    leave, is far down
    in the mind

    just as if the years were part of the
    same sound, prolonged into the latent

    action of the heart.
    That is more: there

    affection will shoot it up
    like a crazed pilot. The desert

    is a social and undedicated expanse, since
    what else there is counts as merest propaganda.

    The heart is a changed
    petromorph, making
    pressure a social

    intelligence: essential news
    or present fact
    over the whole distance back
    and further, away.


    Or could be thus, as water
    is the first social fluency
    in any desert: the cistern

    comes later and is an inducement of false power.
    Which makes the thinning sorrow of flight
    the last disjunction, of the heart: that

    news is the person, and love
    the shape of his compulsion

    in the musical phrase,
    nearly but not

    yet back, into
    the remotest
    past.

    Of which the heart is capable and will journey
    over any desert and through the air, making
    the turn and stop undreamed of:

    love is, always, the
    flight back
    to where
    we are.
     
  10. 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.
     
  11. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 106

    Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
    The flying cloud, the frosty light:
    The year is dying in the night;
    Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

    Ring out the old, ring in the new,
    Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
    The year is going, let him go;
    Ring out the false, ring in the true.

    Ring out the grief that saps the mind
    For those that here we see no more;
    Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
    Ring in redress to all mankind.

    Ring out a slowly dying cause,
    And ancient forms of party strife;
    Ring in the nobler modes of life,
    With sweeter manners, purer laws.

    Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
    The faithless coldness of the times;
    Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
    But ring the fuller minstrel in.

    Ring out false pride in place and blood,
    The civic slander and the spite;
    Ring in the love of truth and right,
    Ring in the common love of good.

    Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
    Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
    Ring out the thousand wars of old,
    Ring in the thousand years of peace.

    Ring in the valiant man and free,
    The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
    Ring out the darkness of the land,
    Ring in the Christ that is to be.
     
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  12. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    The Magi by W. B. Yeats

    Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye,
    In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
    Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
    With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
    And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,
    And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
    Being by Calvary’s turbulence unsatisfied,
    The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
     
  13. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Calm by Charles Baudelaire

    Have patience, O my sorrow, and be still.
    You asked for night: it falls: it is here.
    A shadowy atmosphere enshrouds the hill,
    to some men bringing peace, to others care.
    While the vile human multitude
    goes to earn remorse, in servile pleasure’s play,
    under the lash of joy, the torturer, who
    is pitiless, Sadness, come, far away:
    Give me your hand. See, where the lost years
    lean from the balcony in their outdated gear,
    where regret, smiling, surges from the watery deeps.
    Underneath some archway, the dying light
    sleeps, and, like a long shroud trailing from the East,
    listen, dear one, listen to the soft onset of night.
     
  14. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    The Hurricane
    “We are the birds of the coming storm.” — August Spies

    The tide is out, the wind blows off the shore;
    Bare burn the white sands in the scorching sun;
    The sea complains, but its great voice is low.

    Bitter thy woes, O People,
    And the burden
    Hardly to be borne!
    Wearily grows, O People,
    All the aching
    Of thy pierced heart, bruised and torn!
    But yet thy time is not,
    And low thy moaning.
    Desert thy sands!
    Not yeat is thy breath hot, Vengefully blowing;
    It wafts o’er lifted hands.

    The tide has turned; the vane veers slowly round;
    Slow clouds are sweeping o’er the blinding light;
    White crests curl on the sea — its voice grows deep.

    Angry thy heart, O People!
    And its bleeding
    Fire-tipped with rising hate!
    Thy clasped hands part, O People,
    For thy praying Warmed not the desolate!
    God did not hear thy moan:
    Now it is swelling
    To a great drowning cry;
    A dark wind-cloud, a groan, Now backward veering
    From that deaf sky!

    The tide flows in, the wind roars from the depths,
    The whirled-White sand heaps with the foam-white waves;
    Thundering the sea rolls o’er its shell-crunched wall!

    Strong is thy rage, O People,
    In its fury
    Hurling thy tyrants down!
    Thow metest wage, O People.
    Very swiftly,
    Now that thy hate is grown:
    Thy time at last is come;
    Thou heapest anguish,
    Where thou thyself wert bare!
    No longer to thy dumb.
    God clasped and kneeling.
    Thou answerest thine own prayer.
     
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  15. 8115

    8115 sitting down is bad for you

    The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me
    by Delmore Schwarz

    "the withness of the body”

    The heavy bear who goes with me,
    A manifold honey to smear his face,
    Clumsy and lumbering here and there,
    The central ton of every place,
    The hungry beating brutish one
    In love with candy, anger, and sleep,
    Crazy factotum, dishevelling all,
    Climbs the building, kicks the football,
    Boxes his brother in the hate-ridden city.

    Breathing at my side, that heavy animal,
    That heavy bear who sleeps with me,
    Howls in his sleep for a world of sugar,
    A sweetness intimate as the water’s clasp,
    Howls in his sleep because the tight-rope
    Trembles and shows the darkness beneath.
    —The strutting show-off is terrified,
    Dressed in his dress-suit, bulging his pants,
    Trembles to think that his quivering meat
    Must finally wince to nothing at all.

    That inescapable animal walks with me,
    Has followed me since the black womb held,
    Moves where I move, distorting my gesture,
    A caricature, a swollen shadow,
    A stupid clown of the spirit’s motive,
    Perplexes and affronts with his own darkness,
    The secret life of belly and bone,
    Opaque, too near, my private, yet unknown,
    Stretches to embrace the very dear
    With whom I would walk without him near,
    Touches her grossly, although a word
    Would bare my heart and make me clear,
    Stumbles, flounders, and strives to be fed
    Dragging me with him in his mouthing care,
    Amid the hundred million of his kind,
    The scrimmage of appetite everywhere.
     
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  16. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    From East Coker by TS Eliot

    Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
    The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
    Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
    Isolated, with no before and after,
    But a lifetime burning in every moment
    And not the lifetime of one man only
    But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
    There is a time for the evening under starlight,
    A time for the evening under lamplight
    (The evening with the photograph album).
    Love is most nearly itself
    When here and now cease to matter.
    Old men ought to be explorers
    Here or there does not matter
    We must be still and still moving
    Into another intensity
    For a further union, a deeper communion
    Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
    The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
    Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
     
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  17. Pickman's model

    Pickman's model The word of Sin is Restriction

    upload_2018-1-16_11-0-12.png

    aberdeen times 12/1/1939
     

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