by Philip Larkin
What do they think has happened, the old fools,To make them like this? Do they somehow supposeIt's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't rememberWho called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,They could alter things back to when they danced all night,Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?Or do they fancy there's really been no change,And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,Or sat through days of thin continuous dreamingWatching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange; Why aren't they screaming?
At death you break up: the bits that were youStart speeding away from each other for everWith no one to see. It's only oblivion, true:We had it before, but then it was going to end,And was all the time merging with a unique endeavourTo bring to bloom the million-petalled flowerOf being here. Next time you can't pretendThere'll be anything else. And these are the first signs:Not knowing how, not hearing who, the powerOf choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it:Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines - How can they ignore it? Perhaps being old is having lighted roomsInside you head, and people in them, actingPeople you know, yet can't quite name; each loomsLike a deep loss restored, from known doors turning,Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extractingA known book from the shelves; or sometimes onlyThe rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning,The blown bush at the window, or the sun'sFaint friendliness on the wall some lonelyRain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live:Not here and now, but where all happened once. This is why they give
An air of baffled absence, trying to be thereYet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leavingIncompetent cold, the constant wear and tearOf taken breath, and them crouching belowExtinction's alp, the old fools, never perceivingHow near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet:The peak that stays in view wherever we goFor them is rising ground. Can they never tellWhat is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night?Not when the strangers come? Never, throughoutThe whole hideous inverted childhood? Well, We shall find out.
― Cruciverbalist, Tuesday, 14 October 2003 07:14 (twenty years ago) link
Razors pain youRivers are dampAcids stain youAnd drugs cause crampGuns aren't lawfulNooses giveGas smells awfulYou might as well live
I had this pinned up by my bed for a very long time. I find something very comforting about it. It might be flippant and crass without that title. But that somehow makes it more personal and more immediate.
― kate (kate), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 07:20 (twenty years ago) link
Michel Desnos - I've dreamed of you so much ("J'ai tant reve de toi")
I've dreamed of you so much that you're losing your reality. Is it already too late for me to embrace your literal, living and breathing physical body and to kiss that mouth which is the birthplace of that voice which is so dear to me?
I've dreamed of you so much that my arms--which have become accustomed to lying crossed upon my own chest after attempting to encircle your shadow--might not be able to unfold again to embrace the contours of your literal form, perhaps
So that coming face-to-face with the actual incarnation of what has haunted me and ruled me and dominated my life for so many days and years Might very well turn me into a shadow.
Oh equilibriums of the emotional scales!
I've dreamed of you so much that it might be too late for me to ever wake up again. I sleep on my feet, body confronting all the usual phenomena of life and love and yet when it comes to you--you, the only being on the planet who matters to me now-- I can no more touch your face and lips than I can those of the next random passerby.
I've dreamed of you so much, have walked and talked and slept so much with your phantom presence that perhaps the only thing left for me to do now Is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadowy than that shifting shape which moves and which will go on moving, stepping lightly and happily across the sundial of your life.
― Baaderist (Fabfunk), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 07:25 (twenty years ago) link
"J'ai tant reve de toi"
J'ai tant rêvé de toi que tu perds ta réalité.Est-il encore temps d'atteindre ce corps vivant et de baiser sur cette bouche la naissance de la voix qui m'est chère ?J'ai tant rêvé de toi que mes bras habitués, en étreignant ton ombre, à se croiser sur ma poitrine ne se plieraient pas au contour de ton corps, peut-être. Et que, devant l'apparence réelle de ce qui me hante et me gouverne depuis des jours et des années, je deviendrais une ombre sans doute.
O balances sentimentales. J'ai tant rêvé de toi qu'il n'est plus temps sans doute que je m'éveille. Je dors debout, le corps exposé à toutes les apparences de la vie et de l'amour et toi, la seule qui compte aujourd'hui pour moi, je pourrais moins toucher ton front et tes lèvres que les premières lèvres et le premier front venus. J'ai tant rêvé de toi, tant marché, parlé, couché avec ton fantôme qu'il ne me reste plus peut-être, et pourtant, qu'à être fantôme parmi les fantômes et plus ombre cent fois que l'ombre qui se promène et se promènera allègrement sur le cadran solaire de ta vie.
― Baaderist (Fabfunk), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 07:27 (twenty years ago) link
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!Alas! I am very sorry to sayThat ninety lives have been taken awayOn the last Sabbath day of 1879,Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
'Twas about seven o'clock at night,And the wind it blew with all its might,And the rain came pouring down,And the dark clods seem'd to frown,And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."
When the train left EdinburghThe passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,But Boreas blew a terrific gale,Which made their hearts for to quail,And many of the passengers with fear did say-"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."
But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,Boreas he did loud and angry bray,And shook the central girders of the Bridge of TayOn the last Sabbath day of 1879,Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
So the train sped on with all its might,And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sught,And the passengers' hearts felt light,Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,And wish them all a happy New Year.
So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,Until it was about midway,Then the central girders with a crash gave way,And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,Because ninety lives had been taken away,On the last Sabbath day of 1879,Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
As soon as the catastrophe came to be knownThe alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,And the cry rang out all o'er the town,Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,And a passenger train from Edinburgh,Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,And made them for to turn pale,Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the taleHow the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
It must have been an awful sight,To witness in the dusky moonlight,While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,Oh! ill-fated Bridge of thSilv'ry Tay,I must now conclude my layBy telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,That your central girders would not have given way,At least many sensible men do say,Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,At least many sensible men confesses,For the stronger we our houses do build,The less chance we have of being killed.
William Topaz McGonagall
― Alex K (Alex K), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:13 (twenty years ago) link
Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,We shall have what to do after firing. But today,Today we have naming of parts. JaponicaGlistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens, And today we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel. And thisIs the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,Which in your case you have not got. The branchesHold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, Which in our case we have not got.
This is the safety-catch, which is always releasedWith an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let meSee anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easyIf you have any strength in your thumb. The blossomsAre fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Any of them using their finger.
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of thisIs to open the breech, as you see. We can slide itRapidly backwards and forwards: we call thisEasing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwardsThe early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easyIf you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossomSilent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards, For today we have naming of parts.
― Matt (Matt), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:22 (twenty years ago) link
― anthony easton (anthony), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:27 (twenty years ago) link
Match (mat.ch) n-es 1. An arrangement of a marriage: We agreed to the match without understanding what it meant. 2. An engagement in a game or a contest in which two people oppose or compete with each other: A couple with nothing in common but the outcome of the match. 3. A pair of opposites (that attract). — v. matched, matching, matches. 1. To see a similarity; to cause to correspond: to liken. 2. To flip coins, and compare the faces in a game of chance. 3. To join two pieces of wood, tongued and grooved to fit. 4. To secure; to hold together; to form a bond.
Match (mat.ch) n-es 1. An article that is manufactured for the express purpose of starting a fire; usually a splinter of wood or cardboard coated with a thin combustible substance at the tip that ignites it by friction: "The quick, sharp scratch, / and blue spurt of a lighted match." —Browning. 2. The evolution of energy from heat to light 3. Love.
Warren Slesinger
― bnw (bnw), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:33 (twenty years ago) link
i sing of Olaf glad and bigwhose warmest heart recoiled at war:a conscientious object-or
his wellbelovéd colonel(trigwestpointer most succinctly bred)took erring Olaf soon in hand; but--though an host of overjoyed noncoms(first knocking on the head him)do through icy waters roll that helplessness which others strokewith brushes recently employed anent this muddy toiletbowl, while kindred intellects evoke allegiance per blunt instruments--Olaf(being to all intentsa corpse and wanting any rag upon what God unto him gave) responds,without getting annoyed "I will not kiss your fucking flag"
straightway the silver bird looked grave(departing hurriedly to shave)
but--though all kinds of officers (a yearning nation's blueeyed pride) their passive prey did kick and curseuntil for wear their clarion voices and boots were much the worse, and egged the firstclassprivates onhis rectum wickedly to tease by means of skilfully appliedbayonets roasted hot with heat--Olaf(upon what were once knees)does almost ceaselessly repeat"there is some shit I will not eat"
our president,being of whichassertions duly notified threw the yellowsonofabitchinto a dungeon,where he died
Christ(of His mercy infinite)i pray to see;and Olaf,too
preponderatingly becauseunless statistics lie he wasmore brave than me:more blond than you.
― lint (Jack), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 08:45 (twenty years ago) link
― luna (luna.c), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 18:36 (twenty years ago) link
plastic, stacked on the newspaper vending machine... his winter headband
holding back wild hair,needing a shave yesterday...he fixes me with
his high-voltage, sky- blue eyes, with pin-point pupils,on this rainy, grey
sunday morning, and asks me; "what's happening, man?" all i can manage
at this early houris a sort of soundless croak,and i squat down to
wait for the bus... he asks me where im going, and i tell him; "...to work."
...he asks me what i do, and i tell him ...he says he "likes my jacket."
i tell him; "its a poncho." "oh, yeah", he says, "aponcho, right." ...he lights
a cigarette and walks into the street looking for the bus... then a
pidgeon lands on the curb, and starts drinking from anoily puddle
in the gutter ...he reaches into his bundle and pulls out a bag
of broken cookies and tosses them to the bird ...more birds land and eat
...he calls and coos to them softly ...i watch them peck at the crumbs and then
walk over to his feet... i picture him bending down and scooping one
up and twisting its head, breaking its neck, and thenstuffing it into
his bundle for a meal later... instead, he standswith one arm outstretched,
his finger pointing,waiting for one to perch on his nicotine stained
didjit... they ignore him more successfully then i was able to...
the bus arrives, and we board... about thirteen blocks later, he gets off,
and as he exits from the mechanical doors, clutching his bundle,
shoulders hunched against the rain, patting himself downfor another smoke,
and dry match, i hear the sound of church bells tolling at 'queen of angels'
-- stosh machek
― luna (luna.c), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 18:38 (twenty years ago) link
― Reece Lurk, Tuesday, 14 October 2003 20:54 (twenty years ago) link
"April Fool Birthday Poem For Grandpa"
Today is your birthday and I have triedwriting these things before, but nowin the gathering madness, I want tothank youfor telling me what to expectfor pullingno punches, back there in that scrubbed Bronx parlorthank youfor honestly weeping in time toinnumerable heartbreakingitalian operas forpulling my hair when I pulled the leaves off the trees so I'd know how it feels,we areinvolved in it now, revolution, up to ourknees and the tide is rising, I embracestrangers on the street, filled with their love andmine, the love you told us had to come or wedie, told them all in that Bronx part, me listening inspring Bronx dusk, breathing stars, so gloriousto me your white hair, your height your fierceblue eyes, rare among italians, I stooda ways off listening as I pour out soupyoung men with light in their facesat my table, talking love, talking revolutionwhich is love, spelled backwards, howyou would love us all, would thunder your anarchist wisdomat us, would thunder Dante, and Giordano Bruno, orderly menbent to your ends, well I want you to knowwe do it for you, and your ilk, for Carlo Trescafor Sacco ad Vanzetti, without knowingit, or thinking about it, as we do it for Aubrey BearsleyOscar Wilde (all street lightsshall be purple), do itfor Trotsky and Shelley and big/dumbKropotkinEisenstein's Strike people, Jean Cocteau's ennui, we do it forthe stars over the Bronxthat they may look on earthand not be ashamed.
******"Song For Baby-O, Unborn"
Sweetheartwhen you break thru you’ll find a poet herenot quite what one would choose.
I won’t promise you’ll never go hungry or that you won’t be sad on this gutted breakingglobe
but I can show you babyenough to love to break your heart forever
― miloauckerman (miloauckerman), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 21:03 (twenty years ago) link
since feeling is firstwho pays any attention to the syntax of thingswill never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a foolwhile Spring is in the world
my blood approves,and kisses are a better fatethan wisdomlady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry-the best gesture of my brain is less thanyour eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other:thenlaugh, leaning back in my armsfor life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
― j c, Tuesday, 14 October 2003 21:33 (twenty years ago) link
― Chris P (Chris P), Tuesday, 14 October 2003 22:22 (twenty years ago) link
Where are the lyrics about pink elephant flying through marshmallow skies?Where are the nursery-rhyme-like melodies?Where are the mellotrons?
― Geirvald Hongfjeld jr., Thursday, 27 November 2003 00:41 (twenty years ago) link
A Martian Writes A Postcard Home.
Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wingsand some are treasured for their markings -
they cause the eyes to meltor the body to shriek without pain.
I have never seen one fly, butsometimes they perch on the hand.
Mist is when the sky is tired of flightand rests its soft machine on ground:
then the world is dim and bookishlike engravings under tissue paper.
Rain is when the earth is television.It has the property of making colours darker.
Model T is a room with the lock inside -a key is turned to free the world
for movement, so quick there is a filmto watch for anything missed.
But time is tied to the wristor kept in a box, ticking with impatience.
In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,that snores when you pick it up.
If the ghost cries, they carry itto their lips and soothe it to sleep
with sounds. And yet they wake it updeliberately, by tickling with a finger.
Only the young are allowed to sufferopenly. Adults go to a punishment room
with water but nothing to eat.They lock the door and suffer the noises
alone. No one is exemptand everyone's pain has a different smell.
At night when all the colours die,they hide in pairs
and read about themselves -in colour, with their eyelids shut.
-- Craig Raine
― jed (jed_e_3), Thursday, 27 November 2003 00:49 (twenty years ago) link
― Haikunym (Haikunym), Thursday, 27 November 2003 03:09 (twenty years ago) link
[poem snipped]
Oh coolness! I remember back in high school, in one of my English classes, we almost spent the whole period just going over this one poem. We dissected it to where there was absolutely nothing left of it. I wish I could remember what it ended up meaning, but I do know we spent an awful lot of time discussing what the colors red and white signify, as well as the possible symbolism behind the rainwater being on the wheelbarrow so close to chickens.
― Tenacious Dee (Dee the Lurker), Thursday, 27 November 2003 05:40 (twenty years ago) link
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments of princesShall outlive this powerful rhyme.But you shall shine more bright in its contentsThan unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.WHen wastefuk wars shall statues overturnAnd broils root out the work of masonary,Nor Mars his sword, nor wars' quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory.'Gainst death and all oblivious emnity shall you pace forth - our praise shall still find room.Even in the eyes of all posterityThat wear this world out to the ending doom.SO, till the judgement that yourself arise,You live in this, and dwell in lover' eyes.
Eveeryone go aaah!
― Johnney B (Johnney B), Thursday, 27 November 2003 13:28 (twenty years ago) link
a fish hook,an open eye
- Margaret Atwood
― possible m (mandinina), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:33 (twenty years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:34 (twenty years ago) link
No use, you walk backwards,admiring your own footprints
- M.A
a better one...
― possible m (mandinina), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:37 (twenty years ago) link
― Madchen (Madchen), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:40 (twenty years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:46 (twenty years ago) link
grey rain the day the man said when I die let it rain that day whenever it rains then is grey to whomever time says goodbye
who set the man singing said the man who died said grey the man is grey said grey the rain is dead goodbye said the rain
whenever the man is singing then in a grey raincoat time says die wring out the rain ring it out that day save the grave for whomever the man said save the rain for a gay day sing it whenever said the grey die sighs the rain goodbye whenever
-Colin Morton
― Prude (Prude), Thursday, 27 November 2003 19:30 (twenty years ago) link
Hope......goosestep.
― Bill Knott, Friday, 28 November 2003 04:20 (twenty years ago) link
Civilisation is hooped together, broughtUnder a mle, under the semblance of peaceBy manifold illusion; but man's life is thought,And he, despite his terror, cannot ceaseRavening through century after century,Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may comeInto the desolation of reality:Egypt and Greece, good-bye, and good-bye, Rome!Hermits upon Mount Meru or Everest,Caverned in night under the drifted snow,Or where that snow and winter's dreadful blastBeat down upon their naked bodies, knowThat day brings round the night, that before dawnHis glory and his monuments are gone.
― ryan (ryan), Friday, 28 November 2003 04:49 (twenty years ago) link
I sang a song at dusking time Beneath the evening star, And Terence left his latest rhyme To answer from afar.
Pierrot laid down his lute to weep, And sighed, "She sings for me." But Colin slept a careless sleep Beneath an apple tree.
― Curt1s St3ph3ns, Friday, 28 November 2003 04:57 (twenty years ago) link
****************
A City's Death by Fire
After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky,I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire;Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, IWanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire.All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales,Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar;Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were balesTorn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire.By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, whyShould a man wax tears, when his wooden world fails?In town, leaves were paper, but the hills were a flock of faiths;To a boy who walked all day, each leaf was a green breathRebuilding a love I thought was dead as nails,Blessing the death and the baptism by fire.
--
-- Liz :x (elizabeth.daply...), October 10th, 2002
**********
I think there should be a separate Liz thread already, although there is no news yet of her. I don't know her, so don't feel that I am the one to start it.
― Maria :D (Maria D.), Sunday, 10 July 2005 00:39 (eighteen years ago) link
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
-- Pablo Neruda
― luna.c (luna.c), Thursday, 10 October 2002 17:15 (fifteen years ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink
https://miloraps.bandcamp.com/album/sovereign-nose-of-y-our-arrogant-face
― call me by your name..or Finn (fionnland), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 21:00 (six years ago) link
The things about you I appreciatemay seem indelicate:I’d like to find you in the showerand chase the soap for half an hour.I’d like to have you in my powerand see your eyes dilate.I’d like to have your back to scourand other parts to lubricate.Sometimes I feel it is my fateto chase you screaming up a toweror make you cowerby asking you to differentiateNietzsche from Schopenhauer.I’d like successfully to guess your weightand win you at a fete.I’d like to offer you a flower.
I like the hair upon your shouldersfalling like water over boulders.I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.Your collar-bones have great potential(I’d like all your particulars in foldersmarked Confidential).
I like your cheeks, I like your nose,I like the way your lips disclosethe neat arrangement of your teeth(half above and half beneath)in rows.
I like your eyes, I like their fringes.The way they focus on me gives me twinges.Your upper arms drive me berserkI like the way your elbows work,on hinges.
I like your wrists, I like your glands,I like the fingers on your hands.I’d like to teach them how to count,and certain things we might exchange,something familiar for something strange.I’d like to give you just the right amountand give some change.
I like it when you tilt your cheek up.I like the way you hold a teacup.I like your legs when you unwind them,even in trousers I don’t mind them.I’d always know, without a recap,where to find them.
I like the sculpture of your ears.I like the way your profile disappearsWhenever you decide to turn and face me.I’d like to cross two hemispheresand have you chase me.I’d like to smuggle you across frontiersor sail with you at night into Tangiers.I’d like you to embrace me.
I’d like to see you ironing your skirtand cancelling other dates.I’d like to button up your shirt.I like the way your chest inflates.I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurtor frightened senseless by invertebrates.
I’d like you even if you were malignand had a yen for sudden homicide.I’d let you put insecticideinto my wine.I’d even like you if you were the Brideof Frankensteinor something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’sJekyll and Hyde.I’d even like you as my Julianof Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan.How melodramaticif you were something muttering in atticslike Mrs Rochester or a student of BooleanMathematics.
You are the end of self-abuse.You are the eternal feminine.I’d like to find a good excuseto call on you and find you in.I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin,and see you grin.I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,I’d like to make you reproduce.
I’d like you in my confidence.I’d like to be your second look.I’d like to let you try the French Defenceand mate you with my rook.I’d like to be your preferenceand henceI’d like to be around when you unhook.I’d like to be your only audience,the final name in your appointment book,your future tense.
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:33 (six years ago) link
Damn dude
― calstars, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:44 (six years ago) link
I think I read that first on another ilx thread tbh it's a beaut
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:45 (six years ago) link
yes but you just try saying that to a coworker these days
― #TeamHailing (imago), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:47 (six years ago) link
Post a poem u
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:49 (six years ago) link
On the Flyleaf of Pound's Cantos
There are the Alps. What is there to say about them? They don't make sense. Fatal glaciers, crags cranks climb, jumbled boulder and weed, pasture and boulder, scree, et l'on entend, maybe, le refrain joyeux et leger.Who knows what the ice will have scraped on the rock it is smoothing?
There they are, you will have to go a long way round if you want to avoid them. It takes some getting used to. There are the Alps, fools! Sit down and wait for them to crumble!
-- Basil Bunting
― the late great, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:54 (six years ago) link
That's good
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:57 (six years ago) link
One more go-to:
Inniskeen Road: July Evening
The bicycles go by in twos and threes -There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn tonight,And there's the half-talk code of mysteriesAnd the wink-and-elbow language of delight.Half-past eight and there is not a spotUpon a mile of road, no shadow thrownThat might turn out a man or woman, notA footfall tapping secrecies of stone.
I have what every poet hates in spiteOf all the solemn talk of contemplation.Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plightOf being king and government and nation.A road, a mile of kingdom. I am kingOf banks and stones and every blooming thing.
-Patrick Kavanagh
I am endlessly taken by the run and rhythm from half past eight to stone
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:58 (six years ago) link
lonely guy just writing poem baout things
― the late great, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:05 (six years ago) link
that is a good one too
A Man in Assynt by Norman MacCaig is a little long to post here so I'll link it here
I really love this reading by the author and just falling into the West Highland landscapes.
― call me by your name..or Finn (fionnland), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:13 (six years ago) link
So many to name, but the beginning of Keith Waldrop's 'Shipwreck in Heaven' springs to mind:
Balancing. Austere. Life-less. I have tried to keepcontext from claiming you.Without doors. And there arewindows. How far, howfar into the desert have we come?Rude instruments, productof my garden. Might also bedifferent, what I am thinking of.So you see: it isnot symmetrical, darkred out of the snow.
Without doors. And there arewindows. How far, howfar into the desert have we come?
Rude instruments, productof my garden. Might also bedifferent, what I am thinking of.
So you see: it isnot symmetrical, darkred out of the snow.
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:16 (six years ago) link
Or part I of Rosmarie Waldrop's 'In a Doorway' (from Blindsight):
The world was galaxies imagined flesh. Mortal. What to think now? Think simple. Matter? A lump of wax? An afterglow? Or does everything happen of its own accord? Perfect and full-bodied. No more. Observable. No longer. In your eyes or line of sight. Down all three dimensions of time. Or lock up the house. Or prophets.•Here I work toward. A kind of elegy. Here a strange ceiling. "Earth fills his mouth." I would look at you. And write you. A spell but slack at the edge. And in the door where I stand your voice goes. Hollow.•If what happened. (Happened?) Hand. Between palms. Grief. Death. Coffee with cream. Coffee. Arms, knees and free will. And shiny. Rainbows.•The words have detached. And spread throughout my body. Such reckless growth. Windbag! Want to see come full circle the wheel? To comment. My own commentary till I till. My own great-granddaughter's body?•Absence. But it cuts. Repeat. Furiously Yes then No. Even a fictional character catches a chill. Makes the heart. And cold penetrates. We do not fall off the surface. But you, planet earth. Grow. Even as we read. Fonder of the dark.
•
Here I work toward. A kind of elegy. Here a strange ceiling. "Earth fills his mouth." I would look at you. And write you. A spell but slack at the edge. And in the door where I stand your voice goes. Hollow.
If what happened. (Happened?) Hand. Between palms. Grief. Death. Coffee with cream. Coffee. Arms, knees and free will. And shiny. Rainbows.
The words have detached. And spread throughout my body. Such reckless growth. Windbag! Want to see come full circle the wheel? To comment. My own commentary till I till. My own great-granddaughter's body?
Absence. But it cuts. Repeat. Furiously Yes then No. Even a fictional character catches a chill. Makes the heart. And cold penetrates. We do not fall off the surface. But you, planet earth. Grow. Even as we read. Fonder of the dark.
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:22 (six years ago) link
I also miss the late Simon Howard, whose blog is still up:
http://walkingintheceiling.blogspot.ca
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:24 (six years ago) link
The following was written by one of my students, a 12 year-old kid from New York whom I taught via Skype. I provide it verbatim:
The LookThis look I see too much,Out of confusionAnd bewilderment.From people who,Cannot comprehend,The stories of those,Who can suppress.This look I find unbearable,The lookFrom those who mayBe forgetful.I still do not understand,What is the cause ofThis unmistakable glance.
This look I see too much,Out of confusionAnd bewilderment.
From people who,Cannot comprehend,The stories of those,Who can suppress.
This look I find unbearable,The lookFrom those who mayBe forgetful.
I still do not understand,What is the cause ofThis unmistakable glance.
I sometimes wonder what he's up to now. Hopefully writing poetry.
― #TeamHailing (imago), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:41 (six years ago) link
After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
It is difficult even to choose the adjective For this blank cold, this sadness without cause. The great structure has become a minor house. No turban walks across the lessened floors.
The greenhouse never so badly needed paint. The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side. A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition In a repetitiousness of men and flies.
Yet the absence of the imagination hadItself to be imagined. The great pond,The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence
Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all thisHad to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,Required, as a necessity requires.
― morning wood truancy (Alfred, Lord Sotosyn), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:43 (six years ago) link
I was expecting 'The Charge of the Light Brigade'.
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:56 (six years ago) link
O commemorate me where there is water, Canal water, preferably, so stillyGreeny at the heart of summer. BrotherCommemorate me thus beautifullyWhere by a lock niagarously roarsThe falls for those who sit in the tremendous silenceOf mid-July. No one will speak in proseWho finds his way to these Parnassian islands. A swan goes by head low with many apologies, Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges - And look! a barge comes bringing from AthyAnd other far-flung towns mythologies.O commemorate me with no hero-courageous Tomb - just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by.
― spaghetti connemara (darraghmac), Friday, 15 January 2021 02:43 (three years ago) link