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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 10, 2011 8:59:53 GMT -5
Poem of the Day. "619" by Kate Greenstreet
Unexpected meetings occur in a forest, on a mountain, by the sea.
I shook hands with the men.
I'm disappearing.
Something in me is disappearing.
So. Is that a yes?
Some of us have taken off our wigs. The immense, the colossal weight of our hope. Sex is part of it. Do you think I’m pretty?
[The future will present itself with unimaginable ruthlessness. But we can guess.]
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 11, 2011 9:38:16 GMT -5
Poem of the Day. "Cognitive Deficit Market" by Joshua Corey
She has forgotten what she forgot this morning: her keys, toast in the toaster blackening the insides of beloved skulls, little planetariums projecting increasingly incomplete and fanciful constellations: the Gravid Ass, the Mesozoic Cartwheel, the Big Goatee, the Littlest Fascist. Outside her window a crowd gathers, seething in white confusion like milk boiling dry in a saucepan—some lift fingers to point this way and that with herky-jerky certainty but they're standing too close for all those flying hands so that eyeglasses and hats fall—apologies inaudible, someone hands a fist, the brawl overwhelms the meager traffic of pedicabs and delivery trucks stacked high with rotting lettuce. Meanwhile above it all she's setting out the tea things: ceramic cup and saucer, little pewter spoon, pebbled iron pot, a slice of Sara Lee. Waiting to remember to turn the radio on, listen for the elevator, for the lock to turn or a knock on the door. In a little while she'll put everything away in the same configuration at the bottom of a clean white sink with its faucet dripping. We who watch this, half-turned away already toward sunny gardens or the oncoming semi— being not the one dead but not exactly alive either. The skin is a glove that wrinkles as it tightens. The cerebellum's the same. A game of chess between walking sticks—I mean the insects made up to resemble wood. I say we dissemble from photos and repetition our stakes in these weightless names.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 11, 2011 16:25:55 GMT -5
Philip Levine, just named the next US poet laureate, writes poetry that speaks to and for everyday folks. His poetry has been noted for its realism and use of everyday speech. “An Extraordinary Morning”from Poetry (July/August 2009) introduces readers to two hardworking twin brothers.
Two young men — you just might call them boys — waiting for the Woodward streetcar to get them downtown. Yes, they’re tired, they’re also dirty, and happy. Happy because they’ve finished a short work week and if they’re not rich they’re as close to rich as they’ll ever be in this town. Are they truly brothers? You could ask the husky one, the one in the black jacket he fills to bursting; he seems friendly enough, snapping his fingers while he shakes his ass and sings “Sweet Lorraine,” or if you’re put off by his mocking tone ask the one leaning against the locked door of Ruby’s Rib Shack, the one whose eyelids flutter in time with nothing. Tell him it’s crucial to know if in truth this is brotherly love. He won’t get angry, he’s too tired for anger, too relieved to be here, he won’t even laugh though he’ll find you silly. It’s Thursday, maybe a holy day somewhere else, maybe the Sabbath, but these two, neither devout nor cynical, have no idea how to worship except by doing what they’re doing, singing a song about a woman they love merely for her name, breathing in and out the used and soiled air they wouldn’t know how to live without, and by filling the twin bodies they’ve disguised as filth.
In his “Critic’s Notebook” piece about Philip Levine, Making Rare Appearance: People and Their Appetites, Dwight Garner writes: ...the work of Philip Levine, America’s new and 18th poet laureate, is welcome because it radiates a heat of a sort not often felt in today’s poetry, that transmitted by grease, soil, factory light, cheap and honest food, sweat, low pay, cigarettes and second shifts. It is a plainspoken poetry ready-made, it seems, for a time of S&P downgrades, a double-dip recession and debts left unpaid.
...The book to buy, if you haven’t read Mr. Levine, is What Work Is, which won a National Book Award in 1991. It won’t give you the most rounded sense of his long and varied career, but it starts strong and, like a perfect rock record, won’t quit. Mr. Levine was born in Detroit and worked in Cadillac and Chevy factories as a young man; his evocations of working-class life are moving and exacting.
...Mr. Levine’s poems aren’t lachrymose; they don’t present blue-collar caricatures. Yet he speaks for people who are rarely given a voice in our poetry, and his poems feel, crucially, populated.
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Post by Royston Vasey on Aug 12, 2011 9:11:31 GMT -5
I too enjoy your favourites, Pegasus.
Today, my offering is a sonnet from Shakespeare. It is, in fact, entitled 'Sonnet I' and is from his group of so-called 'procreation' sonnets (which were Nos 1-17). In this offering The Bard tackles that fleeting illusion which many poets have considered i.e. 'youth's beauty'.
sonnet I
From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel: Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding: Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
Go well.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 12, 2011 10:37:29 GMT -5
Love Shakespeare, plays and sonnets
From sonnet #2 "When forty winters shall besiege thy brow And dig deep trenches in thy Beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held."
Imagine considering someone of 40 "a tatter'd weed"!!
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 12, 2011 10:43:44 GMT -5
Poem of the Day. "Balance" by Adam Zagajewski / trans. by Clare Cavanagh
I watched the arctic landscape from above and thought of nothing, lovely nothing. I observed white canopies of clouds, vast expanses where no wolf tracks could be found.
I thought about you and about the emptiness that can promise one thing only: plenitude— and that a certain sort of snowy wasteland bursts from a surfeit of happiness.
As we drew closer to our landing, the vulnerable earth emerged among the clouds, comic gardens forgotten by their owners, pale grass plagued by winter and the wind.
I put my book down and for an instant felt a perfect balance between waking and dreams. But when the plane touched concrete, then assiduously circled the airport's labryinth,
I once again knew nothing. The darkness of daily wanderings resumed, the day's sweet darkness, the darkness of the voice that counts and measures, remembers and forgets.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 13, 2011 8:36:19 GMT -5
Poem of the Day. "Simulacra" by Ching-In Chen
It's not that the rains have rolled back up to the ceiling. It's not that the frost has stopped flirting with the dunegrass. My mother's eyes are glass: she writes me what she sees there.
Duck waddling highway, sideways raccoon pus, mutant sunflower with a yen for fertilizer.
She has no time for wordshit. Her older sister tells me my mother doesn't understand much of poetry. Why am I resistant?
The camera's already been here.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 14, 2011 10:17:55 GMT -5
Poem of the Day. "On the Beach at Night Alone" by Walt Whitman in The Complete Poems [Penguin Classics]
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.
Bonus Poem. "A Clear Midnight" by Walt Whitman
This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars.
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Post by Royston Vasey on Aug 15, 2011 9:39:29 GMT -5
Hello Pegasus, I hope you are well,
Today my offering comes from John Milton (1608-1674), it is he who was the author of the extraordinarily long Paradise Lost. It's not from Paradise, though, that I'll be taking this day's offering, but more of that later.
John Milton led an interesting life - he was the son of a composer and he received a top-notch formal education, which culminated at Christ's College, Cambridge. Puritanical (perhaps) or "Miltonic" in his style, Milton began his writing of poetry at university, but then came a twenty-year hiatus in his penmanship of verse until he undertook Paradise Lost. During his 'dry spell' our poet travelled in Europe - where he met Galileo - and campaigned for various (religious, civil and domestic) liberties.
Milton's eyesight was failing by the mid 1640s and he was completely blind by 1652; he now relied on family, friends and various helpers to take dictation for him. One of his publications (the republican The Ready and Easy Way to Establish a Free Commonwealth), in 1660, got him into hot water with Charles II. After escaping the King's wrath he settled into poetry once more. Sensible chap.
And so, back to today's offering - which is another epitaph - which speaks of William Shakespeare. The Bard was not always as popular as he now is. And so (again), I give you the snappily titled (sic) An Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet W. Shakespeare -
What needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones The labor of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thy self a livelong monument. For whilst, to th' shame of slow-endeavoring art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving, And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
Go well.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 15, 2011 10:34:15 GMT -5
:)good morning Royston
13 Aug 1660—Charles II of England ordered the suppression of pamphlets written by John Milton.
My favorite Milton is his Sonnet: "On his blindness".
When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best, his state Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 15, 2011 12:53:46 GMT -5
Poem of the Day "Letter from a Haunted Room" by Lisa Sewell
Dear K., there’s a mosquito stain between the pages of your book, a streak of platelets beside my index finger. The broken microscopic cells have escaped the hurly-burly of the wide aorta, the stark unholy flow through veins and tubules. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mistake anatomy for emotion. My heart is meat and gristle, like Artaud’s: a simple pump, it never falters. If I weep it’s for the rocking chair, three knocks embedded in the nursery wall. On one window, I found instructions: “Here, no cares invade, all sorrows cease” in almost perfect iambs. Forgive me. I tried to keep them “far outside” but they marched right up to my room. All month they’ve been waving tenuous arms. Have you seen them? What could I do but let them in and let them rest in your favorite chair. Soon they’ll disappear or I will. In the afternoons (do you remember?) light falls or spills, spills or falls through the amber stained-glass windows. It lifts my spirits but I’m still waiting for you to appear at the edge of my bed with a message. Think of the ruins I could have traveled to by now, think of the days I’ve wasted lying on the pink divan, a stand of hawthorns blocking my view of the rose garden, my American Beauty, already fully blown.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 16, 2011 9:27:34 GMT -5
Poem of the Day "In the Airport" by Eleni Sikelianos
A man called Dad walks by then another one does. Dad, you say and he turns, forever turning, forever being called. Dad, he turns, and looks at you, bewildered, his face a moving wreck of skin, a gravity-bound question mark, a fruit ripped in two, an animal that can't escape the field.
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Post by Royston Vasey on Aug 17, 2011 11:47:19 GMT -5
Hello Pegasus,
How about a poem from Poe? - Edgar Allan Poe, that is. This offering is said to have been inspired by a talking raven in Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty by Charles Dickens.
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door; Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; 'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never - nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Go well.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 17, 2011 11:59:52 GMT -5
:)Ah yes, "The Raven," but he wrote other poems and one, "A Dream" is a favorite of mine.
In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed- But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream- that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro' storm and night, So trembled from afar- What could there be more purely bright In Truth's day-star?
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 17, 2011 12:04:14 GMT -5
Poem of the Day "At the Carnival" by Anne Spencer in The book of American negro poetry [Univ. of Michigan Library]
Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank, I desire a name for you, Nice, as a right glove fits; For you—who amid the malodorous Mechanics of this unlovely thing, Are darling of spirit and form. I know you—a glance, and what you are Sits-by-the-fire in my heart. My Limousine-Lady knows you, or Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile? Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning. The bull-necked man knows you—this first time His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health And thinks not of his avocation. I came incuriously— Set on no diversion save that my mind Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds In the presence of a blind crowd. The color of life was gray. Everywhere the setting seemed right For my mood. Here the sausage and garlic booth Sent unholy incense skyward; There a quivering female-thing Gestured assignations, and lied To call it dancing; There, too, were games of chance With chances for none; But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last! Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free The gaze you send the crowd, As though you know the dearth of beauty In its sordid life. We need you—my Limousine-Lady, The bull-necked man and I. Seeing you here brave and water-clean, Leaven for the heavy ones of earth, I am swift to feel that what makes The plodder glad is good; and Whatever is good is God. The wonder is that you are here; I have seen the queer in queer places, But never before a heaven-fed Naiad of the Carnival-Tank! Little Diver, Destiny for you, Like as for me, is shod in silence; Years may seep into your soul The bacilli of the usual and the expedient; I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!
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Post by Royston Vasey on Aug 18, 2011 10:20:21 GMT -5
Then, Pegasus, I raise your Poe's "A Dream", with this: - Poe's 'A Dream within a Dream'.
A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow-- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand-- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?
Go well.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 18, 2011 12:39:27 GMT -5
And I raise you! Dreams by Edgar Allan Poe
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream! My spirit not awak'ning till the beam Of an Eternity should bring the morrow. Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow, 'T were better than the cold reality Of waking life, to him whose heart must be, And hath been still, upon the lovely earth, A chaos of deep passion, from his birth. But should it be - that dream eternally Continuing - as dreams have been to me In my young boyhood - should it thus be giv'n, 'T were folly still to hope for higher Heav'n. For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light And loveliness, - have left my very heart In climes of mine imagining, apart From mine own home, with beings that have been Of mine own thought - what more could I have seen? 'T was once - and only once - and the wild hour From my remembrance shall not pass - some pow'r Or spell had bound me - 't was the chilly wind Cam o'er me in the night, and left behind Its image on my spirit - or the moon Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon Too coldly - or the stars - howe'er it was, That dream was as that night-wind - let it pass.
I have been happy, tho' [but] in a dream. I have been happy - and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life, As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife Of semblance with reality which brings To the delirious eye, more lovely things Of Paradise and Love - and all our own! Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known. <my emphasis>
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 18, 2011 12:42:51 GMT -5
Poem of the Day "Ode to My Hands" by Tim Seibles
Five-legged pocket spiders, knuckled starfish, grabbers of forks, why do I forget that you love me: your willingness to button my shirts, tie my shoes—even scratch my head! which throbs like a traffic jam, each thought leaning on its horn. I see you
waiting anyplace always at the ends of my arms—for the doctor, for the movie to begin, for freedom—so silent, such patience! testing the world with your bold myopia: faithful, ready to reach out at my softest suggestion, to fly up like two birds when I speak, two brown thrashers brandishing verbs like twigs in your beaks, lifting my speech the way pepper springs the tongue from slumber. O!
If only they knew the unrestrained innocence of your intentions, each finger a cappella, singing a song that rings like rain before it falls—that never falls! Such harmony: the bass thumb, the pinkie's soprano, the three tenors in between: kind quintet x 2 rowing my heart like a little boat upon whose wooden seat I sit strummed by Sorrow. Or maybe
I misread you completely and you are dreaming a tangerine, one particular hot tamale, a fabulous banana! to peel suggestively, like thigh-high stockings: grinning as only hands can grin down the legs—caramel, cocoa, black-bean black, vanilla—such lubricious dimensions, such public secrets! Women sailing the streets with God's breath at their backs. Think of it! No! Yes: let my brain sweat, make my veins whimper: without you, my five-hearted fiends, my five-headed hydras, what of my mischievous history? The possibilities suddenly impossible—feelings not felt, rememberings un- remembered—all the touches untouched: the gallant strain
of a pilfered ant, tiny muscles flexed with fight, the gritty sidewalk slapped after a slip, the pulled weed, the plucked flower—a buttercup! held beneath Dawn's chin—the purest kiss, the caught grasshopper's kick, honey, chalk, charcoal, the solos teased from guitar. Once, I played viola for a year and never stopped
to thank you—my two angry sisters, my two hungry men—but you knew I just wanted to know what the strings would say concerning my soul, my whelming solipsism: this perpetual solstice where one + one = everything and two hands teach a dawdler the palpable alchemy of an unreasonable world.
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Post by Royston Vasey on Aug 19, 2011 9:20:32 GMT -5
Hello Pegasus, I believe there exists only one more Poe (Dream-entitled) poem, namely "Dreamland". Here it is -
Dreamland
By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule- From a wild clime that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE- out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the tears that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters- lone and dead,- Their still waters- still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,- Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,- By the mountains- near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,- By the grey woods,- by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp- By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,- By each spot the most unholy- In each nook most melancholy- There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past- Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by- White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion 'Tis a peaceful, soothing region- For the spirit that walks in shadow 'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not- dare not openly view it! Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule.
Go well.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 19, 2011 11:03:56 GMT -5
OK- -you win!!
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