tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9121121573033564842024-03-13T04:10:28.005-07:00My foreign swampMijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-20314062162928640082017-07-28T05:52:00.000-07:002017-07-28T05:52:07.839-07:00Anthem by Leonard COHEN
The birds they sang
<br />
at the break of day
<br />
Start again
<br />
I heard them say
<br />
Don't dwell on what
<br />
has passed away
<br />
or what is yet to be.
<br />
Ah the wars they will
<br />
be fought again
<br />
The holy dove
<br />
She will be caught again
<br />
bought and sold
<br />
and bought again
<br />
the dove is never free.
<br />
<br />
Ring the bells that still can ring
<br />
Forget your perfect offering
<br />
There is a crack in everything
<br />
That's how the light gets in.
<br />
<br />
We asked for signs
<br />
the signs were sent:
<br />
the birth betrayed
<br />
the marriage spent
<br />
Yeah the widowhood
<br />
of every government --
<br />
signs for all to see.
<br />
<br /><br />
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<br />I can't run no more
<br />
with that lawless crowd
<br />
while the killers in high places
<br />
say their prayers out loud.
<br />
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
<br />
a thundercloud
<br />
and they're going to hear from me.
<br />
<br />
Ring the bells that still can ring ...
<br />
<br />
You can add up the parts
<br />
but you won't have the sum
<br />
You can strike up the march,
<br />
there is no drum
<br />
Every heart, every heart
<br />
to love will come
<br />
but like a refugee.
<br />
<br />
Ring the bells that still can ring
<br />
Forget your perfect offering
<br />
There is a crack, a crack in everything
<br />
That's how the light gets in.
<br />
<br />
Ring the bells that still can ring
<br />
Forget your perfect offering
<br />
There is a crack, a crack in everything
<br />
That's how the light gets in.
<br />
That's how the light gets in.
<br />
That's how the light gets in.Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-87669403211271449822016-02-20T04:14:00.003-08:002016-02-20T04:15:40.487-08:00The Hollow Men (T. S. ELIOT)<br />
<div id="poemText">
<pre><i>Mistah Kurtz—he dead.</i>
<i>A penny for the Old Guy</i>
<b>I</b>
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
<b>II</b>
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
<b>III</b>
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
<b>IV</b>
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
<b>V</b>
<i>Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.</i>
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
<i>For Thine is the Kingdom</i>
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
<i>Life is very long</i>
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
<i>For Thine is the Kingdom</i>
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
<i>This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.</i>
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Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-1967222224613716242016-01-09T01:07:00.000-08:002016-01-09T01:07:06.685-08:00Two schools by Henry Van DykeI put my heart to school<br />
In the world, where men grow wise,<br />
"Go out," I said, "and learn the rule;<br />
Come back when you win a prize."<br />
<br />
My heart came back again:<br />
"Now where is the prize?" I cried. ----<br />
"The rule was false, and the prize was pain,<br />
And the teacher's name was Pride."<br />
<br />
I put my heart to school<br />
In the woods, where veeries sing,<br />
And brooks run cool and clear;<br />
In the fields, where wild flowers spring,<br />
And the blue of heaven bends near.<br />
"Go out," I said: "you are half a fool,<br />
But perhaps they can teach you here."<br />
<br />
"And why do you stay so long,<br />
My heart, and where do you roam?"<br />
The answer came with a laugh and a song, ---<br />
"I find this school is home."
<br />
<br />
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
<a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/henry-van-dyke/poems/">Henry Van Dyke</a></div>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-12193201539057503862016-01-09T01:06:00.001-08:002016-01-09T01:06:36.707-08:00IF by e e cummings (1984-1962)<div class="poem-part continue-reading poem-body wordwrap">
If freckles were lovely, and day was night,<br />
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,<br />
Life would be delight,—<br />
But things couldn’t go right<br />
For in such a sad plight<br />
I wouldn’t be I.<br />
<br />
If earth was heaven and now was hence,<br />
And past was present, and false was true,<br />
There might be some sense<br />
But I’d be in suspense<br />
For on such a pretense<br />
You wouldn’t be you.<br />
<br />
If fear was plucky, and globes were square,<br />
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee<br />
Things would seem fair,—<br />
Yet they’d all despair,<br />
For if here was there<br />
We wouldn’t be we.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://hellopoetry.com/e-e-cummings/">http://hellopoetry.com/e-e-cummings</a></div>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-7980734720424369402015-09-12T10:52:00.003-07:002015-09-12T10:52:57.785-07:00On the road to the sea (Charlotte MEW)
We passed each other, turned and stopped for half an hour, then went our way,<br />I who make other women smile did not make you--<br />But no man can move mountains in a day.<br />So this hard thing is yet to do. <br /><br />But first I want your life:--before I die I want to see<br />The world that lies behind the strangeness of your eyes,<br />There is nothing gay or green there for my gathering, it may be,<br />Yet on brown fields there lies<br />A haunting purple bloom: is there not something in grey skies<br />And in grey sea?<br />I want what world there is behind your eyes,<br />I want your life and you will not give it me. <br /><br />Now, if I look, I see you walking down the years,<br />Young, and through August fields--a face, a thought, a swinging dream<br />perched on a stile--;<br />I would have liked (so vile we are!) to have taught you tears<br />But most to have made you smile.<br />To-day is not enough or yesterday: God sees it all--<br />Your length on sunny lawns, the wakeful rainy nights--; tell me--;<br />(how vain to ask), but it is not a question--just a call--;<br />Show me then, only your notched inches climbing up the garden wall,<br />I like you best when you are small. <br /><br />Is this a stupid thing to say<br />Not having spent with you one day?<br />No matter; I shall never touch your hair<br />Or hear the little tick behind your breast,<br />Still it is there,<br />And as a flying bird<br />Brushes the branches where it may not rest<br />I have brushed your hand and heard<br />The child in you: I like that best<br />So small, so dark, so sweet; and were you also then too grave and wise?<br />Always I think. Then put your far off little hand in mine;--<br />Oh! let it rest;<br />I will not stare into the early world beyond the opening eyes,<br />Or vex or scare what I love best.<br />But I want your life before mine bleeds away--<br />Here--not in heavenly hereafters--soon,--<br />I want your smile this very afternoon,<br />(The last of all my vices, pleasant people used to say,<br />I wanted and I sometimes got--the Moon!) <br /><br />You know, at dusk, the last bird's cry,<br />And round the house the flap of the bat's low flight,<br />Trees that go black against the sky<br />And then--how soon the night! <br /><br />No shadow of you on any bright road again,<br />And at the darkening end of this--what voice? whose kiss? As if you'd say!<br />It is not I who have walked with you, it will not be I who take away<br />Peace, peace, my little handful of the gleaner's grain<br />From your reaped fields at the shut of day. <br /><br />Peace! Would you not rather die<br />Reeling,--with all the cannons at your ear?<br />So, at least, would I,<br />And I may not be here<br />To-night, to-morrow morning or next year.<br />Still I will let you keep your life a little while,<br />See dear?<br />I have made you smile.
<br />
<br />
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
<a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/charlotte-mary-mew/poems/">Charlotte Mary Mew</a></div>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-48031926570381022882015-07-29T09:36:00.002-07:002015-07-29T09:36:47.030-07:00They are all gone away by Edwin Arlington Robinson
They are all gone away,<br />The house is shut and still,<br />There is nothing more to say.<br /><br />Through broken walls and gray<br />The winds blow bleak and shrill:<br />They are all gone away.<br /><br />Nor is there one today<br />To speak them good or ill:<br />There is nothing more to say.<br /><br />Why is it then we stray<br />Around the sunken sill?<br />They are all gone away.<br /><br />And our poor fancy-play<br />For them is wasted skill:<br />There is nothing more to say.<br /><br />There is ruin and decay<br />In the House on the Hill<br />They are all gone away,<br />There is nothing more to say.
<br />
<br />
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
<a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/edwin-arlington-robinson/poems/">Edwin Arlington Robinson</a></div>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-32004040131323768202015-02-25T08:42:00.001-08:002015-02-25T08:42:09.925-08:00The darkling thrush by Thomas HARDY<div class="KonaBody" style="min-height: 610px; padding-right: 5px;">
I leant upon a coppice gate, <br />When Frost was spectre-gray, <br />And Winter's dregs made desolate <br />The weakening eye of day. <br />The tangled bine-stems scored the sky <br />Like strings of broken lyres, <br />And all mankind that haunted nigh <br />Had sought their household fires. <br /><br />The land's sharp features seemed to me <br />The Century's corpse outleant, <br />Its crypt the cloudy canopy, <br />The wind its death-lament. <br />The ancient pulse of germ and birth <br />Was shrunken hard and dry, <br />And every spirit upon earth <br />Seemed fervorless as I. <br /><br />At once a voice arose among <br />The bleak twigs overhead, <br />In a full-hearted evensong <br />Of joy illimited. <br />An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, <br />With blast-beruffled plume, <br />Had chosen thus to fling his soul <br />Upon the growing gloom. <br /><br />So little cause for carolings <br />Of such ecstatic sound <br />Was written on terrestrial things <br />Afar or nigh around, <br />That I could think there trembled through <br />His happy good-night air <br />Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew, <br />And I was unaware.
<br />
<br />
</div>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-25991335372895901662015-01-07T10:09:00.000-08:002015-01-07T10:09:24.999-08:00Villanelle by Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953<div class="view view-poems view-id-poems view-display-id-poem_author_dob_dod view-dom-id-2528ff9ae7a3f4fad809eaa0b0877f73">
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<span class="node-title"><br /></span><span class="date-display-single" content="1953-11-09T00:00:00-05:00"></span> </div>
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Do not go gentle into that good night,<br />Old age should burn and rave at close of day;<br />Rage, rage against the dying of the light.<br /><br />Though wise men at their end know dark is right,<br />Because their words had forked no lightning they<br />Do not go gentle into that good night.<br /><br />Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright<br />Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,<br />Rage, rage against the dying of the light.<br /><br />Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,<br />And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,<br />Do not go gentle into that good night.<br /><br />Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight<br />Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,<br />Rage, rage against the dying of the light.<br /><br />And you, my father, there on the sad height,<br />Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.<br />Do not go gentle into that good night.<br />Rage, rage against the dying of the light.</div>
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Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-20005055241465015882014-11-29T00:50:00.002-08:002014-11-29T00:50:20.200-08:00Limerick by William Cosmo Monkhouse (1840-1901)<dl><dd><span style="font-size: large;">There <b>was</b> a young <b>la</b>dy from <b>Ni</b>ger,</span></dd><dd><span style="font-size: large;">Who <b>smiled</b> as she <b>rode</b> on a <b>ti</b>ger;</span></dd><dd><span style="font-size: large;">They came <b>back</b> from the <b>ride</b></span></dd><dd><span style="font-size: large;">With the <b>la</b>dy in<b>side</b>,</span></dd><dd><span style="font-size: large;">And the <b>smile</b> on the <b>face</b> of the <b>ti</b>ger.</span></dd><dd><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></dd><dd><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></dd><dd><span style="font-size: large;">William Cosmo Monkhouse (1840-1901) </span></dd></dl>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-34940734921544207502014-11-18T09:35:00.004-08:002014-11-18T09:36:12.474-08:00Daybreak in Alabama by Langston Hughes<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/CreativeWork">When I get to be a composer<br />I'm gonna write me some music about<br />Daybreak in Alabama<br />And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it<br />Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist<br />And falling out of heaven like soft dew.<br />I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it<br />And the scent of pine needles<br />And the smell of red clay after rain<br />And long red necks<br />And poppy colored faces<br />And big brown arms<br />And the field daisy eyes<br />Of black and white black white black people<br />And I'm gonna put white hands<br />And black hands and brown and yellow hands<br />And red clay earth hands in it<br />Touching everybody with kind fingers<br />And touching each other natural as dew<br />In that dawn of music when I<br />Get to be a composer<br />And write about daybreak<br />In Alabama. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="ptScope">
<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">
<a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/langston-hughes/" itemprop="url" title="Langston Hughes"><span class="h1Lnk" itemprop="name">Langston Hughes</span></a>
</span>
<i>(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967 / Missouri)</i></div>
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<i> </i>
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Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-3225409521584649762014-05-28T22:40:00.001-07:002014-05-28T22:40:39.178-07:00Lorine NiedeckerIn moonlight lies<br />
the river passing—<br />
it's not quiet<br />
and it's not laughing.<br />
I'm not young<br />
and I'm not free<br />
but I've a house of my own<br />
by a willow tree.<br />
<br />
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-<br />
<br />
<br />
What horror to awake at night<br />
and in the dimness see the light.<br />
Time is white<br />
mosquitoes bite<br />
I've spent my life on nothing.<br />
The thought that stings. How are you, Nothing,<br />
sitting around with Something's wife.<br />
Buzz and burn<br />
is all I learn<br />
I've spent my life on nothing.<br />
I've pillowed and padded, pale and puffing<br />
lifting household stuffing—<br />
carpets, dishes<br />
benches, fishes<br />
I've spent my life in nothing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Poems by Lorine Niedecker are from the book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0520224345/qid=1108055558/sr=1-1/ref=sr_1_1/103-0806991-9141437?v=glance&s=books" target="_blank">"Lorine Niedecker: Collected Works"</a>
edited by Jenny Penberthy, published by the University of California Press, 2002
used with permission by the University of California Press. </i><br />
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-43995447818841317172014-05-12T13:42:00.001-07:002014-05-12T13:43:36.410-07:00For Mac de Jack Spicer <span style="color: maroon; font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><b>For Mac</b>
<br /><b><span style="color: black;"><br />A dead starfish on a beach
<br />He has five branches
<br />Representing the five senses
<br />Representing the jokes we did not tell each other
<br />Call the earth flat
<br />Call other people human
<br />But let this creature lie
<br />Flat upon our senses
<br />Like a love
<br />Prefigured in the sea
<br />That died.
<br />And went to water
<br />All the oceans
<br />Of emotion. All the oceans of emotion
<br />are full of such ffish
<br />Why
<br />Is this dead one of such importance?
</span></b><br /><br /><b>Jack Spicer</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: maroon; font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>à découvrir ... <a href="http://remue.net/spip.php?article1604">http://remue.net/spip.php?article1604</a></b></span>
</span>Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-50060600478327331582014-05-08T01:22:00.003-07:002014-05-08T01:22:22.077-07:00The raspberry room by Karin Gottshall<div class="tab-content active" id="poem-top">
<h1>
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<span class="author"><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/karin-gottshall"></a> </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was solid hedge, loops of bramble and thorny </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">as it had to be with its berries thick as bumblebees. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It drew blood just to get there, but I was queen </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">of that place, at ten, though the berries shook like fists </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">in the wind, daring anyone to come in. I was trying </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">so hard to love this world—real rooms too big and full </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">of worry to comfortably inhabit—but believing I was born</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">to live in that cloistered green bower: the raspberry patch </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">in the back acre of my grandparents’ orchard. I was cross- </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">stitched and beaded by its fat, dollmaker’s needles. The effort </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">of sliding under the heavy, spiked tangles that tore </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">my clothes and smeared me with juice was rewarded </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">with space, wholly mine, a kind of room out of </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">the crush of the bushes with a canopy of raspberry </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">dagger-leaves and a syrup of sun and birdsong. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Hours would pass in the loud buzz of it, blood </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">made it mine—the adventure of that red sting singing </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">down my calves, the place the scratches brought me to: </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: large;">just space enough for a girl to lie down.</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span class="author">By <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/karin-gottshall"> Karin Gottshall</a></span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
</div>
Poem copyright © 2007 by Karin Gottshall. Reprinted from “Crocus,”
by Karin Gottshall, published by Fordham University Press, 2007, with
permission of the author and publisher. First printed in “Black Warrior
Review.”<br />
<br />
<i>le terrier de l'enfance (pas toutes les enfances certes) ... ce qui est écrit laisse deviner ce qui est ressenti et l'espace créatif où l'enfance se projette. </i>MijoMijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-67441337021367740052014-05-03T08:31:00.002-07:002014-05-03T08:31:19.456-07:00To fortune by Robert Herrick<br />
T<span>UMBLE</span> me down, and I will sit<br />
Upon my ruins, smiling yet ;<br />
Tear me to tatters, yet I'll be<br />
Patient in my necessity.<br />
Laugh at my scraps of clothes, and shun<br />
Me, as a fear'd infection ;<br />
Yet, scare-crow-like, I'll walk as one<br />
Neglecting thy derision.
<br /><br /><br />
<br />
<hr align="left" noshade="noshade" size="1" width="255" />
<span>Source:<br />
Herrick, Robert. <u>Works of Robert Herrick.</u> vol II. <br />
Alfred Pollard, ed.<br />London, Lawrence & Bullen, 1891. 41.</span>Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-53926245304238007412014-03-12T10:56:00.000-07:002014-03-12T10:56:23.594-07:00Howard Nemerov<span style="color: maroon; font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><br /><b>Because You Asked About The Line Between Prose And Poetry</b>
<br /><br />Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
<br />That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
<br />Riding a gradient invisible
<br />From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.
<br />
<br />There came a moment that you couldn't tell.
<br />And then they clearly flew instead of fell.
<br /><br />
</span>Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-20925924218229032882014-02-14T02:28:00.006-08:002014-02-14T02:28:41.370-08:00A crazed Girl (William Butler YEATS) <span style="color: maroon; font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><br /><b><span style="color: black;">THAT crazed girl improvising her music.
<br />Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
<br />
<br />Her soul in division from itself
<br />Climbing, falling She knew not where,
<br />Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
<br />Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
<br />A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
<br />Heroically lost, heroically found.
<br />
<br />No matter what disaster occurred
<br />She stood in desperate music wound,
<br />Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
<br />Where the bales and the baskets lay
<br />No common intelligible sound
<br />But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea.'
</span></b><br /><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: maroon; font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>William Butler Yeats</b></span>
</span>Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-42781788195410755822014-01-22T03:38:00.003-08:002014-01-22T03:40:30.251-08:00A Cloud in Trousers by Vladimir Mayakovsky<pre><b>translated from the Russian by Andrey Kneller
</b>
Prologue
Your thought,
Fantasizing on a sodden brain,
Like a bloated lackey on a greasy couch sprawling, --
With my heart’s bloody tatters, I’ll mock it again.
Until I’m contempt, I’ll be ruthless and galling.
There’s no grandfatherly fondness in me,
There are no gray hairs in my soul!
Shaking the world with my voice and grinning,
I pass you by, -- handsome,
Twentytwoyearold.
Gentle souls!
You play your love on the violin.
The crude ones play it on the drums violently.
But can you turn yourselves inside out, like me
And become just two lips entirely?
Come and learn--
You, decorous bureaucrats of angelic leagues!
Step out of those cambric drawing-rooms
And you, who can leaf your lips
Like a cook turns the pages of her recipe books.
If you wish--
I’ll rage on raw meat like a vandal
Or change into hues that the sunrise arouses,
If you wish--
I can be irreproachably gentle,
Not a man -- but a cloud in trousers.
I refuse to believe in Nice<a href="http://www.unlikelystories.org/old/archives/cloudintrousersnotes.html" target="_blank"><sup>1</sup></a> blossoming!
I will glorify you regardless, --
Men, crumpled like bed-sheets in hospitals,
And women, battered like overused proverbs.</pre>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-72618190208802093112013-12-18T05:14:00.000-08:002013-12-18T05:14:07.920-08:00The end of the world by Archibald MacLeish<span style="color: maroon; font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><br /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: black;">Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
<br />The armless ambidextrian was lighting
<br />A match between his great and second toe,
<br />And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
<br />The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
<span></span><br />Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
<br />In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb
<br />Quite unexpectedly to top blew off:
<br />
<br />And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
<br />Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
<br />There in the starless dark, the poise, the hover,
<br />There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
<br />There in the sudden blackness the black pall
<br />Of nothing, nothing, nothing -- nothing at all.
</span></span><br /><span style="color: blue;"><b>Archibald MacLeish (1892-1982)</b></span>
</span>Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-5650410479540748782013-12-07T04:33:00.001-08:002013-12-07T04:33:39.321-08:00The mysteries remain by Hilda Doolittle (1886-1961)<span style="color: maroon; font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><br /><br />The mysteries remain,
<br />I keep the same
<br />cycle of seed-time
<br />and of sun and rain;
<br />Demeter in the grass,
<br />I multiply,
<br />renew and bless
<br />Bacchus in the vine;
<br />I hold the law,
<br />I keep the mysteries true,
<br />the first of these
<br />to name the living, dead;
<br />I am the wine and bread.
<br />I keep the law,
<br />I hold the mysteries true,
<br />I am the vine,
<br />the branches, you
<br />and you.
<br /><br />
</span>Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-25555167040277652492013-10-19T04:03:00.000-07:002013-10-19T04:03:08.645-07:00Like the touch of rain by Edward THOMAS<h2 class="title" itemprop="name">
</h2>
<div style="margin-top: 20px; min-height: 570px;">
<div class="KonaBody">
Like the touch of rain she was<br />On a man's flesh and hair and eyes<br />When the joy of walking thus<br />Has taken him by surprise:<br /><br />With the love of the storm he burns,<br />He sings, he laughs, well I know how,<br />But forgets when he returns<br />As I shall not forget her 'Go now'.<br /><br />Those two words shut a door<br />Between me and the blessed rain<br />That was never shut before<br />And will not open again.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
Edward Thomas</div>
</div>
<br />Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-18319455503804628522013-09-17T13:39:00.000-07:002013-09-17T13:39:04.493-07:00At last she comes by R. L . STEVENSON<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/CreativeWork"></span><br />
<div class="KonaBody">
At last she comes, O never more<br />
In this dear patience of my pain<br />
To leave me lonely as before,<br />
Or leave my soul alone again.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
Robert Louis Stevenson</div>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-8184843724549983702013-08-09T02:22:00.000-07:002013-08-09T02:22:51.768-07:00Annabel Lee by Edgar Poe<div style="margin-top: 20px; min-height: 570px;">
<div class="KonaBody">
It was many and many a year ago,<br />
In a kingdom by the sea,<br />
That a maiden there lived whom you may know<br />
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;<br />
And this maiden she lived with no other thought<br />
Than to love and be loved by me.<br />
<br />
I was a child and she was a child,<br />
In this kingdom by the sea;<br />
But we loved with a love that was more than love-<br />
I and my Annabel Lee;<br />
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven<br />
Coveted her and me.<br />
<br />
And this was the reason that, long ago,<br />
In this kingdom by the sea,<br />
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling<br />
My beautiful Annabel Lee;<br />
So that her highborn kinsman came<br />
And bore her away from me,<br />
To shut her up in a sepulchre<br />
In this kingdom by the sea.<br />
<br />
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,<br />
Went envying her and me-<br />
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,<br />
In this kingdom by the sea)<br />
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,<br />
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.<br />
<br />
But our love it was stronger by far than the love<br />
Of those who were older than we-<br />
Of many far wiser than we-<br />
And neither the angels in heaven above,<br />
Nor the demons down under the sea,<br />
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul<br />
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.<br />
<br />
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams<br />
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;<br />
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes<br />
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;<br />
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side<br />
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,<br />
In the sepulchre there by the sea,<br />
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
</div>
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
</div>
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
Edgar Allan Poe</div>
</div>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-23865432277574738962013-07-19T10:37:00.002-07:002013-07-19T10:37:55.526-07:00Break, break, break (Alfred Lord Tennyson)<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/CreativeWork"></span><br />
<div class="KonaBody">
Break, break, break,<br />On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!<br />And I would that my tongue could utter<br />The thoughts that arise in me. <br /><br />O, well for the fisherman's boy,<br />That he shouts with his sister at play!<br />O, well for the sailor lad,<br />That he sings in his boat on the bay! <br /><br />And the stately ships go on<br />To their haven under the hill;<br />But O for the touch of a vanished hand,<br />And the sound of a voice that is still! <br /><br />Break, break, break,<br />At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!<br />But the tender grace of a day that is dead<br />Will never come back to me.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
Alfred Lord Tennyson</div>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-87785064970459299352013-06-21T13:27:00.001-07:002013-06-21T13:27:28.361-07:00The crematon of Sam McGee (Robert William Service)<h2 class="title" itemprop="name">
The Cremation Of Sam McGee</h2>
<div style="margin-top: 20px; min-height: 570px;">
<div class="KonaBody">
There are strange things done in the midnight sun<br />
By the men who moil for gold;<br />
The Arctic trails have their secret tales<br />
That would make your blood run cold;<br />
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,<br />
But the queerest they ever did see<br />
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge<br />
I cremated Sam McGee.<br />
<br />
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.<br />
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.<br />
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;<br />
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".<br />
<br />
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.<br />
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.<br />
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;<br />
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.<br />
<br />
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,<br />
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,<br />
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;<br />
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."<br />
<br />
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:<br />
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.<br />
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;<br />
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."<br />
<br />
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;<br />
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.<br />
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;<br />
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.<br />
<br />
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,<br />
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;<br />
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:<br />
"You may tax your brawn and brains,<br />
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."<br />
<br />
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.<br />
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.<br />
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,<br />
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.<br />
<br />
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;<br />
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;<br />
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;<br />
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.<br />
<br />
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;<br />
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".<br />
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;<br />
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."<br />
<br />
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;<br />
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;<br />
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;<br />
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.<br />
<br />
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;<br />
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.<br />
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;<br />
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.<br />
<br />
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;<br />
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;<br />
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.<br />
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.<br />
<br />
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;<br />
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.<br />
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --<br />
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."<br />
<br />
There are strange things done in the midnight sun<br />
By the men who moil for gold;<br />
The Arctic trails have their secret tales<br />
That would make your blood run cold;<br />
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,<br />
But the queerest they ever did see<br />
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge<br />
I cremated Sam McGee.
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
Robert William Service</div>
</div>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-912112157303356484.post-83539881493685981762013-06-13T00:32:00.001-07:002013-06-13T00:34:12.406-07:00How great my grief by Thomas HARDY<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/CreativeWork"></span><br />
<div class="KonaBody">
How great my grief, my joys how few, <br />
Since first it was my fate to know thee! <br />
- Have the slow years not brought to view <br />
How great my grief, my joys how few, <br />
Nor memory shaped old times anew, <br />
Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee <br />
How great my grief, my joys how few, <br />
Since first it was my fate to know thee?
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
Thomas Hardy </div>
Mijohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765909951805865342noreply@blogger.com1