John Updike U S writer
`A month of Sundays` 1975 ch 2
I don't want to bleed in vain.
Clouds collide in the heavens,
I surrender. To the rain.
The death bells that also rang,
like madness... from above.
I'm going... out with a bang,
and a heart disease called love.
Ninety-nine, below zero,
would seem like fever now.
You know me... no hero,
don't even ask me how.
I'm down in the deep deep freeze,
what was I thinking of...
In the painful breeze,
by the frozen trees,
with a heart disease called love.
After dinner. Mints. A new lover,
and the coffee's so bitter and black.
Your fingerprints... they cover,
this knife sticking out of my back.
You overlooked... the fine details.
You should've worn your gloves.
I've got a girl in jail, and a house for sale,
and a heart disease called love.
The new order
Henley Regatta - page one
Eat die - ho hum
Page three - big bum
Giving a lunatic a loaded gun
He walks - others run
Thirty dead - no fun
Foreigners feature as figures of fun
Do something destructive chum
Sit right down - write a letter to the Sun
Say... "Bring back hangin' for everyone"
The took my advice - they brought it back
National costume was all-over-black
There were corpses in the avenues and cul-de-sacs
Piled up neatly in six-man stacks
Hanging from the traffic lights and specially made racks
They'd hang you for incontinence and fiddling your tax
Failure to hang yourself justified the axe
A deedely dee, a deedely dum
Looks like they brought back hangin' for everyone
The novelty's gone - it's hell
This place is a - death cell
The constant clang of the funeral bells
Those who aren't hanging are hanging someone else
The peoples pay - the paper sells
It's plug ugly - sub-animal yells
Death is unsightly - death smells
Swingin' Britain - don't put me on
They're gonna bring back the rope for everyone
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
by William Blake
Favourite poems... shift about, in rank and order, in one's head. My "favourite" (in that I was simultaneously memorising it the first time I read it) is Auden's, "Epitaph on a Tyrant"
So, from memory:
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand.
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets.
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
Yaravi - Valery Larbaud
Mais ma douleur... Oh, ma douleur, ma bien-aimée!
Qui adoptera cette douleur sans raison,
Que le passé n'a pas connue et dont l'avenir
Ignorera sans doute le secret?
Oh, prolonger le souvenir de cette douleur moderne,
Cette douleur qui n'a pas de causes, mais
Qui m'est un don des Cieux.
Wilfred Owen & WB Yeats
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:''
From Tennyson's 'In Memoriam'. I haven't read the whole poem but, this is my favourite part from what I have read.
Federico Garcia Lorca
Un poeta en Nueva York
Los motivos del Lobo
The Sonnets of Shakespeare
An offering, Unknown
Poets called you shrink.
If you had presented a priest,
Clergy might rush to call you shaman.
Though shaman wisdom
would soon recognize you
in jazz standards and a cocktail piano.
healer in a world gone mad,
branding you insane;
insistent old bottles
fighting over a label for new wine.
For us, your name
rolls off the tongu,
Socratic muse to
Unmasking psychopathology of the norm,
Hours of disjunctive babble,
while disguised as another patient.
Debunking "normalcy's" shell game
and the ever-popular:
as incongruence with
prevailing states of alienation!
Exposing the humbug wizard
hiding behind a curtain of
Con-game shifts of
none able to distract you
from watching the other hand.
Even the flimsy shams we masquerade as love
no match for the Great Houdini of the soul.
"A word more powerful members of a family use
to control less powerful members" indeed.
Planting truth mines in the road to denial.
The family as "protection racket."
Adaptation to "what"?
To a world gone crazy?
Sanity: our collusive madness.
Who presumes to trivialize
your healing legacy?
Shall we send Salieri
to tutor Mozart?
Let them call you Beelzebul
if it helps them feel safer from the truth;
I feel our kinship in the workings
of an understanding heart
Deleted by aci_duci on 10-Jun-08, 11:18.
We invoke ourselves,
I don't know if the muses ever came -
It would of course depend who was invoked and how -
But we don't come, I'm sure of that.''
The Hollow Men
How Clear She Shines by Emily Bronte
How clear she shines! How quietly
I lie beneath her guardian light;
While heaven and earth are whispering me,
" Tomorrow, wake, but, dream to-night."
Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love!
These throbbing temples softly kiss;
And bend my lonely couch above
And bring me rest, and bring me bliss.
The world is going; dark world, adieu!
Grim world, conceal thee till the day;
The heart, thou canst not all subdue,
Must still resist, if thou delay!
Thy love I will not, will not share;
Thy hatred only wakes a smile;
Thy griefs may wound - thy wrongs may tear,
But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile!
While gazing on the stars that glow
Above me, in that stormless sea,
I long to hope that all the woe
Creation knows, is held in thee!
And, this shall be my dream to-night;
I'll think the heaven of glorious spheres
Is rolling on its course of light
In endless bliss, through endless years;
I'll think, there's not one world above,
Far as these straining eyes can see,
Where Wisdom ever laughed at Love,
Or Virtue crouched to Infamy;
Where, writhing 'neath the strokes of Fate,
The mangled wretch was forced to smile;
To match his patience 'gainst her hate,
His heart rebellious all the while.
Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong,
And helpless Reason warn in vain;
And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong;
And Joy the surest path to Pain;
And Peace, the lethargy of Grief;
And Hope, a phantom of the soul;
And Life, a labour, void and brief;
And Death, the despot of the whole!
Bronte is good...best known for Wuthering Heights.
Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.
You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.
The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.
Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
wo roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The Man With The Hoe
BOWED by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power.
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this--
More tongued with censure of the worldâ€™s blind greed--
More filled with signs and portents for the soul--
More fraught with menace to the universe.
What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Timeâ€™s tragedy is in that aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Judges of the World,
A protest that is also prophecy.
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings--
With those who shaped him to the thing he is--
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God,
After the silence of the centuries?
A Song for the Rolling Earth
Here are 5, plus 1
Not Waving But Drowning - Smith
The Second Coming - Yeats
If - Kipling
Songs Of Experience - Blake
And this one by ee cummings
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
The Spring and the Fall
In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.
In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rooks went up with a raucous trill.
I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.
Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There's much that's fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
'Tis not love's going hurt my days.
But that it went in little ways.
Leaves of Grass
( Songs of Occupations)
Come closer to me
Push close my lovers and take the best I possess,
Yield closer and closer and give me the best you possess.
A Boston Ballad
I love to look on the stars and stripes... I hope the fifes
will play Yankee Doodle.
Morning at the window