*Poem of the day thread
- Thread starter RubyToogood
- Start date
butchersapron
Bring back hanging
Right, totally forgot about this and i've not typed up the one i had planned - but thanks to onemonkey i have a very fitting replacement. This one is in memory of Frank Little, lynched by the bosses goons on this date in 1917.
FRANK LITTLE AT CALVARY
I
He walked under the shadow of the Hill
Where men are fed into the fires
And walled apart...
Unarmed and alone,
He summoned his mates from the pit's mouth
Where tools rested on the floors
And great cranes swung
Unemptied, on the iron girders.
And they, who were the Lords of the Hill,
Were seized with a great fear,
When they heard out of the silence of wheels
The answer ringing
In endless reverberations
Under the mountain...
So they covered up their faces
And crept upon him as he slept...
Out of eye-holes in black cloth
They looked upon him who had flung
Between them and their ancient prey
The frail barricade of his life...
And when night - that has connived at so much -
Was heavy with the unborn day,
They haled him from his bed...
Who might know of that wild ride?
Only the bleak Hill -
The red Hill, vigilant,
Like a blood-shot eye
In the black mask of night -
Dared watch them as they raced
By each blind-folded street
Godiva might have ridden down...
But when they stopped beside the Place,
I know he turned his face
Wistfully to the accessory night...
And when he saw - against the sky,
Sagged like a silken net
Under its load of stars -
The black bridge poised
Like a gigantic spider motionless...
I know there was a silence in his heart,
As of a frozen sea,
Where some half lifted arm, mid-way
Wavers, and drops heavily...
I know he waved to life,
And that life signaled back, transcending space,
To each high-powered sense,
So that he missed no gesture of the wind
Drawing the shut leaves close...
So that he saw the light on comrades' faces
Of camp fires out of sight...
And the savor of meat and bread
Blew in his nostrils... and the breath
Of unrailed spaces
Where shut wild clover smelled as sweet
As a virgin in her bed.
I know he looked once at America,
Quiescent, with her great flanks on the globe,
And once at the skies whirling above him...
Then all that he had spoken against
And struck against and thrust against
Over the frail barricade of his life
Rushed between him and the stars...
II
Life thunders on...
Over the black bridge
The line of lighted cars
Creeps like a monstrous serpent
Spooring gold...
Watchman, what of the track?
Night... silence... stars...
All's Well!
III
Light...
(Breaking mists...
Hills gliding like hands out of a slipping hold...)
Light over the pit mouths,
Streaming in tenuous rays down the black gullets of the Hill...
(The copper, insensate, sleeping in the buried lode.)
Light...
Forcing the clogged windows of arsenals...
Probing with long sentient fingers in the copper chips...
Gleaming metallic and cold
In numberless slivers of steel...
Light over the trestles and the iron clips
Of the black bridge - poised like a gigantic spider motionless -
Sweet inquisition of light, like a child's wonder...
Intrusive, innocently staring light
That nothing appals...
Light in the slow fumbling summer leaves,
Cooing and calling
All winged and avid things
Waking the early flies, keen to the scent...
Green-jeweled iridescent flies
Unerringly steering -
Swarming over the blackened lips,
The young day sprays with indiscriminate gold...
Watchman, what of the Hill?
Wheels turn;
The laden cars
Go rumbling to the mill,
And Labor walks beside the mules...
All's Well with the Hill!
Lola Ridge
FRANK LITTLE AT CALVARY
I
He walked under the shadow of the Hill
Where men are fed into the fires
And walled apart...
Unarmed and alone,
He summoned his mates from the pit's mouth
Where tools rested on the floors
And great cranes swung
Unemptied, on the iron girders.
And they, who were the Lords of the Hill,
Were seized with a great fear,
When they heard out of the silence of wheels
The answer ringing
In endless reverberations
Under the mountain...
So they covered up their faces
And crept upon him as he slept...
Out of eye-holes in black cloth
They looked upon him who had flung
Between them and their ancient prey
The frail barricade of his life...
And when night - that has connived at so much -
Was heavy with the unborn day,
They haled him from his bed...
Who might know of that wild ride?
Only the bleak Hill -
The red Hill, vigilant,
Like a blood-shot eye
In the black mask of night -
Dared watch them as they raced
By each blind-folded street
Godiva might have ridden down...
But when they stopped beside the Place,
I know he turned his face
Wistfully to the accessory night...
And when he saw - against the sky,
Sagged like a silken net
Under its load of stars -
The black bridge poised
Like a gigantic spider motionless...
I know there was a silence in his heart,
As of a frozen sea,
Where some half lifted arm, mid-way
Wavers, and drops heavily...
I know he waved to life,
And that life signaled back, transcending space,
To each high-powered sense,
So that he missed no gesture of the wind
Drawing the shut leaves close...
So that he saw the light on comrades' faces
Of camp fires out of sight...
And the savor of meat and bread
Blew in his nostrils... and the breath
Of unrailed spaces
Where shut wild clover smelled as sweet
As a virgin in her bed.
I know he looked once at America,
Quiescent, with her great flanks on the globe,
And once at the skies whirling above him...
Then all that he had spoken against
And struck against and thrust against
Over the frail barricade of his life
Rushed between him and the stars...
II
Life thunders on...
Over the black bridge
The line of lighted cars
Creeps like a monstrous serpent
Spooring gold...
Watchman, what of the track?
Night... silence... stars...
All's Well!
III
Light...
(Breaking mists...
Hills gliding like hands out of a slipping hold...)
Light over the pit mouths,
Streaming in tenuous rays down the black gullets of the Hill...
(The copper, insensate, sleeping in the buried lode.)
Light...
Forcing the clogged windows of arsenals...
Probing with long sentient fingers in the copper chips...
Gleaming metallic and cold
In numberless slivers of steel...
Light over the trestles and the iron clips
Of the black bridge - poised like a gigantic spider motionless -
Sweet inquisition of light, like a child's wonder...
Intrusive, innocently staring light
That nothing appals...
Light in the slow fumbling summer leaves,
Cooing and calling
All winged and avid things
Waking the early flies, keen to the scent...
Green-jeweled iridescent flies
Unerringly steering -
Swarming over the blackened lips,
The young day sprays with indiscriminate gold...
Watchman, what of the Hill?
Wheels turn;
The laden cars
Go rumbling to the mill,
And Labor walks beside the mules...
All's Well with the Hill!
Lola Ridge
Yossarian
⏭️
Untitled
James Farrell
Draw a circle around your life, are you confined?
I hate this fucking bewitching lie, the one that tells you to stay in line.
Forget to remember, suffer last months surrender.
Call an aquaintance so you might dramatize the most banal memory.
invogorate the embers that stupify the questions; the ones that collect in your memory.
For all I know it's plain stupidity.
Lucidity of sublime neutrality.
Vague nebulous feelings and apathy.
Pity me, dark horse, black sheep, lost goat, trapeze artist farting around with ideas.
In a year will you really be parting with your fears, your lost tears?
Folded dreams.
It seems they are all looking in on the final scene.
In a car driving fast, passenger, pleasing, teasing.
Your life, the climate is easing the pest through your mind.
God knows no one knows.
Hold on to the sunlight while you can.
Your eyes closed, but still exposed to the flash.
The car crash comes too late.
The forgetful fish contemplates the next three seconds of blind faith.
James Farrell
Draw a circle around your life, are you confined?
I hate this fucking bewitching lie, the one that tells you to stay in line.
Forget to remember, suffer last months surrender.
Call an aquaintance so you might dramatize the most banal memory.
invogorate the embers that stupify the questions; the ones that collect in your memory.
For all I know it's plain stupidity.
Lucidity of sublime neutrality.
Vague nebulous feelings and apathy.
Pity me, dark horse, black sheep, lost goat, trapeze artist farting around with ideas.
In a year will you really be parting with your fears, your lost tears?
Folded dreams.
It seems they are all looking in on the final scene.
In a car driving fast, passenger, pleasing, teasing.
Your life, the climate is easing the pest through your mind.
God knows no one knows.
Hold on to the sunlight while you can.
Your eyes closed, but still exposed to the flash.
The car crash comes too late.
The forgetful fish contemplates the next three seconds of blind faith.
bluestreak
HomosexualityIsStalin’sAtomBombtoDestroyAmerica
this poppped in my inbox yesterday, and i thought i'd share...
Tarantella
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the bedding
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in--
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom.
Hilaire Belloc
Tarantella
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the bedding
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in--
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom.
Hilaire Belloc
Kind of appropriate for the 666 spot.
Nero's new bathroom | Words by: Anno, who died in a car crash November 2001.
The eagle has landed, has
Branded itself the new emperor ... and it's
Beak is so vast and so vile that it can't hide the
Smile that it casts like a creek through that rag on a
Rope, up a mast, that they've got up their arse, that they,
Hope is a flag but it's not, so they grasp for some
God, but He's dead or asleep, so instead they just
Grope at their guns, and they
Hop and they skip and they jump and they run and they
Leap to the edges of madness, and stop. At the
Ridges they wait, they throw bait to the wind and they
Wind themselves up and get hungry for something to
Happen. The eagle, you see, needs a weapon, a
Web round it's nest to prevent all the sun and the
Flies getting through that might alter the hue of it's
White, flightless son. Who
Can't lift a finger without some machine like a trigger. The
Dragon however, and Bear disapprove, and they
Whisper and move to get nasty.
Both of them thirsty for power - they're cranking up
Louder that song on the box with some guy going
On about not having nothing and not having
Nothing to loose. But
Nero's new bathroom in Washington don't have no
Windows. It's sound-proof and Nero is napping.
The Bear now is snapping his teeth and rapping his
Thumbs on a sickle of pride - there's a trickle of
Blood running still from the wound in his side in the
Shape of a star and he bellows and barks out for
Something like order. Or Honour. Or trust. But the
Bird's got its head in some
Bush, and it cushions its ears ...
so it just doesn't hear shit.
Near it the Dragon lies coiled and curious,
Oiled with furious cunning.
Running her ruby red tongue in vexed little circles,
Among her porcelain teeth.
Inside her a billion babies there wait to be born.
Will George be sat mourning the
Rangers while round him the White house turns red?
Ah ... but the dangers can
Wait ‘till he's done with his pancakes and eggs.
His good brother Jeb cooked it
Up real good and real glossy ... well my brother
Ned - he is only sixteen but he's wiser than
All of your possy and cleaner than all of your
Knights in their nappies, with
Sight-seeing maps which they
Bought because soon, well, they really
Ought to find chivalry.
Didn't you say that the moon was the only such compass?
Yes. But I think I was lying ... they
Grow it in Texas these days.
Hurry up boys, they're invading through Mexico,
Get to the borders, quick! Get to the Texaco
Stations and wait, for the truckloads to mosey on through ...
Then shoot the shit outta them.
They're giving out pills to the goons with the gold to
Prevent them from getting too old ... too abruptly. The
World should take Ned for example,
I do, and I've ample room for unrest in such resource.
Ha! The
Lion of British nobility, more like a
Kitten you see, she just tries to be cute with everyone. And
Everyone get's rather pissed with opinion-less pissheads. So the
Bird and the Bear and the Lizard, they twist like a
Blizzard and turn upon me in my Lion suit,
Mute in my wizards hat.
Trying to change or explain this or that.
Feeding my hospice of hope with another new joke ...
Every second I'm sat here. Is it
All just another false warning? Another fat
Fanciful wish of mine seeking admission to
History's awning and binding me there ... where
If you go looking my name you'll be finding in
Book number ten of the honourable dead. You
Said that the very front line seemed somewhat un-
Worthy of a life like mine own, funny then that
It should be me who is crying out loud, for per-
mission to be or be given death.
There in my dreams I lie shaking, trying as
Hard as I can to take life from the rest of this
Can full of worms (that I love) and I burn in my
Sleep and I mumble a prayer and I wake.
One day we will
Take it in turns to admit and to then be admitted,
into His arms. But my
Mother's fair name is the one that will float from my
lips as I fade ... and eclipse beyond nothing
Nero's new bathroom | Words by: Anno, who died in a car crash November 2001.
The eagle has landed, has
Branded itself the new emperor ... and it's
Beak is so vast and so vile that it can't hide the
Smile that it casts like a creek through that rag on a
Rope, up a mast, that they've got up their arse, that they,
Hope is a flag but it's not, so they grasp for some
God, but He's dead or asleep, so instead they just
Grope at their guns, and they
Hop and they skip and they jump and they run and they
Leap to the edges of madness, and stop. At the
Ridges they wait, they throw bait to the wind and they
Wind themselves up and get hungry for something to
Happen. The eagle, you see, needs a weapon, a
Web round it's nest to prevent all the sun and the
Flies getting through that might alter the hue of it's
White, flightless son. Who
Can't lift a finger without some machine like a trigger. The
Dragon however, and Bear disapprove, and they
Whisper and move to get nasty.
Both of them thirsty for power - they're cranking up
Louder that song on the box with some guy going
On about not having nothing and not having
Nothing to loose. But
Nero's new bathroom in Washington don't have no
Windows. It's sound-proof and Nero is napping.
The Bear now is snapping his teeth and rapping his
Thumbs on a sickle of pride - there's a trickle of
Blood running still from the wound in his side in the
Shape of a star and he bellows and barks out for
Something like order. Or Honour. Or trust. But the
Bird's got its head in some
Bush, and it cushions its ears ...
so it just doesn't hear shit.
Near it the Dragon lies coiled and curious,
Oiled with furious cunning.
Running her ruby red tongue in vexed little circles,
Among her porcelain teeth.
Inside her a billion babies there wait to be born.
Will George be sat mourning the
Rangers while round him the White house turns red?
Ah ... but the dangers can
Wait ‘till he's done with his pancakes and eggs.
His good brother Jeb cooked it
Up real good and real glossy ... well my brother
Ned - he is only sixteen but he's wiser than
All of your possy and cleaner than all of your
Knights in their nappies, with
Sight-seeing maps which they
Bought because soon, well, they really
Ought to find chivalry.
Didn't you say that the moon was the only such compass?
Yes. But I think I was lying ... they
Grow it in Texas these days.
Hurry up boys, they're invading through Mexico,
Get to the borders, quick! Get to the Texaco
Stations and wait, for the truckloads to mosey on through ...
Then shoot the shit outta them.
They're giving out pills to the goons with the gold to
Prevent them from getting too old ... too abruptly. The
World should take Ned for example,
I do, and I've ample room for unrest in such resource.
Ha! The
Lion of British nobility, more like a
Kitten you see, she just tries to be cute with everyone. And
Everyone get's rather pissed with opinion-less pissheads. So the
Bird and the Bear and the Lizard, they twist like a
Blizzard and turn upon me in my Lion suit,
Mute in my wizards hat.
Trying to change or explain this or that.
Feeding my hospice of hope with another new joke ...
Every second I'm sat here. Is it
All just another false warning? Another fat
Fanciful wish of mine seeking admission to
History's awning and binding me there ... where
If you go looking my name you'll be finding in
Book number ten of the honourable dead. You
Said that the very front line seemed somewhat un-
Worthy of a life like mine own, funny then that
It should be me who is crying out loud, for per-
mission to be or be given death.
There in my dreams I lie shaking, trying as
Hard as I can to take life from the rest of this
Can full of worms (that I love) and I burn in my
Sleep and I mumble a prayer and I wake.
One day we will
Take it in turns to admit and to then be admitted,
into His arms. But my
Mother's fair name is the one that will float from my
lips as I fade ... and eclipse beyond nothing
maya
timewasting fool (in every universe)
(-NB! Badly translated from swedish,
so it doesn't rhyme and the rhytm disappears with english grammar)
***
REINCARNATED EXACTLY AS BEFORE
Ran into wisdom with an old aunt
Saw on the T.V. about an elephant
Cut my finger on a paper edge
then I sang falsely
I promise it's true
Earlier the news was on then came a melody
Africa is shaking from a hard epidemic
Tasted a soup with carrots in it
Then I crawled under the blanket
in my periphery
I searched through books
to find a sensation
We watched a movie
it was worse than a turkey
We talked about money
and both lost our faith
Then I came home late at night
in bad shape
Smoke came from my mouth
like it does when there's frost
I saw a dot in the air
it was a UFO
I mailed a letter
tomorrow you'll get post
I felt a bit ill
I forgot to eat breakfast
At night night came
I wasn't surprised
You gave me a little reason
for the first time in a month
the neighbours had a party
(In the yard they burned torches)
We ate dinner by the tv
it was a show about riots
I stumbled in the hallway
On my way to make the coffee
Everything ran out with the sand
and Sweden missed the penalty
I fell asleep at half past eight
Just like an old woman
I dreamt that I was real
and the dream became pleasant
and obscene...
- B. Hund
so it doesn't rhyme and the rhytm disappears with english grammar)
***
REINCARNATED EXACTLY AS BEFORE
Ran into wisdom with an old aunt
Saw on the T.V. about an elephant
Cut my finger on a paper edge
then I sang falsely
I promise it's true
Earlier the news was on then came a melody
Africa is shaking from a hard epidemic
Tasted a soup with carrots in it
Then I crawled under the blanket
in my periphery
I searched through books
to find a sensation
We watched a movie
it was worse than a turkey
We talked about money
and both lost our faith
Then I came home late at night
in bad shape
Smoke came from my mouth
like it does when there's frost
I saw a dot in the air
it was a UFO
I mailed a letter
tomorrow you'll get post
I felt a bit ill
I forgot to eat breakfast
At night night came
I wasn't surprised
You gave me a little reason
for the first time in a month
the neighbours had a party
(In the yard they burned torches)
We ate dinner by the tv
it was a show about riots
I stumbled in the hallway
On my way to make the coffee
Everything ran out with the sand
and Sweden missed the penalty
I fell asleep at half past eight
Just like an old woman
I dreamt that I was real
and the dream became pleasant
and obscene...
- B. Hund
onemonkey
winmonkey
muttersprache 1972 /2: materialwiderstand
by Ulf Stolterfoht
translated by Joanne Burns
wörter fallen nicht vom himmel. historisch wachsen
sie heraus. das dauert. bis (unmündig aber selbstver-
schuldet hörig) zu den knöcheln im tier das sprießen
der geweihe tritt – ein magischer moment: der wolf
gerade dann heranrennt wenn man nennt – bleibts einem
engländer vergönnt »dem spekulativen begriffsgebäude
der scholastik den entscheidenden stoß zu versetzen«:
nichts stehe mehr für anderes! was marktkonform sofort
gedichtverknappung zeitigt. da aber hinterkopf reserve
»im« bald schwerer wiegt als heute wert papier gedanke
»auf« spricht manches für nicht nur: erzeugerseits be-
trieben. fast sicher künstlicher natur zeigt funktionalen
riecher. in ähnlich einprägsamer formung geht längst ein
unwort um an neckar spree und ruwer: von gegenstrebiger
vereinigung wie der des reihers mit dem rogen / in herge-
brachter sage: staatlich gestützter prosa-verstromung.
beginn des großen dichterdarbens. leicht für die wörter
mit dem wolf zu heulen. hysterisch schnüren sie heran.
gewaltverhältnisse ungeklärt. ihr gut verzahnter fang: erzeu-
gerzugewandt! zeigt sehr wahrscheinlich rißbereitschaft an.
mother tongue 1972 / 2:
material resistance
words do not drop out of the sky. they grow out of
the sky’s tongue like history. it’s time consuming.
until (through your own submissive fault) antlers
sprout from the animal’s ankles – magic: the wolf
runs up when its name is called. WOLF WOLF – it
remains for an Englishman ‘to deliver the decisive
blow to the speculative conceptual structure of
scholasticism’: nothing stands for anything anymore!
so in accordance with market economics there are
poetry cutbacks. but since the reserves in the
vault of the mind are soon more important than
today’s thoughts on paper securities, let the poet
keep working. however artificially they have a nose
for the job. in a similarly impressive form a taboo
word has been circulating on the neckar spree and ruwer
rivers: subverting tradition, mixing caviar with crow / like the
growing legend: state sponsored prose-electrification.
the great poet’s life runs into trouble. the words
find it easy to howl with the wolf. hysterically they
trot up. violence bothers the air. strong fangs point
towards their maker! waiting for the right moment to attack.
by Ulf Stolterfoht
translated by Joanne Burns
wörter fallen nicht vom himmel. historisch wachsen
sie heraus. das dauert. bis (unmündig aber selbstver-
schuldet hörig) zu den knöcheln im tier das sprießen
der geweihe tritt – ein magischer moment: der wolf
gerade dann heranrennt wenn man nennt – bleibts einem
engländer vergönnt »dem spekulativen begriffsgebäude
der scholastik den entscheidenden stoß zu versetzen«:
nichts stehe mehr für anderes! was marktkonform sofort
gedichtverknappung zeitigt. da aber hinterkopf reserve
»im« bald schwerer wiegt als heute wert papier gedanke
»auf« spricht manches für nicht nur: erzeugerseits be-
trieben. fast sicher künstlicher natur zeigt funktionalen
riecher. in ähnlich einprägsamer formung geht längst ein
unwort um an neckar spree und ruwer: von gegenstrebiger
vereinigung wie der des reihers mit dem rogen / in herge-
brachter sage: staatlich gestützter prosa-verstromung.
beginn des großen dichterdarbens. leicht für die wörter
mit dem wolf zu heulen. hysterisch schnüren sie heran.
gewaltverhältnisse ungeklärt. ihr gut verzahnter fang: erzeu-
gerzugewandt! zeigt sehr wahrscheinlich rißbereitschaft an.
mother tongue 1972 / 2:
material resistance
words do not drop out of the sky. they grow out of
the sky’s tongue like history. it’s time consuming.
until (through your own submissive fault) antlers
sprout from the animal’s ankles – magic: the wolf
runs up when its name is called. WOLF WOLF – it
remains for an Englishman ‘to deliver the decisive
blow to the speculative conceptual structure of
scholasticism’: nothing stands for anything anymore!
so in accordance with market economics there are
poetry cutbacks. but since the reserves in the
vault of the mind are soon more important than
today’s thoughts on paper securities, let the poet
keep working. however artificially they have a nose
for the job. in a similarly impressive form a taboo
word has been circulating on the neckar spree and ruwer
rivers: subverting tradition, mixing caviar with crow / like the
growing legend: state sponsored prose-electrification.
the great poet’s life runs into trouble. the words
find it easy to howl with the wolf. hysterically they
trot up. violence bothers the air. strong fangs point
towards their maker! waiting for the right moment to attack.
White Comedy by Benjamin Zephaniah
I waz whitemailed
By a white witch,
Wid white magic
An white lies,
Branded by a white sheep
I slaved as a whitesmith
Near a white spot
Where I suffered whitewater fever.
Whitelisted as a whiteleg
I waz in de white book
As a master of white art,
It waz like white death.
People called me white jack
Some hailed me as a white wog,
So I joined de white watch
Trained as a white guard
Lived off the white economy.
Caught and beaten by de whiteshirts
I waz condemned to a white mass,
Don't worry,
I shall be writing to de Black House.
I waz whitemailed
By a white witch,
Wid white magic
An white lies,
Branded by a white sheep
I slaved as a whitesmith
Near a white spot
Where I suffered whitewater fever.
Whitelisted as a whiteleg
I waz in de white book
As a master of white art,
It waz like white death.
People called me white jack
Some hailed me as a white wog,
So I joined de white watch
Trained as a white guard
Lived off the white economy.
Caught and beaten by de whiteshirts
I waz condemned to a white mass,
Don't worry,
I shall be writing to de Black House.
onemonkey
winmonkey
A Secret Life
Why you need to have one
is not much more mysterious than
why you don't say what you think
at the birth of an ugly baby.
Or, you've just made love
and feel you'd rather have been
in a dark booth where your partner
was nodding, whispering yes, yes,
you're brilliant. The secret life
begins early, is kept alive
by all that's unpopular
in you, all that you know
a Baptist, say, or some other
accountant would object to.
It becomes what you'd most protect
if the government said you can protect
one thing, all else is ours.
When you write late at night
it's like a small fire
in a clearing, it's what
radiates and what can hurt
if you get too close to it.
It's why your silence is a kind of truth.
Even when you speak to your best friend,
the one who'll never betray you,
you always leave out one thing;
a secret life is that important.
Stephen Dunn
Why you need to have one
is not much more mysterious than
why you don't say what you think
at the birth of an ugly baby.
Or, you've just made love
and feel you'd rather have been
in a dark booth where your partner
was nodding, whispering yes, yes,
you're brilliant. The secret life
begins early, is kept alive
by all that's unpopular
in you, all that you know
a Baptist, say, or some other
accountant would object to.
It becomes what you'd most protect
if the government said you can protect
one thing, all else is ours.
When you write late at night
it's like a small fire
in a clearing, it's what
radiates and what can hurt
if you get too close to it.
It's why your silence is a kind of truth.
Even when you speak to your best friend,
the one who'll never betray you,
you always leave out one thing;
a secret life is that important.
Stephen Dunn
Let me die a young man's death
Let me die a young man's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns
burst in and give me a short back and insides
Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a young man's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death
Roger McGough
Let me die a young man's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns
burst in and give me a short back and insides
Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a young man's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death
Roger McGough
Listening To Albatross
This is not just smoked salmon
This is expensive smoked salmon
This is not just steak
This is out-of-my-league steak
This is not just Chardonay
This is a lot of money
There are not just summer berries
These are too rich for me
This is not just food
This is Marks and Spencers
And it costs a bloody bomb!
In fact it costs so much
You can only watch it on telly
Pam
Big Issue
This is not just smoked salmon
This is expensive smoked salmon
This is not just steak
This is out-of-my-league steak
This is not just Chardonay
This is a lot of money
There are not just summer berries
These are too rich for me
This is not just food
This is Marks and Spencers
And it costs a bloody bomb!
In fact it costs so much
You can only watch it on telly
Pam
Big Issue
onemonkey
winmonkey
My Philosophy of Life
Just when I thought there wasn't room enough
for another thought in my head, I had this great idea--
call it a philosophy of life, if you will.Briefly,
it involved living the way philosophers live,
according to a set of principles. OK, but which ones?
That was the hardest part, I admit, but I had a
kind of dark foreknowledge of what it would be like.
Everything, from eating watermelon or going to the bathroom
or just standing on a subway platform, lost in thought
for a few minutes, or worrying about rain forests,
would be affected, or more precisely, inflected
by my new attitude.I wouldn't be preachy,
or worry about children and old people, except
in the general way prescribed by our clockwork universe.
Instead I'd sort of let things be what they are
while injecting them with the serum of the new moral climate
I thought I'd stumbled into, as a stranger
accidentally presses against a panel and a bookcase slides back,
revealing a winding staircase with greenish light
somewhere down below, and he automatically steps inside
and the bookcase slides shut, as is customary on such occasions.
At once a fragrance overwhelms him--not saffron, not lavender,
but something in between.He thinks of cushions, like the one
his uncle's Boston bull terrier used to lie on watching him
quizzically, pointed ear-tips folded over. And then the great rush
is on.Not a single idea emerges from it.It's enough
to disgust you with thought.But then you remember something
William James
wrote in some book of his you never read--it was fine, it had the
fineness,
the powder of life dusted over it, by chance, of course, yet
still looking
for evidence of fingerprints. Someone had handled it
even before he formulated it, though the thought was his and
his alone.
It's fine, in summer, to visit the seashore.
There are lots of little trips to be made.
A grove of fledgling aspens welcomes the traveler.Nearby
are the public toilets where weary pilgrims have carved
their names and addresses, and perhaps messages as well,
messages to the world, as they sat
and thought about what they'd do after using the toilet
and washing their hands at the sink, prior to stepping out
into the open again.Had they been coaxed in by principles,
and were their words philosophy, of however crude a sort?
I confess I can move no farther along this train of thought--
something's blocking it.Something I'm
not big enough to see over.Or maybe I'm frankly scared.
What was the matter with how I acted before?
But maybe I can come up with a compromise--I'll let
things be what they are, sort of.In the autumn I'll put up jellies
and preserves, against the winter cold and futility,
and that will be a human thing, and intelligent as well.
I won't be embarrassed by my friends' dumb remarks,
or even my own, though admittedly that's the hardest part,
as when you are in a crowded theater and something you say
riles the spectator in front of you, who doesn't even like the idea
of two people near him talking together. Well he's
got to be flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him--
this thing works both ways, you know. You can't always
be worrying about others and keeping track of yourself
at the same time.That would be abusive, and about as much fun
as attending the wedding of two people you don't know.
Still, there's a lot of fun to be had in the gaps between ideas.
That's what they're made for!Now I want you to go out there
and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too.
They don't come along every day. Look out!There's a big one...
John Ashbery
Just when I thought there wasn't room enough
for another thought in my head, I had this great idea--
call it a philosophy of life, if you will.Briefly,
it involved living the way philosophers live,
according to a set of principles. OK, but which ones?
That was the hardest part, I admit, but I had a
kind of dark foreknowledge of what it would be like.
Everything, from eating watermelon or going to the bathroom
or just standing on a subway platform, lost in thought
for a few minutes, or worrying about rain forests,
would be affected, or more precisely, inflected
by my new attitude.I wouldn't be preachy,
or worry about children and old people, except
in the general way prescribed by our clockwork universe.
Instead I'd sort of let things be what they are
while injecting them with the serum of the new moral climate
I thought I'd stumbled into, as a stranger
accidentally presses against a panel and a bookcase slides back,
revealing a winding staircase with greenish light
somewhere down below, and he automatically steps inside
and the bookcase slides shut, as is customary on such occasions.
At once a fragrance overwhelms him--not saffron, not lavender,
but something in between.He thinks of cushions, like the one
his uncle's Boston bull terrier used to lie on watching him
quizzically, pointed ear-tips folded over. And then the great rush
is on.Not a single idea emerges from it.It's enough
to disgust you with thought.But then you remember something
William James
wrote in some book of his you never read--it was fine, it had the
fineness,
the powder of life dusted over it, by chance, of course, yet
still looking
for evidence of fingerprints. Someone had handled it
even before he formulated it, though the thought was his and
his alone.
It's fine, in summer, to visit the seashore.
There are lots of little trips to be made.
A grove of fledgling aspens welcomes the traveler.Nearby
are the public toilets where weary pilgrims have carved
their names and addresses, and perhaps messages as well,
messages to the world, as they sat
and thought about what they'd do after using the toilet
and washing their hands at the sink, prior to stepping out
into the open again.Had they been coaxed in by principles,
and were their words philosophy, of however crude a sort?
I confess I can move no farther along this train of thought--
something's blocking it.Something I'm
not big enough to see over.Or maybe I'm frankly scared.
What was the matter with how I acted before?
But maybe I can come up with a compromise--I'll let
things be what they are, sort of.In the autumn I'll put up jellies
and preserves, against the winter cold and futility,
and that will be a human thing, and intelligent as well.
I won't be embarrassed by my friends' dumb remarks,
or even my own, though admittedly that's the hardest part,
as when you are in a crowded theater and something you say
riles the spectator in front of you, who doesn't even like the idea
of two people near him talking together. Well he's
got to be flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him--
this thing works both ways, you know. You can't always
be worrying about others and keeping track of yourself
at the same time.That would be abusive, and about as much fun
as attending the wedding of two people you don't know.
Still, there's a lot of fun to be had in the gaps between ideas.
That's what they're made for!Now I want you to go out there
and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too.
They don't come along every day. Look out!There's a big one...
John Ashbery
Séamus Heaney - Postscript
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open
onemonkey
winmonkey
Drinking Wine
Tao Qian
I made my home amidst this human bustle,
Yet I hear no clamour from the carts and horses.
My friend, you ask me how this can be so?
A distant heart will tend towards like places.
From the eastern hedge, I pluck chrysanthemum flowers,
And idly look towards the southern hills.
The mountain air is beautiful day and night,
The birds fly back to roost with one another.
I know that this must have some deeper meaning,
I try to explain, but cannot find the words.
Tao Qian
I made my home amidst this human bustle,
Yet I hear no clamour from the carts and horses.
My friend, you ask me how this can be so?
A distant heart will tend towards like places.
From the eastern hedge, I pluck chrysanthemum flowers,
And idly look towards the southern hills.
The mountain air is beautiful day and night,
The birds fly back to roost with one another.
I know that this must have some deeper meaning,
I try to explain, but cannot find the words.
marty21
One on one? You're crazy.
onemonkey said:small bottle of whiskey
a man passed me
eyes to the ground
clutching a small bottle of whiskey
a bottle of water
and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps
eager to tackle the short distance
between the shop and his flat
--
Martin J Togher
i thank you
lang rabbie
Je ne regrette les gazebos
onemonkey
winmonkey
i bought my first book for my phd today.. i love the fact it is called 'The Big Book of Concepts' - what more propitious book could one begin with (not that i know much about it or it's content - but i've bought it which seems like a good first step
but mindful of my supervisor's advice that i should be absorbing things more widely than such my particular specialisation (infants acquistion of concepts) i treated myself to the complete poems of emily dickinson.. and i have decided that it is a perfect book to keep on my desk..
1775 of them in all.. nearly two a day for the course of my course
here's one
317
Just so -- Jesus -- raps --
He -- doesn't weary --
Last -- at the Knocker --
And first -- at the Bell.
Then -- on divinest tiptoe -- standing --
Might He but spy the lady's soul --
When He -- retires --
Chilled -- or weary --
It will be ample time for -- me --
Patient -- upon the steps -- until then --
Hears! I am knocking -- low at thee.
but mindful of my supervisor's advice that i should be absorbing things more widely than such my particular specialisation (infants acquistion of concepts) i treated myself to the complete poems of emily dickinson.. and i have decided that it is a perfect book to keep on my desk..
1775 of them in all.. nearly two a day for the course of my course
here's one
317
Just so -- Jesus -- raps --
He -- doesn't weary --
Last -- at the Knocker --
And first -- at the Bell.
Then -- on divinest tiptoe -- standing --
Might He but spy the lady's soul --
When He -- retires --
Chilled -- or weary --
It will be ample time for -- me --
Patient -- upon the steps -- until then --
Hears! I am knocking -- low at thee.
butchersapron
Bring back hanging
In honour of the 50th anniversary of the first public reading of Howl! here's another one of better length for the board:
America
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don're really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Allen Ginsberg
America
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don're really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Allen Ginsberg
A tribute to the hooligan poet of Moscow, the peasant prophet from Ryazan- Sergei Esenin.
You have passed, as they say, into worlds elsewhere.
Emptiness...
Fly, cutting your way into starry dubiety.
No advances, no pubs for you there.
Sobriety.
No, Yessenin, this is not deridingly,-
in my throat not laughter but sorrow racks.
I see - your cut-open hand maddeningly,
swings your own bones like a sack.
Stop it, chuck it! Isn't it really absurd?
Allowing cheeks to flush with deathly hue?
You who could do such things with words,
that no one else on earth could do.
Why, for what? Perplexity appalls.
Critics mutter: "The main fault we find
there was hardly any working-class contact at all,
as a result of too much beer and wine."
So to say, if you had swopped bohemianism for class,
there'd have been no bust-up,
class'd have influenced
your thinking.
But does class quench its thirst with kvass?
Class, too, is no fool when it comes to drinking.
They'd have attached to you someone from On Guard,
and the main accent would have been on content:
a hundred lines a day you'd have written hard,
as tedious and long-winded as Doronin's attempts.
Before I'd created such nonsensical stink,
I'd have choked my very own breath.
Better far to die of drink,
than be bored to death!
Neither the noose nor the penknife there
will reveal the true cause of this loss. But,
maybe, if there had been ink in the Angleterre,
there'd have been no reason for veins to be cut.
"Encore!" imitators coo in delight.
Over you almost a squad committed base jinks.
Why increase the number of suicides?
Better to increase the output of ink!
It's grievous and misplaced to be mystery-propagators.
For ever now your tongue by teeth's locked tight.
Of the people, the language-creators,
a sonorous apprentice-debauchee has died.
And, as condolences, poetic junk they gave,
unrehashed hangovers from funerals of the past.
Blunted rhymes are shoved in to exorcise your grave-
is that how a poet is honoured at the last?
A monument for you hasn't yet been cast-
where it is, bronze reverberant or granite grand? -
but there, already, by memory's bars
dedications and memoirs of rubbish stand.
Your name into handkerchiefs they're sniveling,
your words by Sobinov are slobberingly lisped there-
and they wind up under a dead birch tree quivering:
"Not a word, O my friend, not a wh-i-s-p-e-r,"
Eh, to a quite a different tune I'd switch
and just tell that Leonid Lohengrinich!
I'd rise up here a thundering scadalist:
"I won't allow poems to be mangled by mutts!
I'd deafen them with a double-barreled whistle.
They can stick 'em where the monkey stuck his nuts!"
And so disperse such talentless filth,
blowing away jacket-sails engendered darkness,
so that helter-skelter runs Kogan and his ilk,
mutilating oncomers with the spears of his moustaches.
The ranks of rubbish meanwhile haven't grown much thinner.
There's so much to do - just to catch up with things yet.
Life must be changed to begin with.
And having changed it - then one can sing it.
These days are difficult for the pen.
But tell me, you crooks and cripples wheezy,
which great ones ever choose- where and when?
a path already trodden smooth and easy?
The word - in the C-in-C of human powers.
Forward march! That time may whistle by as rockets flare.
So the wind shall carry to the past of ours
only the ruffling of our hair.
Our planet is poorly equipped for delight.
One must snatch gladness from the days that are.
In this life
it's not difficult to die.
To make life
is more difficult by far.
V. Mayakovsky.
You have passed, as they say, into worlds elsewhere.
Emptiness...
Fly, cutting your way into starry dubiety.
No advances, no pubs for you there.
Sobriety.
No, Yessenin, this is not deridingly,-
in my throat not laughter but sorrow racks.
I see - your cut-open hand maddeningly,
swings your own bones like a sack.
Stop it, chuck it! Isn't it really absurd?
Allowing cheeks to flush with deathly hue?
You who could do such things with words,
that no one else on earth could do.
Why, for what? Perplexity appalls.
Critics mutter: "The main fault we find
there was hardly any working-class contact at all,
as a result of too much beer and wine."
So to say, if you had swopped bohemianism for class,
there'd have been no bust-up,
class'd have influenced
your thinking.
But does class quench its thirst with kvass?
Class, too, is no fool when it comes to drinking.
They'd have attached to you someone from On Guard,
and the main accent would have been on content:
a hundred lines a day you'd have written hard,
as tedious and long-winded as Doronin's attempts.
Before I'd created such nonsensical stink,
I'd have choked my very own breath.
Better far to die of drink,
than be bored to death!
Neither the noose nor the penknife there
will reveal the true cause of this loss. But,
maybe, if there had been ink in the Angleterre,
there'd have been no reason for veins to be cut.
"Encore!" imitators coo in delight.
Over you almost a squad committed base jinks.
Why increase the number of suicides?
Better to increase the output of ink!
It's grievous and misplaced to be mystery-propagators.
For ever now your tongue by teeth's locked tight.
Of the people, the language-creators,
a sonorous apprentice-debauchee has died.
And, as condolences, poetic junk they gave,
unrehashed hangovers from funerals of the past.
Blunted rhymes are shoved in to exorcise your grave-
is that how a poet is honoured at the last?
A monument for you hasn't yet been cast-
where it is, bronze reverberant or granite grand? -
but there, already, by memory's bars
dedications and memoirs of rubbish stand.
Your name into handkerchiefs they're sniveling,
your words by Sobinov are slobberingly lisped there-
and they wind up under a dead birch tree quivering:
"Not a word, O my friend, not a wh-i-s-p-e-r,"
Eh, to a quite a different tune I'd switch
and just tell that Leonid Lohengrinich!
I'd rise up here a thundering scadalist:
"I won't allow poems to be mangled by mutts!
I'd deafen them with a double-barreled whistle.
They can stick 'em where the monkey stuck his nuts!"
And so disperse such talentless filth,
blowing away jacket-sails engendered darkness,
so that helter-skelter runs Kogan and his ilk,
mutilating oncomers with the spears of his moustaches.
The ranks of rubbish meanwhile haven't grown much thinner.
There's so much to do - just to catch up with things yet.
Life must be changed to begin with.
And having changed it - then one can sing it.
These days are difficult for the pen.
But tell me, you crooks and cripples wheezy,
which great ones ever choose- where and when?
a path already trodden smooth and easy?
The word - in the C-in-C of human powers.
Forward march! That time may whistle by as rockets flare.
So the wind shall carry to the past of ours
only the ruffling of our hair.
Our planet is poorly equipped for delight.
One must snatch gladness from the days that are.
In this life
it's not difficult to die.
To make life
is more difficult by far.
V. Mayakovsky.
read this thread a few times, and i'd like to post this one - largely because of the burroughs vs bukowski thread. it is one of my favourites by him:
Dinosauria, we - Charles Bukowski
born like this
into this
as the chalk faces smile
as Mrs. Death laughs
as the elevators break
as political landscapes dissolve
as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
as the oily fish spit out their oily prey
as the sun is masked
we are
born like this
into this
into these carefully mad wars
into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
into bars where people no longer speak to each other
into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
born into this
into hospitals which are so expensive that it's cheaper to die
into lawyers who charge so much it's cheaper to plead guilty
into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
born into this
walking and living through this
dying because of this
muted because of this
castrated
debauched
disinherited
because of this
fooled by this
used by this
pissed on by this
made crazy and sick by this
made violent
made inhuman
by this
the heart is blackened
the fingers reach for the throat
the gun
the knife
the bomb
the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
the fingers reach for the bottle
the pill
the powder
we are born into this sorrowful deadliness
we are born into a government 60 years in debt
that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
and the banks will burn
money will be useless
there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
it will be guns and roving mobs
land will be useless
food will become a diminishing return
nuclear power will be taken over by the many
explosions will continually shake the earth
radiated robot men will stalk each other
the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante's Inferno will be made to look like a children's playground
the sun will not be seen and it will always be night
trees will die
all vegetation will die
radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
the sea will be poisoned
the lakes and rivers will vanish
rain will be the new gold
the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
the petering out of supplies
the natural effect of general decay
and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
born out of that.
the sun still hidden there
awaiting the next chapter.
Dinosauria, we - Charles Bukowski
born like this
into this
as the chalk faces smile
as Mrs. Death laughs
as the elevators break
as political landscapes dissolve
as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
as the oily fish spit out their oily prey
as the sun is masked
we are
born like this
into this
into these carefully mad wars
into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
into bars where people no longer speak to each other
into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
born into this
into hospitals which are so expensive that it's cheaper to die
into lawyers who charge so much it's cheaper to plead guilty
into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
born into this
walking and living through this
dying because of this
muted because of this
castrated
debauched
disinherited
because of this
fooled by this
used by this
pissed on by this
made crazy and sick by this
made violent
made inhuman
by this
the heart is blackened
the fingers reach for the throat
the gun
the knife
the bomb
the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
the fingers reach for the bottle
the pill
the powder
we are born into this sorrowful deadliness
we are born into a government 60 years in debt
that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
and the banks will burn
money will be useless
there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
it will be guns and roving mobs
land will be useless
food will become a diminishing return
nuclear power will be taken over by the many
explosions will continually shake the earth
radiated robot men will stalk each other
the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante's Inferno will be made to look like a children's playground
the sun will not be seen and it will always be night
trees will die
all vegetation will die
radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
the sea will be poisoned
the lakes and rivers will vanish
rain will be the new gold
the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
the petering out of supplies
the natural effect of general decay
and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
born out of that.
the sun still hidden there
awaiting the next chapter.
onemonkey
winmonkey
1914 IV: The Dead
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
Rupert Brooke
I get a poem a day in my inbox, often fairly orthodox choices but occasional gems.
sign up here:
http://www.poemhunter.com/promotion/lists/dailypoems.asp?or=10129
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
Rupert Brooke
I get a poem a day in my inbox, often fairly orthodox choices but occasional gems.
sign up here:
http://www.poemhunter.com/promotion/lists/dailypoems.asp?or=10129
\\-(*o*)-//
СМЕРТЬ В МОСКВЕ ♥
In lockets for a charm we do not wear it,
In verse about its sorrows do not weep,
With Eden's blissful vales do not compare it,
Untroubled does it leave our bitter sleep.
To traffic in it is a thought that never,
Not even in our hearts, remote, takes root.
Before our eyes its image does not hover,
Though we be beggared, sick, despairing, mute.
It's the mud on our shoes, it is rubble,
It's the sand on our teeth, it is slush,
It's the pure, taintless dust that we crumble,
That we pound, that we mix, that we crush.
But it's ours, our own, and will open one day
To receive and embrace us and turn us to clay.
Anna Akhmatova (Gorenko)
In verse about its sorrows do not weep,
With Eden's blissful vales do not compare it,
Untroubled does it leave our bitter sleep.
To traffic in it is a thought that never,
Not even in our hearts, remote, takes root.
Before our eyes its image does not hover,
Though we be beggared, sick, despairing, mute.
It's the mud on our shoes, it is rubble,
It's the sand on our teeth, it is slush,
It's the pure, taintless dust that we crumble,
That we pound, that we mix, that we crush.
But it's ours, our own, and will open one day
To receive and embrace us and turn us to clay.
Anna Akhmatova (Gorenko)
The boys i mean are not refined :ee cummings
For Little MsAphro Jr tonight...since i certainly cant read this to her
the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night
one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined
they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite
the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss
they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance
For Little MsAphro Jr tonight...since i certainly cant read this to her
the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night
one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined
they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite
the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss
they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance
