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Post by Nalkarj on Sept 28, 2023 21:57:38 GMT
La Figlia che Piange by T.S. Eliot
O quam te memorem virgo …
Stand on the highest pavement of the stair— Lean on a garden urn— Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair— Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise— Fling them to the ground and turn With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
So I would have had him leave, So I would have had her stand and grieve, So he would have left As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, As the mind deserts the body it has used. I should find Some way incomparably light and deft, Some way we both should understand, Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours: Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers. And I wonder how they should have been together! I should have lost a gesture and a pose. Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.
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Post by theravenking on Sept 29, 2023 19:24:02 GMT
The Stranger by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok
The restaurants on hot spring evenings Lie under a dense and savage air. Foul drafts and hoots from dunken revelers Contaminate the thoroughfare. Above the dusty lanes of suburbia Above the tedium of bungalows A pretzel sign begilds a bakery And children screech fortissimo.
And every evening beyond the barriers Gentlemen of practiced wit and charm Go strolling beside the drainage ditches -- A tilted derby and a lady at the arm.
The squeak of oarlocks comes over the lake water A woman's shriek assaults the ear While above, in the sky, inured to everything, The moon looks on with a mindless leer.
And every evening my one companion Sits here, reflected in my glass. Like me, he has drunk of bitter mysteries. Like me, he is broken, dulled, downcast.
The sleepy lackeys stand beside tables Waiting for the night to pass And tipplers with the eyes of rabbits Cry out: "In vino veritas!"
And every evening (or am I imagining?) Exactly at the appointed time A girl's slim figure, silk raimented, Glides past the window's mist and grime.
And slowly passing through the revelers, Unaccompanied, always alone, Exuding mists and secret fragrances, She sits at the table that is her own.
Something ancient, something legendary Surrounds her presence in the room, Her narrow hand, her silk, her bracelets, Her hat, the rings, the ostrich plume.
Entranced by her presence, near and enigmatic, I gaze through the dark of her lowered veil And I behold an enchanted shoreline And enchanted distances, far and pale.
I am made a guardian of the higher mysteries, Someone's sun is entrusted to my control Tart wine has pierced the last convolution of my labyrinthine soul.
And now the drooping plumes of ostriches Asway in my brain droop slowly lower And two eyes, limpid, blue, and fathomless Are blooming on a distant shore.
Inside my soul a treasure is buried. The key is mine and only mine. How right you are, you drunken monster! I know: the truth is in the wine.
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Post by spiderwort on Oct 6, 2023 13:07:27 GMT
Lost by David Wagoner
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known. The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you, If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here. No two trees are the same to Raven, No two branches are the same to Wren. If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows Where you are. You must let it find you.
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Post by Nalkarj on Oct 13, 2023 20:23:32 GMT
(Louise Glück, a wonderful poet, passed away today at 80. In her honor, and in keeping with the month, I thought I’d post the following.) All Hallowsby Louise Glück Even now this landscape is assembling. The hills darken. The oxen sleep in their blue yoke, the fields having been picked clean, the sheaves bound evenly and piled at the roadside among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises: This is the barrenness of harvest or pestilence. And the wife leaning out the window with her hand extended, as in payment, and the seeds distinct, gold, calling Come here Come here, little oneAnd the soul creeps out of the tree.
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Post by theravenking on Oct 26, 2023 10:50:43 GMT
The Wild Iris by Louise Glück
At the end of my suffering there was a door
Hear me out: That which you call death I remember.
Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting. Then nothing. The weak sun flickered over the dry surface.
It is terrible to survive as consciousness buried in the dark earth.
Then it was over, that which you fear, being a soul and unable to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth bending a little. And what I took to be birds darting in low shrubs.
You who do not remember passage from the other world I tell you I could speak again: whatever returns from oblivion returns to find a voice:
from the center of my life came a great fountain, deep blue shadows on azure seawater.
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Post by CrepedCrusader on Oct 26, 2023 19:19:20 GMT
To an Athlete Dying YoungA. E. Housman
The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the market-place; Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought you shoulder-high. Today, the road all runners come, Shoulder-high we bring you home, And set you at your threshold down, Townsman of a stiller town. Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay, And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose. Eyes the shady night has shut Cannot see the record cut, And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears. Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honours out, Runners whom renown outran And the name died before the man. So set, before its echoes fade, The fleet foot on the sill of shade, And hold to the low lintel up The still-defended challenge-cup. And round that early-laurelled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland briefer than a girl’s.
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Post by Nalkarj on Oct 30, 2023 1:41:50 GMT
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Post by Nalkarj on Oct 31, 2023 20:48:50 GMT
A trio for Halloween
An Epigram for Halloween by Anthony Harrington
One day of honesty For life and all its lies — Everyone is openly Wearing a disguise
Halloween by Phyllis McGinley
The night is moonstruck, the night is merry. Listen! It peals with a chime of words, Twitters the town like an aviary, Haunted by voices stranger than birds’, Haunted by shapes abroad together — Shapes of childhood, mendicant ghosts — Who claim the dark as their private weather, Walking the world in their giggling hosts.
They cast long shadows, or roly-poly. They tamper with doorbells. They chalk the stairs. The night belongs to them, singly, wholly; Surer than Christmas, this Feast is theirs. Swarming past hedges like sparrows flocking, The gravel cracking beneath their feet, Flutter the children. When they come knocking, Open the door to them, Trick or Treat.
Open the door to phantom and vagrant, Whistle them in from the wild outside, For under the trees the leaves are fragrant, Over the houses the sky is wide, And only a streetlamp vaguely dapples Spellbound paths where the chestnut drops; Comfort them quickly with candied apples, Stay them with pennies and lollypops.
Or they may forget how their beds are standing — Sheets turned down, and a light in the hall — Forget the fire and the clock on the landing, And never come back from the dark at all. Coax them, wheedle them, call to them fonder Than ever you did on an evening yet, For who knows whither a ghost might wander With mischief loose and the moon not set? Treat them or trick them. But bar the door Till the Shade is bewitched to a child once more.
Hallow-E’en, 1914 by Winifred M. Letts
“Why do you wait at your door, woman, Alone in the night?” “I am waiting for one who will come, stranger, To show him a light. He will see me afar on the road And be glad at the sight.”
“Have you no fear in your heart, woman, To stand there alone? There is comfort for you and kindly content Beside the hearthstone.” But she answered, “No rest can I have Till I welcome my own.”
“Is it far he must travel to-night, This man of your heart?” “Strange lands that I know not and pitiless seas Have kept us apart, And he travels this night to his home Without guide, without chart.”
“And has he companions to cheer him?” “Aye, many,” she said. “The candles are lighted, the hearthstones are swept, The fires glow red. We shall welcome them out of the night — Our home-coming dead.”
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Post by mikef6 on Nov 1, 2023 15:32:58 GMT
The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveller to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
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Post by mikef6 on Nov 2, 2023 14:58:57 GMT
A poem for the first of November.
MY NOVEMBER GUEST by Robert Frost
My sorrow, when she’s here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list: She’s glad the birds are gone away, She’s glad her simple worsted grey Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly sees, She thinks I have no eye for these, And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow, But it were vain to tell her so, And they are better for her praise.
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Post by Nalkarj on Nov 9, 2023 23:04:41 GMT
1926 by Weldon Kees
The porchlight coming on again, Early November, the dead leaves Raked in piles, the wicker swing Creaking. Across the lots A phonograph is playing Ja-Da.
An orange moon. I see the lives Of neighbors, mapped and marred Like all the wars ahead, and R. Insane, B. with his throat cut, Fifteen years from now, in Omaha.
I did not know them then. My airedale scratches at the door. And I am back from seeing Milton Sills And Doris Kenyon. Twelve years old. The porchlight coming on again.
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Post by mikef6 on Nov 11, 2023 16:17:25 GMT
I shall sit here and wonder Wonder for a while For all the things I’ve yet to do And, all the things I’ve done Why, I shall sit here And wonder Wonder for a while
A little poem by Athey Thompson
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Post by mikef6 on Nov 11, 2023 16:29:20 GMT
“Alone” by Edgar Allen Poe
From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—
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Post by Nalkarj on Nov 14, 2023 18:26:28 GMT
The Loon by James Tate
A loon woke me this morning. It was like waking up in another world. I had no idea what was expected of me. I waited for instructions. Someone called and asked me if I wanted a free trip to Florida. I said, “Sure. Can I go today?” A man in a uniform picked me up in a limousine, and the next thing I know I’m being chased by an alligator across a parking lot. A crowd gathers and cheers me on. Of course, none of this really happened. I’m still sleeping. I don’t want to go to work. I want to know what the loon is saying. It sounds like ecstasy tinged with unfathomable terror. One thing is certain: at least they are not speaking of tax shelters. The phone rings. It’s my boss. She says, “Where are you?” I say, “I don’t know. I don’t recognize my surroundings. I think I’ve been kidnapped. If they make demands of you, don’t give in. That’s my professional advice.” Just then, the loon let out a tremendous looping, soaring, swirling, quadruple whoop. “My god, are you alright?” my boss said. “In case we do not meet again, I want you to know that I’ve always loved you, Agnes,” I said. “What?” she said. “What are you saying?” “Good-bye, my darling. Try to remember me as your ever loyal servant,” I said. “Did you say you loved me?” she said. I said, “Yes,” and hung up. I tried to go back to sleep, but the idea of being kidnapped had me quite worked up. I looked in the mirror for signs of torture. Every time the loon cried, I screamed and contorted my face in agony. They were going to cut off my head and place it on a stake. I overheard them talking. They seemed like very reasonable men, even, one might say, likeable.
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Post by theravenking on Nov 20, 2023 14:53:32 GMT
I Am in Need of Music by Elizabeth Bishop
I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling fingertips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head, And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is a magic made by melody: A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep To the subaqueous stillness of the sea, And floats forever in a moon-green pool, Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
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