Poetry Corner

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

PROLOGUE

On seashore far a green oak towers,
And to it with a gold chain bound,
A .learned cat whiles away the hours
By walking slowly round and round.
To right he walks, and sings a ditty;
To left he walks, and tells a tale....

What marvels there! A mermaid sitting
High in a tree, a sprite, a trail
Where unknown beasts move never seen by
Man's eyes, a hut on chicken feet,
Without a door, without a wdndow,
An evil witch's lone retreat;
The woods and valleys there are teeming
With strange things.... Dawn brings waves that, gleaming,

Over the sandy beaches creep,
And from the clear and shining water
Step thirty goodly knights escorted
By their Old Guardian, of the deep
An ancient dweller.... There a dreaded
And hated tsar is captive ta'en;
There, as all watch, for cloud banks headed,
Across the sea and o'er a plain,
A warlock bears a knight. There, weeping,
A princess sits locked in a cell,
And Grey Wolf serves her very well;
There, in a mortar, onward sweeping
All of itself, beneath the skies
The wicked Baba-Yaga flies;
There pines Koshchei and lusts for gold....

All breathes of Russ, the Russ of old
There once was I, friends, and the с
As near him 'neath the oak I sat
And drank of sweet mead at my leisure,
Recounted tales to me.... With pleasure
One that I liked do I recall
And here and now will share with all...

-- Pushkin, Alexander. Ruslan and Lyudmila

"WHEN THE YELLOWING CORNFIELD
IS WAVING . . ."

When the yellowing cornfield is waving,
And the fresh forest murmurs to the wailing of the wind,
And the crimson berry hides itself in the garden
Under the sweet shade of the green leaflet ;

When, sprinkled with fragrant dew
In the purple evening or the golden hour of morning,
From under the bush the silvery lily-of-the-valley to me
In welcome beckons with its head ;

When the chilly fountain is playing along the ravine
And, sinking its thought into some sad dream,
Lisps to me a mysterious legend
About the peaceful land whence it hurries :

Then the throbbing of my heart is stilled.
Then the furrows on my forehead are smoothed,
And I can attain happiness on the earth,
And in the Heavens I see God . . .

-- Mikhail Lermontov

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

A Winter Morning

It's frost and sunshine --wondrous morning!--
My lovely friend, and you're still snoring.
It's time, my beauty, open eyes!
Ope wide your bliss enveloped gazing
And to the North's Aurora blazing
As the North Star come forth, arise!

Last night, remember snowstorm's raging?
In murky skies that gloom rampaging?
The moon was but a faint, pale stain.
Through gloomy clouds it yellowed, flitting.
And, oh, how sadly you were sitting!
And now—look out our windowpane!

'Neath blue cerrulean heavens' gleaming
In wondrous carpets, softly keening,
In sunlight sparkling, the snow lies.
Transparent woods are all that darkens.
The fir greens o'er the frost and harkens,
The river shines beneath the ice.

And our whole room with amber sparkling
Glints in the dawn. With merry gargling
The hearth-stove crackles, wood piled high.
It's pleasant lying in bed thinking.
But say, though, shouldn't we be ringing
To yoke the brown mare to the sleigh?

As we on morning snow go sliding,
My darling, feeling the full riding,
As our horse runs impatiently,
We'll see the fields, their barren bleakness,
The woods, which recently were leafy,
The lakeshore, that’s so dear to me.

-- Alexander Pushkin


Зимнее утро

Мороз и солнце; день чудесный!
Еще ты дремлешь, друг прелестный—
Пора, красавица, проснись:
Открой сомкнуты негой взоры
Навстречу северной Авроры
Звездою севера явись!

Вечор, ты помнишь, вьюга злилась,
На мутном небе мгла носилась;
Луна, как бледное пятно,
Сквозь тучи мрачные желтела,
И ты печальная сидела—
А нынче…погляди в окно:

Под голубыми небесами
Великолепными коврами,
Блестя на солнце, снег лежит;
Прозрачный лес один чернеет,
И ель сквозь иней зеленеет,
И речка подо льдом блестит.

Вся комната янтарным блеском
Озарена. Веселым треском
Трещит затопленная печь.
Приятно думать у лежанки.
Но знаешь: не велеть ли в санки
Кобылку бурую запречь?

Скользя по утреннему снегу,
Друг милый, предадимся бегу
Нетерпеливого коня
И навестим поля пустые,
Леса, недавно столь густые,
И берег, милый для меня.

To a Poet

A poet! Do not prize the love of people around,
It soon will pass -- the glorifying hum --
And come a court of fools and laughing of cold crowd --
But you must always stay firm, morose and calm.

You're king: live lonesome. Along the freedom's road,
Stride there, to where just shows your free mind,
While modernizing fruits of thoughts, beloved,
And not demanding you to be awarded.

Awards inside of you. You are your highest court;
Severely then all, you value your effort.
Well, are you satisfied, oh, my severe artist?

You're satisfied. Then let the mob condemn your verse,
Spit at the altar, where your fire burns,
And toss your brass tripod with somewhat childish wildness.

-- Alexander Pushkin

The Shoemaker (A Parable)

Once a shoemaker, on the art’s creation,
In drown shoes had found a mistake;
With his fast brush, an artist made correction;
But the shoemaker went without a break:
“I think the face a little crooked is shown…
The breast’s much bared, as I’ve understood...”
Here Apelles stopped him (his patience gone):
“Friend, judge the things not higher than a boot!”

Mid friends of mine, I too see one, the clever;
I do not know in which a subject ever
He’d be an ace, tho’ his words of strong roots,
But just a fiend brings him to judge men’ level:
Let him make judgment only for their boots!

-- Alexander Pushkin

[Anoush]

Re: Poetry Corner

Thank you Anoush, that was a very moving piece.

Thank you and you are most welcomed dear jgk. I love most of Kh. Gibran's poems and especially this one!

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

Suave Patria: Sweet Land

INTROIT

I who have sung only the exquisite
score of personal decorum,
today, at center stage, raise my voice
in the manner of a tenor's imitations
of the bass's deep-throated tones
to carve an ode from an epic poem.
I shall navigate through civil waves
with weightless oars, like that
patriot of yore who, with only a rifle,
rowed across the English Channel.

In a muted epic I shall tell that
our land is diamantine, impeccable.

Sweet Land: let me engulf you
in the deepest music of the jungle,
music that molded my expression,
sounds of the rhythmic cadences of axes,
young girls' cries and laughter,
and birds of the carpenter profession.

ACT ONE

Patria: your surface is the gold of maize,
below, the palace of gold medallion kings,
your sky is filled with the heron's flight
and green lightning of parrots' wings.
God-the-Child deeded you a stable,
lust for oil was the gift of the devil.

Above your Capital the hours soar,
hollow-eyed and rouged, in a coach-and-four,
while in your provinces the hours
roll like centavos from insomniac
clocks with fan-tail dove patrols.

Patria: your maimed terrain
is clothed in beads and bright percale.

Sweet Land: your house is still
so vast that the train rolling by seems
only a diminutive Christmas toy.

And in the tumult of the stations,
your brown-skinned face imparts
that immensity to every heart.

Who, on a dark and ominous night
has not, before he knew wrong, held
tight his sweetheart's arm to watch
the splendor of a fireworks display?

Patria: in your tropical abundance
you shimmer with the dolphin's iridescence;
the soul, an aerialist hummingbird,
plights its troth with your golden hair,
and, as offering to your tobacco braids,
my lively race of jarabe dancers
bring their honeyed maguey waters.

Your soil rings of silver, and in your hand
even poverty's piggy-bank rattles a tune,
and in early mornings across the land,
through streets like mirrors, spread
the blessed aromas of fresh-baked bread.

When we are born, you give us notes,
and compotes worthy of Paradise,
then, Sweet Land, your whole being,
all the bounty of earth and air.

To the sad and the joyful you say sí,
that on your loving tongue they savor
your tangy flavor of sesame.

When it thunders, your nuptial sky
fills us with frenzy and delight.
Thunderous clouds, that drench us
with madness, madden the mountain,
mend the lunatic, woo the woman,
raise the dead, demand the Viaticum,
and the, finally, fling God's lumber
across tilled fields shaken with thunder.

Thunderous storm: I hear in your groans
the rattling of coupled skeletons,
I hear the past and what is to come,
I hear the present with its coconut drum.
And in the sound of your coming and going
I hear life's roulette wheel, spinning, spinning…

INTERMISSION

(Cuauhtemoc)

Forever-young grandfather, hear my praise
for the only hero worthy of art.

Anachronistic, farcical,
the rose bows to your nopal;
you magnetize the Spaniard's language
the spout from which flow Catholic prayers
to fill the triumphant zócalo where
the soles of your feet where scorched to ash.

Unlike Caesar, no patrician flush
suffused your face during your pain;
today, your unwreathed head appears,
hemispherically, on a coin.

A spiritual coin upon which is etched
all you suffered: the hollowed-out pirogue
of your capture, the chaos of your creatures,
the sobbing of your mythologies,
the swimming idols, and the Malinche,
but most to bewail is your having been severed
from the curved breast of the empress
as from the breast of a quail.

SECOND ACT

Suave Patria, this is your omen:
the river of virtues of your women.
Your daughters move like sylphs, or,
distilling an invisible alcohol,
webbed in the netting of your sun,
file by like graceful demijohns.
Patria, I love you not as myth
but for the communion of your truth,
as I love the child peering over the rail,
in a blouse buttoned up to her eartips
and skirt to her ankle of fine percale.

Impervious to dishonor, you flower.
I shall believe in you as long as
at the dawn hour one Mexican woman
carries home dough in her shawl,
and from the oven of its inauguration
the aroma spreads across the nation.

Like a Queen of Hearts, Patria, tapping
a vein of silver, you live miraculously,
for the day, like the national lottery.

Your image is the Palacio Nacional,
the same grandeur, and the identical
stature of a boy and a thimble.

In the face of hunger and mortar, Felipe de Jesús,
saint and martyr, will give you a fig.

Suave Patria, gentle vendor of chía,
I want to bear you away in the dark of Lent,
riding a fiery stallion, disturbing
the peace, and dodging shots from police.

Patria, your heart will always have room
for the bird a youngster tenderly
entombs in an empty spool box;
yes, in you our young hide, weeping,
the dried-apple cadavers
of birds that speak our own tongue.

If I am stifling in your July, send me
from the orchard of your hair the cool air
that brings shawls and dripping clay pitchers;
then, if I shiver, let me draw warmth
from your plump rum-punch lips
and your blue-incense breath.

Before your blessed-palm draped balcony
I pass with heavy heart, knowing
you tremble on this Palm Sunday.

Your spirit and style are dying our,
like the vanishing goddess of song
in a country fair—indomitable bosom
challenging straining bodice—
who evoked lust along with life's rhythm.

Patria, I give the key to happiness:
be faithful forever to your likeness:
fifty repeats of the Ave are carved
on the beads of the rosary, and it is
more fortunate than you, Patria suave.

Be constant, be true, your glory
your eyes of abandon and thirsting voice;
tri-color sash across misty breasts,
and an open air throne like a resonant timbrel:
allegory's straw cart!

-- Ramon Lopez Velarde
(Translated by Margaret Sayers Peden)

La suave patria

PROEMIO

Yo que sólo canté de la exquisita
partitura del íntimo decoro,
alzo hoy la voz a la mitad del foro,
a la manera del tenor que imita
la gutural modulación del bajo,
para cortar a la epopeya un gajo.
Navegaré por las olas civiles
con remos que no pesan, porque van
como los brazos del correo chuan
que remaba la Mancha con fusiles.

Diré con una épica sordina:
la patria es impecable y diamantina.

Suave Patria: permite que te envuelva
en la más honda música de selva
con que me modelaste por entero
al golpe cadencioso de las hachas,
entre risas y gritos de muchachas
y pájaros de oficio carpintero.


PRIMER ACTO

Patria: tu superficie es el maíz,
tus minas el palacio del Rey de Oros,
y tu cielo, las garzas en desliz
y el relámpago verde de los loros.
El Niño Dios te escrituró un establo
y los veneros de petróleo el diablo.

Sobre tu Capital, cada hora vuela
ojerosa y pintada, en carretela;
y en tu provincia, del reloj en vela
que rondan los palomos colipavos,
las campanadas caen como centavos.

Patria: tu mutilado territorio
se viste de percal y de abalorio.

Suave Patria: tu casa todavía
es tan grande, que el tren va por la vía
como aguinaldo de juguetería.

Y en el barullo de las estaciones,
con tu mirada de mestiza, pones
la inmensidad sobre los corazones.

¿Quién, en la noche que asusta a la rana,
no miró, antes de saber del vicio,
del brazo de su novia, la galana
pólvora de los fuegos de artificio?

Suave Patria: en tu tórrido festín
luces policromías de delfín,
y con tu pelo rubio se desposa
el alma, equilibrista chuparrosa,
y a tus dos trenzas de tabaco, sabe
ofrendar aguamiel toda mi briosa
raza de bailadores de jarabe.

Tu barro suena a plata, y en tu puño
su sonora miseria de alcancía;
y por las madrugadas del terruño,
en calles como espejos, se vacía
el santo olor de la panadería.

Cuando nacemos, nos regalas notas,
después, un paraíso de compotas,
y luego te regalas toda entera,
suave Patria, alacena y pajarera.

Al triste y al feliz dices que sí,
que en tu lengua de amor prueben de ti
la picadura del ajonjolí.

¡Y tu cielo nupcial, que cuando truena,
de deleites frenéticos nos llena!

Trueno de nuestras nubes, que nos baña
de locura, enloquece a la montaña,
requiebra a la mujer, sana al lunático,
incorpora a los muertos, pide el viático,
y al fin derrumba las madererías
de Dios, sobre las tierras labrantías.

Trueno del temporal: oigo en tus quejas
crujir los esqueletos en parejas;
oigo lo que se fue, lo que aún no toco,
y la hora actual con su vientre de coco.
Y oigo en el brinco de tu ida y venida,
¡oh trueno, la ruleta de mi vida!

INTERMEDIO

(Cuauhtémoc)

Joven abuelo: escúchame loarte
único héroe a la altura del arte.

Anacrónicamente, absurdamente,
a tu nopal inclínase el rosal;
al idioma del blanco, tú lo imantas
y es surtidor de católica fuente
que de responsos llena el victorial
zócalo de ceniza de tus plantas.

No como a César el rubor patricio
te cubre el rostro en medio del suplicio:
tu cabeza desnuda se nos queda,
hemisféricamente, de moneda.

Moneda espiritual en que se fragua
todo lo que sufriste: la piragua
prisionera, el azoro de tus crías,
el sollozar de tus mitologías,
la Malinche, los ídolos a nado,
y por encima, haberte desatado
del pecho curvo de la emperatriz
como del pecho de una codorniz.


SEGUNDO ACTO

Suave Patria: tú vales por el río
de las virtudes de tu mujerío.
Tus hijas atraviesan como hadas,
o destilando un invisible alcohol,
vestidas con las redes de tu sol,
cruzan como botellas alambradas.
Suave Patria: te amo no cual mito,
sino por tu verdad de pan bendito
como a niña que asoma por la reja
con la blusa corrida hasta la oreja
y la falda bajada hasta el huesito.

Inaccesible al deshonor, floreces:
creeré en ti, mientras una mexicana
en su tápalo lleve los dobleces
de la tienda, a las seis de la mañana,
y al estrenar su lujo, quede lleno
el país, del aroma del estreno.

Como la sota moza, Patria mía,
en piso de metal, vives al día,
de milagro, como la lotería.

Tu imagen, el Palacio Nacional,
con tu misma grandeza y con tu igual
estatura de niño y de dedal.

Te dará, frente al hambre y al obús,
un higo San Felipe de Jesús.

Suave Patria: vendedora de chía:
quiero raptarte en la cuaresma opaca,
sobre un garañón, y con matraca,
y entre los tiros de la policía.

Tus entrañas no niegan un asilo
para el ave que el párvulo sepulta
en una caja de carretes de hilo,
y nuestra juventud, llorando, oculta
dentro de ti, el cadáver hecho poma
de aves que hablan nuestro mismo idioma.

Si me ahogo en tus julios, a mí baja
desde el vergel de tu peinado denso,
frescura de rexxxo y de tinaja:
y si tirito, dejas que me arrope
en tu respiración azul de incienso
y en tus carnosos labios de rompope.

Por tu balcón de palmas bendecidas
el Domingo de Ramos, yo desfilo
lleno de sombras, porque tú trepidas.

Quieren morir tu ánima y tu estilo,
cual muriéndose van las cantadoras
que en las ferias, con el bravío pecho
empitonando la camisa, han hecho
la lujuria y el ritmo de las horas.

Patria, te doy de tu dicha la clave:
sé siempre igual, fiel a tu espejo diario;
cincuenta veces es igual el Ave
taladrada en el hilo del rosario,
y es más feliz que tú, Patria suave.

Sé igual y fiel; pupilas de abandono;
sedienta voz, la trigarante faja
en tus pechugas al vapor; y un trono
la carreta alegórica de paja.

-- Ramon Lopez Velarde

Because of this Modest Style (September 14, 1915)

It's how she spreads, without a sound, her scent
of orange blossom on the dark of me,
it is the way she shrouds in mourning black
her mother-of-pearl and ivory, the way
she wears the lace ruff at her throat, and how
she turns her face, quite voiceless, self-possessed,
because she takes the language straight to heart,
is thrifty with the words she speaks.
It's how
she is so reticent yet welcoming
when she comes out to face my panegyrics,
the way she says my name
mocking and mimicking, makes gentle fun,
yet she's aware that my unspoken drama
is really of the heart, though a little silly;
it's how, when night is deep and at its darkest,
we linger after dinner, vaguely talking
and her laughing smile grows fainter and then falls
gently on the tablecloth; it's the teasing way
she won't give me her arm and then allows
deep feeling to come with us when we walk out,
promenading on the hot colonial boulevard. . .

Because of this, your sighing, modest style
of love, I worship you, my faithful star
who like to cloud yourself about in mourning,
generous, hidden blossom; kindly
mellowness who have presided over
my thirty years with the self-denying singleness
a vase has, whose half-blown roses wreathe with scent
the headboard of a convalescent man;
cautious nurse, shy
serving maid, dear friend who trembles
with the trembling of a child when you revise
the reading that we share; apprehensive, always timid
guest at the feast I give; my ally,
humble dove that coos when it is morning
in a minor key, a key that's wholly yours.

May you be blessed, modest, magnificent;
you have possessed the highest summit of my heart,
you who are at once the artist
of lowly and most lofty things, who bear in your hands
my life as if it was your work of art!

O star and orange blossom, may you dwindle
gently rocked in an unwedded peace,
and may you fade out like a morning star
which the lightening greenness of a meadow darkens
or like a flower that finds transfiguration
on the blue west, as it might on a simple bed.

-- Ramon Lopez Velarde
(Translated by Michael Schmidt)

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

The Old Lizard

In the parched path
I have seen the good lizard
(one drop of crocodile)
meditating.
With his green frock-coat
of an abbot of the devil,
his correct bearing
and his stiff collar,
he has the sad air
of an old professor.
Those faded eyes
of a broken artist,
how they watch the afternoon
in dismay!

Is this, my friend,
your twilight constitutional?
Please use your cane,
you are very old, Mr. Lizard,
and the children of the village
may startle you.
What are you seeking in the path,
my near-sighted philosopher,
if the wavering phantasm
of the parched afternoon
has broken the horizon?

Are you seeking the blue alms
of the moribund heaven?
A penny of a star?
Or perhaps
you've been reading a volume
of Lamartine, and you relish
the plateresque trills
of the birds?

(You watch the setting sun,
and your eyes shine,
oh, dragon of the frogs,
with a human radiance.
Ideas, gondolas without oars,
cross the shadowy
waters of your
burnt-out eyes.)

Have you come looking
for that lovely lady lizard,
green as the wheatfields
of May,
as the long locks
of sleeping pools,
who scorned you, and then
left you in your field?
Oh, sweet idyll, broken
among the sweet sedges!
But, live! What the devil!
I like you.
The motto "I oppose
the serpent" triumphs
in that grand double chin
of a Christian archbishop.

Now the sun has dissolved
in the cup of the mountains,
and the flocks
cloud the roadway.
It is the hour to depart:
leave the dry path
and your meditations.
You will have time
to look at the stars
when the worms are eating you
at their leisure.

Go home to your house
by the village, of the crickets!
Good night, my friend
Mr. Lizard!

Now the field is empty,
the mountains dim,
the roadway deserted.
Only, now and again,
a cuckoo sings in the darkness
of the poplar trees.

-- Federico García Lorca
(Translated by Lysander Kemp)


The Gypsy and the Wind

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks
the sentinels are weeping;
they guard the tall white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water
for their pleasure erect
little castles of conch shells
and arbors of greening pine.

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,
the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,
watching the girl as he plays
with tongues of celestial bells
on an invisible bagpipe.

Gypsy, let me lift your skirt
and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers
the blue rose of your womb.

Precosia throws the tambourine
and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her
with his breathing and burning sword.

The sea darkens and roars,
while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,
and a muted gong of the snow.

Precosia, run, Precosia!
Or the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run, Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born stars
with their long and glistening tongues.

Precosia, filled with fear,
now makes her way to that house
beyond the tall green pines
where the English consul lives.

Alarmed by the anguished cries,
three riflemen come running,
their black capes tightly drawn,
and berets down over their brow.

The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of tepid milk
and a shot of Holland gin
which Precosia does not drink.

And while she tells them, weeping,
of her strange adventure,
the wind furiously gnashes
against the slate roof tiles.

-- Federico García Lorca

[jgk3]

Re: Poetry Corner

Thank you Anoush, that was a very moving piece.

[Anoush]

Re: Poetry Corner

On Love


When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north
wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even
as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your
tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their
clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may
become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may
know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge
become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and
love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness
and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasoneless world where you shall laugh, but not
all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from
itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart,"
but rather, "I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love,
if it find you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be
your desires;
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody
to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for
another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your
heart and a song of praise upon your lips.


Khalil Gibran

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

Blue & Green

GREEN THE POINTED FINGERS of glass hang downwards. The light slides down the glass, and drops a pool of green. All day long the ten fingers of the lustre drop green upon the marble. The feathers of parakeetsxtheir harsh criesxsharp blades of palm treesxgreen, too; green needles glittering in the sun. But the hard glass drips on to the marble; the pools hover above the desert sand; the camels lurch through them; the pools settle on the marble; rushes edge them; weeds clog them; here and there a white blossom; the frog flops over; at night the stars are set there unbroken. Evening comes, and the shadow sweeps the green over the mantlepiece; the ruffled surface of ocean. No ships come; the aimless waves sway beneath the empty sky. It's night; the needles drip blots of blue. The green's out.

BLUE The snub-nosed monster rises to the surface and spouts through his blunt nostrils two columns of water, which, fiery-white in the centre, spray off into a fringe of blue beads. Strokes of blue line the black tarpaulin of his hide. Slushing the water through mouth and nostrils he sings, heavy with water, and the blue closes over him dowsing the polished pebbles of his eyes. Thrown upon the beach he lies, blunt, obtuse, shedding dry blue scales. Their metallic blue stains the rusty iron on the beach. Blue are the ribs of the wrecked rowing boat. A wave rolls beneath the blue bells. But the cathedral's different, cold, incense laden, faint blue with the veils of madonnas.

-- Virginia Woolf

[hipeter924]

Re: Poetry Corner

A Fine Day

After all the rain, the sun
Shines on hill and grassy mead;
Fly into the garden, child,
You are very glad indeed.

For the days have been so dull,
Oh, so special dark and drear,
That you told me, "Mr. Sun
Has forgotten we live here."

Dew upon the lily lawn,
Dew upon the garden beds;
Daintly from all the leaves
Pop the little primrose heads.

And the violets in the copse
With their parasols of green
Take a little peek at you;
They're the bluest you have seen.

On the lilac tree a bird
Singing first a little not,
Then a burst of happy song
Bubbles in his lifted throat.

O the sun, the comfy sun!
This the song that you must sing,
"Thank you for the birds, the flowers,
Thank you, sun, for everything."

Katherine Mansfield

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

Airport.
Messenger in the form of a soldier.
Green wool. He stood there,
off the plane.
A new truth, too horrible to bear.
There was no record of it
anywhere in the ancient signs
or symbols.
People looked at each other,
in the mirror, their children's
eyes.
Why had it come.
There was no escape from
it anywhere.
A truth too horrible to name.
Only a loose puking moan
could frame its dark interiors.
Only a few could look upon
its face w/ calm.
Most of the people fell instantly
under its dull friendly terror.
They looked to the calm ones
but saw only a green
military coat.
Repent!
None of the old Things worked.

- Morrison, Jim. Wilderness, vol. 1 p. 89

The prinicpal of the school hold his nose.
"A dead cow is in there. I wonder
why they haven't sent someone to
remove it?"

A vulture streams by,
& another. The white tip
of his claw-like red beak
looks white, like meat.
Swift sad languorous
shadows.

The cat drinks little cat
laps from a sick
Turquoise swimming pool.

(Insane couplings out in the night.)

America, I am hook'd to your
Cold white neon bosom, & suck
snake-like thru the dawn, I
am drawn back home
your son in exile
in the land of Awakening
What dreams possessed you
To merge in the morning?

"I been in a daze"

- Morrison, Jim. Wilderness, vol. 1, p. 153