Poem 133: The Summer Day
Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean— the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down— who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver
@Sideon MARY OLIVER! I freaking love Mary Oliver. Thank you so much. Last year, I chose this poem for the memorial of someone I loved:
When death comes
When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox
when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
--Mary Oliver
I'm swathed in the blue Of your eyes As vast As the summer sky And as the luminescent cracks of light Leak through The folds of midnight I hold With my closed palms The light within
But I drown inside The darkened parts Within the purgatory of our hearts While waiting on the stars to align As the moonlight struggles to shine Be it destiny Or be it fate It was a moment too late
So I'll take The scent of you Release the light From my palms Into the night And fly Into the cotton candy clouds Of the cosmic skies Dream of marigolds And wish upon the dandelions As they fly Like birthed butterflies Into the crescent moons sky
In hopes that you Are dreaming of us too
"Magic Cornbread"
i am wandering around in the Land of Magic Cornbread, where all sexual maneuvers are high Dada, where warblers jockey for position before the pie-holes of slumbering saints.
This land giggles and flaunts its nakedness under the twisted grin of the Cheshire moon, House wrens with deep black bean eyes meditate on bawdy visions hidden from the world like naughty nuns.
it's the kind of night that 'possums love, warm wet crazy night that fuels their obsessive hunger for stink and drives them ever on their mad eyed waller.
the mean green grooved In every bite of cornbread. I wake up in the rain after rolling around in compost all night like a worm.
A Royal Princess Christina Rossetti
I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest, Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast, For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.
Two and two my guards behind, two and two before, Two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore; Me, poor dove, that must not coo, eagle that must not soar.
All my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens grow Scented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blow That are costly, out of season as the seasons go.
All my walls are lost in mirrors, whereupon I trace Self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place, Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.
Then I have an ivory chair high to sit upon, Almost like my father's chair, which is an ivory throne; There I sit uplift and upright, there I sit alone.
Alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end; My father and my mother give me treasures, search and spend? O my father! O my mother! have you ne'er a friend?
As I am a lofty princess, so my father is A lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties, Holding in his strong right hand world-kingdoms' balances.
He has quarrelled with his neighbours, he has scourged his foes; Vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes, Long-descended valiant lords whom the vulture knows,
On whose track the vulture swoops, when they ride in state To break the strength of armies and topple down the great: Each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate.
My father counting up his strength sets down with equal pen So many head of cattle, head of horses, head of men; These for slaughter, these for breeding, with the how and when.
Some to work on roads, canals; some to man his ships; Some to smart in mines beneath sharp overseers' whips; Some to trap fur-beasts in lands where utmost winter nips.
Once it came into my heart, and whelmed me like a flood, That these too are men and women, human flesh and blood; Men with hearts and men with souls, though trodden down like mud.
Our feasting was not glad that night, our music was not gay: On my mother's graceful head I marked a thread of grey, My father frowning at the fare seemed every dish to weigh.
I sat beside them sole princess in my exalted place, My ladies and my gentlemen stood by me on the dais: A mirror showed me I look old and haggard in the face;
It showed me that my ladies all are fair to gaze upon, Plump, plenteous-haired, to every one love's secret lore is known, They laugh by day, they sleep by night; ah me, what is a throne?
The singing men and women sang that night as usual, The dancers danced in pairs and sets, but music had a fall, A melancholy windy fall as at a funeral.
Amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept; My ladies loosed my golden chain; meantime I could have wept To think of some in galling chains whether they waked or slept.
I took my bath of scented milk, delicately waited on, They burned sweet things for my delight, cedar and cinnamon, They lit my shaded silver lamp, and left me there alone.
A day went by, a week went by. One day I heard it said: 'Men are clamouring, women, children, clamouring to be fed; Men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread.'
So two whispered by my door, not thinking I could hear, Vulgar naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear; Fit for cooping in the background, not to stalk so near.
But I strained my utmost sense to catch this truth, and mark: 'There are families out grazing like cattle in the park.' 'A pair of peasants must be saved even if we build an ark.'
A merry jest, a merry laugh, each strolled upon his way; One was my page, a lad I reared and bore with day by day; One was my youngest maid as sweet and white as cream in May.
Other footsteps followed softly with a weightier tramp; Voices said: 'Picked soldiers have been summoned from the camp To quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp.'
'Howl and stamp?' one answered: 'They made free to hurl a stone At the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown.' 'There's work then for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown.'
'One I saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head, Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread: Then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out he was dead.'
'After us the deluge,' was retorted with a laugh: 'If bread's the staff of life, they must walk without a staff.' 'While I've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the chaff.'
These passed. The king: stand up. Said my father with a smile: 'Daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile, She's sad to-day, and who but you her sadness can beguile?'
He too left me. Shall I touch my harp now while I wait? (I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate) Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state;
Or shall my woman stand and read some unimpassioned scene, There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between; Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the queen?
Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command: 'Charge!' a clash of steel: 'Charge again, the rebels stand. Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand.'
There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher; A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire; I heard a cry for faggots, then I heard a yell for fire.
'Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread, You who sat to see us starve,' one shrieking woman said: 'Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head.'
Nay, this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth, I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith, I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath;
With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand, I will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will stand Where they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.
They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give; I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live; I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive:
Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and show The lesson I have learned which is death, is life, to know. I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.
There's something about a poet who supposedly wrote "romantic, devotional, and children's poems" coming out with a poem that screams "These rich and powerful people have too much wealth and power, they should give it to the poor, and if the poor kill them, heck, they have it coming, this current situation is blatantly unfair!"
FOR EZRA POUND IL MIGLIOR FABBRO I. The Burial of the Dead
April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “They called me the hyacinth girl.” —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson! “You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, “Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? “Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? “Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, “Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! “You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”
II. A Game of Chess
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, “Jug Jug” to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. “Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? “I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.
“What is that noise?” The wind under the door. “What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?” Nothing again nothing. “Do “You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember “Nothing?”
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes. “Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent “What shall I do now? What shall I do?” “I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street “With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? “What shall we ever do?” The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
III. The Fire Sermon
The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu
Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .
She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.
“This music crept by me upon the waters” And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialala Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars The stern was formed A gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia Wallala leialala
“Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”
“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?”
“On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.” la la
To Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest
burning
IV. Death by Water
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
V. What the Thunder Said
After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience
Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water
Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you?
What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal
A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih
The Disappointment Aphra Behn (1680)
1 (of 14—read on or not as you choose) One Day the Amarous Lisander, By an impatient Passion sway’d, Surpris’d fair Cloris, that lov’d Maid, Who cou’d defend her self no longer; All things did with his Love conspire, The gilded Planet of the Day, In his gay Chariot, drawn by Fire, Was now descending to the Sea, And left no Light to guide the World, But what from Cloris brighter Eyes was hurl’d.
2 In alone Thicket, made for Love, Silent as yielding Maid’s Consent, She with a charming Languishment Permits his force, yet gently strove? Her Hands his Bosom softly meet, But not to put him back design’d, Rather to draw him on inclin’d, Whilst he lay trembling at her feet; Resistance ’tis to late to shew, She wants the pow’r to say—Ah! what do you do?
3 Her bright Eyes sweet, and yet Severe, Where Love and Shame confus’dly strive, Fresh Vigor to Lisander give: And whispring softly in his Ear, She Cry’d—Cease—cease—your vain desire, Or I’ll call out—What wou’d you do? My dearer Honour, ev’n to you, I cannot—must not give—retire, Or take that Life whose chiefest part I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart.
4 But he as much unus’d to fear, As he was capable of Love, The blessed Minutes to improve, Kisses her Lips, her Neck, her Hair! Each touch her new Desires alarms! His burning trembling Hand he prest Upon her melting Snowy Breast, While she lay panting in his Arms! All her unguarded Beauties lie The Spoils and Trophies of the Enemy.
5 And now, without Respect or Fear, He seeks the Objects of his Vows; His Love no Modesty allows: By swift degrees advancing where His daring Hand that Altar seiz’d, Where Gods of Love do Sacrifice; That awful Throne, that Paradise, Where Rage is tam’d, and Anger pleas’d; That Living Fountain, from whose Trills The melted Soul in liquid Drops distils.
6 Her balmy Lips encountring his, Their Bodies as their Souls are joyn’d, Where both in Transports were confin’d, Extend themselves upon the Moss. Cloris half dead and breathless lay, Her Eyes appear’d like humid Light, Such as divides the Day and Night; Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay; And now no signs of Life she shows, But what in short-breath-sighs returns and goes.
7 He saw how at her length she lay, He saw her rising Bosom bare, Her loose thin Robes, through which appear A Shape design’d for Love and Play; Abandon’d by her Pride and Shame, She does her softest Sweets dispence, Offring her Virgin-Innocence A Victim to Love’s Sacred Flame; Whilst th’ or’e ravish’d Shepherd lies, Unable to perform the Sacrifice.
8 Ready to taste a Thousand Joys, Thee too transported hapless Swain, Found the vast Pleasure turn’d to Pain: Pleasure, which too much Love destroys The willing Garments by he laid, And Heav’n all open to his view; Mad to possess, himself he threw On the defenceless lovely Maid. But oh ! what envious Gods conspire To snatch his Pow’r, yet leave him the Desire!
9 Nature’s support, without whose Aid She can no humane Being give, It self now wants the Art to live, Faintness it slacken’d Nerves invade: In vain th’ enraged Youth assaid To call his fleeting Vigour back, No Motion ’twill from Motion take, Excess of Love his Love betray’d; In vain he Toils, in vain Commands, Th’ Insensible fell weeping in his Hands.
10 In this so Am’rous cruel strife, Where Love and Fate were too severe, The poor Lisander in Despair, Renounc’d his Reason with his Life. Now all the Brisk and Active Fire That should the Nobler Part inflame, Unactive Frigid, Dull became, And left no Spark for new Desire; Not all her Naked Charms cou’d move, Or calm that Rage that had debauch’d his Love.
11 Cloris returning from the Trance Which Love and soft Desire had bred, Her tim’rous Hand she gently laid, Or guided by Design or Chance, Upon that Fabulous Priapus, That Potent God (as Poets feign.) But never did young Shepherdess (Gath’ring of Fern upon the Plain) More nimbly draw her Fingers back, Finding beneath the Verdant Leaves a Snake.
12 Then Cloris her fair Hand withdrew, Finding that God of her Desires Disarm’d of all his pow’rful Fires, And cold as Flow’rs bath’d in the Morning-dew. Who can the Nymph’s Confusion guess? The Blood forsook the kinder place, And strew’d with Blushes all her Face, Which both Disdain and Shame express; And from Lisanders Arms she fled, Leaving him fainting on the gloomy Bed.
13 Like Lightning through the Grove she hies, Or Daphne from the Delphick God; No Print upon the Grassie Road She leaves, t’ instruct pursuing Eyes. The Wind that wanton’d in her Hair, And with her ruffled Garments play’d, Discover’d in the flying Maid All that the Gods e’re made of Fair. So Venus, when her Love was Slain, With fear and haste flew o’re the fatal Plain.
14 The Nymph’s resentments, none but I Can well imagin, and Condole; But none can guess Lisander‘s Soul, But those who sway’d his Destiny: His silent Griefs, swell up to Storms, And not one God, his Fury spares, He Curst his Birth, his Fate, his Stars, But more the Shepherdesses Charms; Whose soft bewitching influence, Had Damn’d him to the Hell of Impotence.
Keeping Things Whole BY MARK STRAND In a field I am the absence of field. This is always the case. Wherever I am I am what is missing.
When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the spaces where my body’s been.
We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole.
The Sceptic by Robert W. Service
My Father Christmas passed away When I was barely seven. At twenty-one, alack-a-day, I lost my hope of heaven. Yet not in either lies the curse: The hell of it's because I don't know which loss hurt the worse -- My God or Santa Claus.
On the Nature of Understanding By Kay Ryan
Say you hoped to tame something wild and stayed calm and inched up day by day. Or even not tame it but meet it halfway. Things went along. You made progress, understanding it would be a lengthy process, sensing changes in your hair and nails. So it’s strange when it attacks: you thought you had a deal.
It’s good to be with someone who has been through hell life is hard and strange and a lot of shit happens. And when someone’s been through the worst of it already pain doesn’t come as much of a surprise they just sit down tie their shoelaces wave to old demons and get on with it -Atticus
@biancalovecraft you wrote a little draft of part of my life, just a snippet you see, I have toddler triplets
Pomegranate BY D. H. LAWRENCE
You tell me I am wrong. Who are you, who is anybody to tell me I am wrong? I am not wrong.
In Syracuse, rock left bare by the viciousness of Greek women, No doubt you have forgotten the pomegranate trees in flower, Oh so red, and such a lot of them.
Whereas at Venice, Abhorrent, green, slippery city Whose Doges were old, and had ancient eyes, In the dense foliage of the inner garden Pomegranates like bright green stone, And barbed, barbed with a crown. Oh, crown of spiked green metal Actually growing!
Now, in Tuscany, Pomegranates to warm your hands at; And crowns, kingly, generous, tilting crowns Over the left eyebrow.
And, if you dare, the fissure!
Do you mean to tell me you will see no fissure? Do you prefer to look on the plain side?
For all that, the setting suns are open. The end cracks open with the beginning: Rosy, tender, glittering within the fissure.
Do you mean to tell me there should be no fissure? No glittering, compact drops of dawn? Do you mean it is wrong, the gold-filmed skin, integument, shown ruptured?
For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.
As Adam early in the morning, Walking forth from the bower refresh'd with sleep, Behold me where I pass, hear my voice, approach, Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass, Be not afraid of my body.
With my consent, of course. 😉
anyone lived in a pretty how town by e e cummings
anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did.
Women and men (both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain
children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april with by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men (both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain
Passing the Unworked Field -Mary Oliver
Queen Anne's lace is hardly prized but all the same it isn't idle look how it stands straight on its thin stems how it scrubs its white faces with the rags of the sun how it makes all of the loveliness it can.
Rudyard Kipling ~
~ The Fairies' Siege
I have been given my charge to keep -- Well have I kept the same! Playing with strife for the most of my life, But this is a different game. I'11 not fight against swords unseen, Or spears that I cannot view -- Hand him the keys of the place on your knees -- 'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!
Ask him his terms and accept them at once. Quick, ere we anger him, go! Never before have I flinched from the guns, But this is a different show. I'11 not fight with the Herald of God (I know what his Master can do!) Open the gate, he must enter in state, 'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!
I'd not give way for an Emperor, I'd hold my road for a King -- To the Triple Crown I would not bow down -- But this is a different thing. I'11 not fight with the Powers of Air, Sentry, pass him through! Drawbridge let fall, 'tis the Lord of us all, The Dreamer whose dreams come true!
~ Natural Theology
Primitive
I ate my fill of a whale that died And stranded after a month at sea. . . . There is a pain in my inside. Why have the Gods afflicted me? Ow! I am purged till I am a wraith! Wow! I am sick till I cannot see! What is the sense of Religion and Faith : Look how the Gods have afflicted me!
Pagan
How can the skin of rat or mouse hold Anything more than a harmless flea?. . . The burning plague has taken my household. Why have my Gods afflicted me? All my kith and kin are deceased, Though they were as good as good could be, I will out and batter the family priest, Because my Gods have afflicted me!
Medi/Eval
My privy and well drain into each other After the custom of Christendie. . . . Fevers and fluxes are wasting my mother. Why has the Lord afflicted me? The Saints are helpless for all I offer-- So are the clergy I used to fee. Henceforward I keep my cash in my coffer, Because the Lord has afflicted me.
Material
I run eight hundred hens to the acre They die by dozens mysteriously. . . . I am more than doubtful concerning my Maker, Why has the Lord afflicted me? What a return for all my endeavour-- Not to mention the L. S. D! I am an atheist now and for ever, Because this God has afflicted me!
Progressive
Money spent on an Army or Fleet Is homicidal lunacy. . . . My son has been killed in the Mons retreat, Why is the Lord afflicting me? Why are murder, pillage and arson And rape allowed by the Deity? I will write to the Times, deriding our parson Because my God has afflicted me.
Chorus
We had a kettle: we let it leak: Our not repairing it made it worse. We haven't had any tea for a week. . . The bottom is out of the Universe!
Conclusion
This was none of the good Lord's pleasure, For the Spirit He breathed in Man is free; But what comes after is measure for measure, And not a God that afflicteth thee. As was the sowing so the reaping Is now and evermore shall be. Thou art delivered to thine own keeping. Only Thyself hath afflicted thee!
Teeth by mela b.
there’s a winter where my heart should be death is everywhere her devotion to us, and ours to her, evident.
for years i kept a tooth in my pocket turning it over in my hand – the human it belonged to gone forever his ashes tossed into the sea.
the ghosts of the ocean have lost their teeth tiny white shells turning on the sand the moon whispers to the tide, who takes them home.
Allowed Out Loud
I wanted to say (allowed) To you
Out loud
That the shape of your smile
Brought me joy (allowed) Because we
That the color of your lips
Was beautifully chosen (allowed) Don’t know
That the softness of your skin
Softened my scars (allowed) Each other
That your femininity
Gave my strength pride (allowed) Well at all
That the wonder of you
Was not unnoticed (not allowed) But the fear
Not out loud
Of simple admirations
Remain mute and pass in silence
Poignant 👆
@Mela_B
Thank you.
Your work got to me, and took me to my own beach with my grandfather’s ashes, a lifetime ago.
And only yesterday.
As it is, my friend. 💜
@CharlesThePoet ~ That is so... my breath halted. I love it!!