Have you said your sermon this morning? the road it travels is dustyand wide and goes round and round and round the mountain to say itis obvious is to say it is crowded with refugees you and the others onthe road no destination in sight you are alive though boring at timesand the smell of you is instant nausea you breathe white breath in theearly morning air indeed you may have a flair for going round andround with a skip and a jump at the most unexpected moments wasn’tthat you on a music box dancing in perfect porcelain? a quake threwyou from your shelf but round the mountain you must go suppose foronce you went up the mountain? would that be a different directionor just more tiring? would it disturb the order of the ten thousand often thousand things? do you care? do you know whose sermon this is?it’s a habit you’ll have for life although things do slow down fall intothemselves and leave the world to silence and to aha? gotcha? you’re itfor now but it won’t be long before another sucker comes this way andyou can hide under the desk with the rest of us : look : sky and sea arean undifferentiated gray even the birds disappear but forecast faith ina word and the osprey is there again hanging head-down in the windit’s plain that being unsure gives you your daily terror you even lift aprayer for it bells ring and you know it is the buoy off Saunders Reefthe red light assures you the buoy is still there that no Debussy bellshave come to dismantle your ears you’re safe in being where you are notthat you’ve got a warranty for life no matter what the salesman said yousigned up for Metaphysics 1 cost a bundle left you high and dry : howdare you take all hope away? well in the first place it crash-landed yearsago you’ve been standing there imagining greaves breastplate helmetwith plumes the whole she-bang but don’t weep today for what you didthen there’s a lot to learn about letting go and you won’t hear a clangof armor when you do in your most invincible day you were a larvaunderfoot you lived by chance shape-shifting you are a fortunate onewithout a shell no plane overhead gun to your head you are accidentallyfree in the full terror of being who you are but tell me now this onceand forever have you built your language out of the things you love?
from d e l e t e, Part 8
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in naval uniform and white hat.
I say, “Oh, this is the one which Mama used to have on her dresser.”
My sister controls her face and furtively looks at my mother,
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and says, “No.”
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in naval uniform and white hat.
I say, “Oh, this is the one which Mama used to have on her dresser.”
My sister controls her face and furtively looks at my mother,
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like a mattress at the Salvation Army, though with no holes or tears,
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Of Chesterton, In the County of Huntingdon, Esquire How blessed is he, who leads a Country Life,
Unvex’d with anxious Cares, and void of Strife!
Who studying Peace, and shunning Civil Rage,
Enjoy’d his Youth, and now enjoys his Age:
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Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,
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Where, like a pillow on a bed
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Then the younger hermit could reason no further and he said, “If
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Then the older hermit said, “Charity I will not accept. I will
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MARIA NEFELE:
I walk in thorns in the dark
of what’s to happen and what has
with my only weapon my only defense
my nails purple like cyclamens.
ANTIPHONIST:
I saw her everywhere. Holding a glass and staring in space. Lying down
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ANTIPHONIST:
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Read Poem (There is more to be said about snails. First of all their immaculate clamminess. Their sangfroid. Their stretchiness.)
One can scarcely conceive of a snail outside its shell and unmoving. The moment it rests it sinks down deep into itself. In fact, its modesty obliges it to move as soon as it has shown its nakedness and revealed its vulnerable shape. The moment it’s exposed, it moves on.
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The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
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Slavery by Hannah More
If Heaven has into being deigned to call
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To earth distribute only partial day?
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No obstacles by Nature’s hand impressed,
Thy subtle and ethereal beams arrest;
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Song by Stephen Spender
Stranger, you who hide my love
In the curved cheek of a smile
And sleep with her upon a tongue
Of soft lies that beguile,
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Is justified is justified
By hunger of the beasts beneath
The overhanging cloud
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The Prisoner of Chillon by Lord Byron (George Gordon)
My hair is grey, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
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But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
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In a single night,
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But rusted with a vile repose,
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The Hunting of the Snark by Lewis Carroll
Fit the First
The Landing
"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
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By a finger entwined in his hair.
"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
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As he landed his crew with care;
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By a finger entwined in his hair.
"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
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Sohrab and Rustum by Matthew Arnold
An Episode AND the first grey of morning fill'd the east,
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Blues for Alice by Clark Coolidge
When you get in on a try you never learn it back
umpteen times the tenth part of a featured world
in black and in back it’s roses and fostered nail
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travail of the tale, the one you longing live
and singing burn
It’s insane to remain a trope, of a rinsing out
or a ringing whatever, it’s those bells that . . .
Read Poem umpteen times the tenth part of a featured world
in black and in back it’s roses and fostered nail
bite rhyme sling slang, a song that teaches without
travail of the tale, the one you longing live
and singing burn
It’s insane to remain a trope, of a rinsing out
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Prometheus by Lord Byron (George Gordon)
Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.
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Seen in their sad reality,
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What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.
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Dejection: An Ode by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
(Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence)
I
Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Read Poem With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
(Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence)
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Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
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A Friendly Address by Thomas Hood
TO MRS. FRY IN NEWGATE
Sermons in stones.—As You Like It.
Out! out! damned spot.—Macbeth. I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!
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Out! out! damned spot.—Macbeth. I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!
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