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| W.S. Merwin
Posted: 7/6/2009 7:08:54 AM | lyrical words
songs of beauty
songs of heart
a scholar, a gentleman
worthy of the world
humbly he lives his beauty | |
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| The me that is in the world
Posted: 7/17/2009 7:19:27 AM | The me that is in the world
is not the me that is inside me,
though they often travel together.
The one that is in the world
turns this way and that, eager to be seen,
but not all at once, and not for long.
The self that is inside
bobs along as if soul
were another kind of amniotic fluid.
It is biding its time
to be born, although time,
inside, washes back and forth. | |
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| Sometimes, life
Posted: 7/23/2009 6:41:40 AM | Sometimes, life doesn’t quite measure up
to the happiness one feels,
as if what we call “life”
were just a pale projection
of some inner Tahitian riot,
a gesture or series of gestures
thrown off by an over-full heart. | |
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| Sometimes, life
Posted: 7/23/2009 11:26:46 PM | At 2 o'clock on November 16th, something
My defined boundaries witnessed this funny face
that was by rights your face, yes, your eyes
and I heard your history
and I remembered we are offered only...
never proven wrong, that we are offered
only the portion that defines our name. | |
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| Sometimes, life
Posted: 7/24/2009 9:24:10 AM |
At 2 o'clock on November 16th, something
My defined boundaries witnessed this funny face
that was by rights your face, yes, your eyes
and I heard your history
and I remembered we are offered only...
never proven wrong, that we are offered
only the portion that defines our name.
How I love it that this a record of 2 pm November 16th (the year doesn't matter) rather than 4 am July 8 or any other moment. | |
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| A poem is...
Posted: 7/30/2009 6:53:14 AM | ...a stick
with which
to beat back death.
*
...a sabbath
for the heart.
* | |
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aka,om
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Joined: 12/6/2008
Msg: 1233 | |
| A poem is...
Posted: 7/30/2009 4:55:40 PM | ^ Nicely said!
I miss that thread. What ever happened to it?
Here, our attempts got me thinking.
Poetry Is
Clumsy slips on drool
Leaping off a lower lip
To dance with a sprite | |
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| A poem is...
Posted: 7/30/2009 5:34:49 PM |
^ Nicely said!
I miss that thread. What ever happened to it?
Nicely said yourself... I dunno what happened to it. Some while back I was suspended for a time and told not to start any more new threads or to sign my real name to any I posted. | |
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| A poem is...
Posted: 7/30/2009 10:04:25 PM | Some one has said that I am a thin man
Far too thin to be good
Far too thin to stay alive
In this dreaded room of swirling artificial sounds
Shadows...neat empty bottles of Bordeaux wine
Where the pigeons roost above the concrete bath
Where the tin roof shrinks and stretches each moment
The clouds hide the sun
When the narrow guage train passes by...
I am little afraid to leave and go to the local restaurant.
You know the local deputies, the important ones, and some
old men enjoin me into endless discussions about the north...
I busy myself learning to speak this language...learning as I go
about the manners and customs. They don't care about us
up north at all, our obsessions with technology. It is much like
the forties here. Old typewriters, men in white shirts in banks,
the trucks, the old Mack trucks, they only carry bananas and people
They carry people only when they are empty.
There are always a few sheep and chickens in the rural plazas.
I am most happy when the wind does not blow it all about...at least in the
Sierras there is not much wind. The wind blows in and the scene changes.
There are many clean towns too. One wonders if some of them are military
posts. They seem to be. A perfect colonial town with a new hotel made of
concrete, a nice swimming pool, but no tourists. End of the road. The most
beautiful creature
entered my vision. I was turned into a child, and she recognized this, and
speaking little with her precious knowing smile, provided me with
some of the most precious moments of my life. She is the daughter of the
mayor's brother who greets me as their first international tourist this
year. Bueno Alcade.
I would be better off in the rainforest, in La Sucre for sure. There you
don't need money, just a boat and machete, and a drum of diesel fuel. That
diesel is better currency than the ubiquitious greenbacks.
Belching hot red flames from the cylinders into the stack
While the boys tie wool strings to objects that they think
Will fly like kites, throwing them outside the train windows.
Last year the engine caught on fire and burned up. At 3700 meters in elevation
this was one of the highest in the world, but the highest one is at 4700
meters,
but not in operation. There is one to the south that reaches 4500 meters or
a tad
more and they dispense 'oxygen on board'.
Yes they are poor, but these boys
Are bright and learn quickly, in a minute, each word, and
Can repeat them as quickly as they hear them, the english
spoken word.
Those drugs that keep me slim came from these hills,
Not the banisteropis, the vine of death, no not that. The drug
is not the 'one is for' of Parmenides, the one that one
finds in a shady place where the old bicycles are left when
the men return from the fields in the afternoon.
Yes it is this: even the old men pass the fully loaded bus
pedalling bikes from the fields back to home, to home where there
are no glass windows to keep out the flies (there are only wooden shutters),
and twelve volt television sets. At harvest time the people go back
to the abadoned fields... left months ago... to gather, and to put
up the maize [pronounced MY-EAZE] which is a triumph
of language suiting sound to practice. What ease it is...simply
keep the wild boars out, the domestic animals, plant twice as
much as you need, leaving some for the wild and domestic
animals. There will always be an over abundance of bananas...
these are free, and the Scarlet Macaws will love them...
The buses are old and fully loaded and cannot go too fast through the huge
holes left in the roads by torrential rains, and narrow bridges made from
steel rails of railroads. That is so amazing: bridges between towns made of
steel rails discarded by plantations. Everything is recycled, and at the
back of the bus, a Blue Bird, is a spare starter, and a generator. Going up
hill is like taking the slowest bus I have ever taken. We climb for about
two hours at a top speed of no more than a walking horse fully loaded with
people and a few animals. I could have got out an pushed it at times. One
place they had to back up to make the corner, and a helper got out to put a
block behind the wheel so the bus would not roll. No parking brakes.
So what is left to do in this land?
Carve! Visit a waterfall! I guess my opiate is what it takes to keep me
thin...kissing waterfalls when ever I can. | |
|
| A poem is...
Posted: 7/30/2009 10:15:41 PM | Some one has said that I am a thin man
Far too thin to be good
Far too thin to stay alive
In this dreaded room of swirling artificial sounds
Shadows...neat empty bottles of Bordeaux wine
Where the pigeons roost above the concrete bath
Where the tin roof shrinks and stretches each moment
The clouds hide the sun
When the narrow guage train passes by...
I am little afraid to leave and go to the local restaurant.
You know the local deputies, the important ones, and some
old men enjoin me into endless discussions about the north...
I busy myself learning to speak this language...learning as I go
about the manners and customs. They don't care about us
up north at all, our obsessions with technology. It is much like
the forties here. Old typewriters, men in white shirts in banks,
the trucks, the old Mack trucks, they only carry bananas and people
They carry people only when they are empty.
There are always a few sheep and chickens in the rural plazas.
I am most happy when the wind does not blow it all about...at least in the
Sierras there is not much wind. The wind blows in and the scene changes.
There are many clean towns too. One wonders if some of them are military
posts. They seem to be. A perfect colonial town with a new hotel made of
concrete, a nice swimming pool, but no tourists. End of the road. The most
beautiful creature
entered my vision. I was turned into a child, and she recognized this, and
speaking little with her precious knowing smile, provided me with
some of the most precious moments of my life. She is the daughter of the
mayor's brother who greets me as their first international tourist this
year. Bueno Alcade.
I would be better off in the rainforest, in La Sucre for sure. There you
don't need money, just a boat and machete, and a drum of diesel fuel. That
diesel is better currency than the ubiquitious greenbacks.
Belching hot red flames from the cylinders into the stack
While the boys tie wool strings to objects that they think
Will fly like kites, throwing them outside the train windows.
Last year the engine caught on fire and burned up. At 3700 meters in elevation
this was one of the highest in the world, but the highest one is at 4700
meters,
but not in operation. There is one to the south that reaches 4500 meters or
a tad
more and they dispense 'oxygen on board'.
Yes they are poor, but these boys
Are bright and learn quickly, in a minute, each word, and
Can repeat them as quickly as they hear them, the english
spoken word.
Those drugs that keep me slim came from these hills,
Not the banisteropis, the vine of death, no not that. The drug
is not the 'one is for' of Parmenides, the one that one
finds in a shady place where the old bicycles are left when
the men return from the fields in the afternoon.
Yes it is this: even the old men pass the fully loaded bus
pedalling bikes from the fields back to home, to home where there
are no glass windows to keep out the flies (there are only wooden shutters),
and twelve volt television sets. At harvest time the people go back
to the abadoned fields... left months ago... to gather, and to put
up the maize [pronounced MY-EAZE] which is a triumph
of language suiting sound to practice. What ease it is...simply
keep the wild boars out, the domestic animals, plant twice as
much as you need, leaving some for the wild and domestic
animals. There will always be an over abundance of bananas...
these are free, and the Scarlet Macaws will love them...
The buses are old and fully loaded and cannot go too fast through the huge
holes left in the roads by torrential rains, and narrow bridges made from
steel rails of railroads. That is so amazing: bridges between towns made of
steel rails discarded by plantations. Everything is recycled, and at the
back of the bus, a Blue Bird, is a spare starter, and a generator. Going up
hill is like taking the slowest bus I have ever taken. We climb for about
two hours at a top speed of no more than a walking horse fully loaded with
people and a few animals. I could have got out an pushed it at times. One
place they had to back up to make the corner, and a helper got out to put a
block behind the wheel so the bus would not roll. No parking brakes.
So what is left to do in this land?
Carve! Visit a waterfall! I guess my opiate is what it takes to keep me
thin...kissing waterfalls when ever I can. | |
|
| A poem is...
Posted: 7/31/2009 6:33:11 AM | I would quote the whole of this except, apparently, you've already done so and I can only hope there are no essential differences that I've overlooked between the first post and this second one, but I want to single out some lines that made a particularly strong impression on me:
Some one has said that I am a thin man
Far too thin to be good
Far too thin to stay alive
In this dreaded room of swirling artificial sounds
Shadows...neat empty bottles of Bordeaux wine
and
I am little afraid to leave and go to the local restaurant.
You know the local deputies, the important ones, and some
old men enjoin me into endless discussions about the north...
I busy myself learning to speak this language...learning as I go
about the manners and customs.
and
There are always a few sheep and chickens in the rural plazas.
I am most happy when the wind does not blow it all about...at least in the
Sierras there is not much wind. The wind blows in and the scene changes.
and
I would be better off in the rainforest, in La Sucre for sure. There you
don't need money, just a boat and machete, and a drum of diesel fuel. That
diesel is better currency than the ubiquitious greenbacks.
and, of course, this:
even the old men pass the fully loaded bus
pedalling bikes from the fields back to home, to home where there
are no glass windows to keep out the flies
So what is left to do in this land?
Carve! Visit a waterfall! I guess my opiate is what it takes to keep me
thin...kissing waterfalls when ever I can. | |
|
| Anti-Semites Can Be Fun
Posted: 8/4/2009 1:34:06 PM | They don’t all of them espouse
killing Jews. Many of them
belong to country clubs,
have cottages in the Gatineau
or the Adirondacks,
adore their children
and head up charity drives.
They wouldn’t all of them
kill Jews, but if they had to do it
they’d wear white cotton gloves. | |
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| Anti-Semites Can Be Fun
Posted: 8/4/2009 9:19:38 PM | Buried in their hearts
secrets, they hid them well..
Until the tide turned.
Swallowed all of them deliciously...
The slayers of Jews, the abusers of children.
Money lovers, varied skin-hued haters, skunky power mongers.
Usually their children flushed them out...
(at peril for their own emotional safety)
Then often their narrowed, measuring eyes betrayed them
when venturing out of their cacoons.
If wishes were realized reality...
a glimpse of self before they die. | |
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| Anti-Semites Can Be Fun
Posted: 8/5/2009 9:27:01 AM |
If wishes were realized reality...
a glimpse of self before they die.
I've often had the same wish but if they had the ability to see themselves as others see them, would they have become bigots or women & child abusers in the first place? | |
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| Anti-Semites Can Be Fun
Posted: 8/6/2009 10:32:49 PM | You cannot ever fathom those who devote themselves to denial, ignorance, etc...oh what the heck...evil. But, be prepared to deal with the dangerous and call a spade a spade. You had the potential; I did too. Why we chose a different way is significant and important. Why they chose to go gung ho is indeed a good point, but I have read enough about Hitler and the other brutes to understand that this is beyond easy comprehension. An absolute thirst for a diet of bitterness and revenge could be a start in understanding ....but never a reason to lose oneself in trying to understand ugliness
and living death. Know what you face. | |
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| Anti-Semites Can Be Fun
Posted: 8/6/2009 10:59:47 PM | | Contrast Afganistan, every one has a gun, as it should be: though pakistan has no need of guns, it has the bomb, supplied by both China and Russia. Thus, this is no place for anyone now, not even martyrs...martyrs die due to terminal and natural adiseases, not gunshots. | |
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| Anti-Semites Can Be Fun
Posted: 8/6/2009 11:02:11 PM | | Contrast Afganistan, every one has a gun, as it should be: though pakistan has no need of guns, it has the bomb, supplied by both China and Russia. Thus, this is no place for anyone now, not even martyrs...martyrs die due to terminal and natural adiseases, not gunshots. | |
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| Anti-Semites Can Be Fun
Posted: 8/6/2009 11:14:43 PM | | A spade called.. is a spade called. Know what you face. Then you are not a martyr, etc. Your value is greater than what killed you. | |
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| Anti-Semites Can Be Fun
Posted: 8/7/2009 11:22:36 AM |
You cannot ever fathom those who devote themselves to denial, ignorance, etc...oh what the heck...evil. But, be prepared to deal with the dangerous and call a spade a spade. You had the potential; I did too. Why we chose a different way is significant and important. Why they chose to go gung ho is indeed a good point, but I have read enough about Hitler and the other brutes to understand that this is beyond easy comprehension. An absolute thirst for a diet of bitterness and revenge could be a start in understanding ....but never a reason to lose oneself in trying to understand ugliness
and living death. Know what you face.
Unfortunately, they don't see it as "denial, ignorance, [or]...evil" nor do they see what, I assume, you believe in as love or tolerance or open-heart & mindedness... | |
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| Anti-Semites Can Be Fun
Posted: 8/8/2009 7:17:24 PM | | Then, understand, what you face. You, yourself, know that you cannot change anybody's mind or their path. I understand that a belief in love and tolerance and open-heart and mindedness is often denied BUT I would never be the denier. Never. In my circumstances (I am not wealthy or assured of salvation from bad times, I am not spoiled) I stand by the rule of light of life and if born in the pre-w.w.11 times, I really hope I wouldn't have bought into the hate insanity. I am strong on this one. Very strong. Know what you face, call a spade a spade, and do not waste time wondering why the truly evil buy into madness. Ugliness and evil can dig a very big hole when you are least expecting it to. Stand back and recognize what you face. | |
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| A poem is...
Posted: 8/13/2009 7:18:14 AM | ...a hint,
a gesture,
a trail of crumbs
enroute the gingerbread house | |
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| A poem is...
Posted: 8/13/2009 9:59:54 PM | Was I six?
or was I...
the face of cruelty
appeared. there was no mistaking
the intent. | |
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| A poem is...
Posted: 8/14/2009 10:02:08 AM |
Was I six?
or was I...
the face of cruelty
appeared. there was no mistaking
the intent.
Yikes! There's just enough in this to provoke us - whether we want to or not - to try to imagine what's left out. So sorry you or anyone should have experienced this. I've just finished reading the ultimately tragic biography of Janusz Korczak who devoted his life (and death) to the love of children and to treating them with the greatest of respect. | |
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| A poem is...
Posted: 8/14/2009 9:05:06 PM | | Oh jeez, Jer...I did not mean to imply anything specific, only that children can also experience cruelty. Cruelty in children's eyes can be something more simple than the cruelty one perceives as an adult. And so forth.... frankly for e.g... it is cruel to withold support from a child and only let words of critcism hit the ears. Amen. | |
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