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Show ALL Forums  > Poems And Quotes  > “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers,      Home login  
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 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 26
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”Page 2 of 8    (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8)
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the starting sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round of flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

-- Elizabeth Bishop


The above is the final few stanzas of Visits to St. Elizabeth's ( the rest can be found here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15210 )

It's about Ezra Pound (if that matters. . . )
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 27
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/27/2006 12:38:58 PM
One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.



Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.



Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.



I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.



I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.





--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 28
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/28/2006 11:57:23 AM


Everybody Knows That The Dice Are Loaded

Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows the war is over
And everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor and the rich get rich
That’s how it goes
And everybody knows
Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
That their father or their dog just died
Everybody talkin’ to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates
And a long stem rose
And everybody knows

( chorus )
Everybody knows, everybody knows
That’s how it goes, and everybody

Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you’ve been faithful
Give or take a night or two
Everybody knows that you’ve been discreet
There were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows

Everybody knows that it’s now or never
Everybody knows that it’s me or you
Everybody knows that you live forever
When you’ve done a line or two
And everybody knows that the deal is rotten
Old black joe’s still pickin’ cotton
For your ribbons and bows
And everybody knows

( chorus x2 )

Everybody knows that the plague is comin’
Everybody knows that it’s movin’ fast
Everybody knows that the naked man and woman
Are just a shining artifact of the past
Everybody knows that the scene is dead,
But there’s gonna be a meter on your bed
That will disclose,
What everybody knows

Everybody knows that you’re in trouble
Everybody knows what you’ve been through
From the bloody cross on top of calvary
To the beach at malibu
And everybody knows it’s coming apart
Take one last look at this sacred heart
Before it blows,
And everybody knows

~~Don Henley
 Brolga
Joined: 8/29/2006
Msg: 29
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/28/2006 1:55:08 PM
Isn't that by Leonard Cohen?
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 30
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/28/2006 3:14:23 PM
Oh, heck. I'd thought it was, just did one check, thought, hmmmm, I was wrong, and went with the other. That'll teach me. . . .
 alyosha
Joined: 11/13/2006
Msg: 31
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/28/2006 3:45:36 PM
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward


Didn’t I write THAT? Shoot! I know I MEANT to. I wish I had. I wish I could write ANYTHING 1/10th as good as that.

Thank you for bringing both of these by Bishop to our attention...

Now here’s one I challenge you to guess the author of. Much as I loved it before I knew who’d written it, my mind changed when I found out who...


Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.


No GOGGLING!!!
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 32
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/28/2006 4:47:57 PM
Pound? .......................................................................
..............................................................
 alyosha
Joined: 11/13/2006
Msg: 33
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 34
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/28/2006 5:02:01 PM
So, lol! are you going to voluteer who, and why? Or am I ever to be left unknowing?

This is what I was thinking of when I guessed Pound:

Erat Hora

“Thank You, whatever comes.” And then she turned
And, as the ray of sun on hanging flowers
Fades when the wind hath lifted them aside,
Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatever comes
One hour was sunlit and the most high gods
May not make boast of any better thing
Than to have watched that hour as it passed.

~~ Ezra Pound
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 35
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 11:26:19 AM


If I have made, my lady, intricate

If I have made, my lady, intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes (frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind - if I have failed to snare
the glance too shy - if through my singing slips
the very skillful strangeness of your smile
the keen primeval silence of your hair

- let the world say "his most wise music stole
nothing from death" -
you will only create
(who are so perfectly alive) my shame:
lady whose profound and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came

into the ragged meadow of my soul.

-- e. e. cummings


 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 36
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 11:36:30 AM
A Poet's Advice

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words. This may sound easy. It isn't.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel --- but that's thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling --- not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people; but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself --- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else --- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.

As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time --- and whenever we do it, we are not poets.

If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world --- unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal? It isn't. It's the most wonderful life on earth.

Or so I feel.

-- e.e. cummings

 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 37
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 12:13:04 PM
MY LAI CONVERSATION

How old are you, small Vietnamese boy?
Six fingers. Six years.
Why did you carry water to the wounded soldier, now dead?
Your father.
Your father was enemy of free world.
You also now are enemy of free world.
Who told you to carry water to your father?
Your mother!
Your mother is also enemy of free world.
You go into ditch with your mother.
American politician has said,
"It is better to kill you as a boy in the elephant grass of Vietnam
Than to have to kill you as a man in the rye grass in the USA."
You understand.
It is easier to die
Where you know the names of the birds, the trees, and the grass
Than in a stranger country.
You will be number 128 in the body count for today.
High body count will make the Commander-in-Chief of free world much encouraged.
Good-bye, small six-year-old Vietnamese boy, enemy of free world.

~~ Eugene McCarthy
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 38
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 12:14:21 PM
COURAGE AFTER SIXTY

Now it is certain.
There is no magic stone.
No secret to be found.
One must go
With the mind's winnowed learning.
No more than the child's handhold
On the willows bending over the lake,
On the sumac roots at the cliff edge.
Ignorance is checked,
Betrayals scratched.
The coat has been hung on the peg,
The cigar laid on the table edge,
The cue chosen and chalked,
The balls set for the final break.
All cards drawn,
All bets called.
The dice, warm as blood in the hand,
Shaken for the last cast.
The glove has been thrown to the ground,
The last choice of weapons made.

A book for one thought.
A poem for one line.
A line for one word.
"Broken things are powerful."
Things about to break are stronger still.
The last shot from the brittle bow is truest.


~~ Eugene McCarthy
 LightUpMyLife*
Joined: 11/15/2006
Msg: 39
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 3:35:18 PM
Someone I know from POF just sent me the link to this thread, think I would enjoy it...thanks Wer for sending it, I really did enjoy. Thanks Woob. for starting the thread ....

I started one myself Nov 05 with some of my writing (workplay12, BiteMe are me some kind of name change bets going on at the time lol) I stopped posting, but may soon start up again, usually takes an event in my life to get me writing.

http://forums.plentyoffish.com/datingPosts2527263.aspx

I hope you enjoy and it I'm not being to forward posting it the link.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
 alyosha
Joined: 11/13/2006
Msg: 40
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 4:06:08 PM
The lines I posted without naming the author are by Dylan Thomas and I thought them a marvellous example of 19th C. poetry but felt there was something fake about them when I learned that they were by Thomas.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 41
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 7:46:33 PM
Jer ~~

I see and hopefully understand your point. Pastiche was the word that came to mind, only evidently not intentional (who knows now, who will ever know?). Too many years of drinking, too much drinking to begin with, grasping at straws? 64 poems, the whole oeuvre. And still, on the whole, did rather well in those 39 years? Including the one you don't like. Which is lovely, though you picked the best of it. And this: Of the star-gestured children in the park. the best of that.

Not trying to talk you out of your feeling about it. Just making excuses for shortcomings. It's what I do for a living.

Julie
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 42
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 7:53:10 PM
LightUpMyLife* ~~

Definitely not too forward! I am honored, and that's the truth. Thank you. You guys here at POF make a girl's heart happy!

~~ Julie
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 43
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/30/2006 1:10:26 PM
Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden
 NaiveandWitty
Joined: 9/28/2006
Msg: 44
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/30/2006 2:08:38 PM
Wow! What an Undulant force!
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 45
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/30/2006 7:53:12 PM
Amazing, isn't he Naive? Here's more:
~~~~~~~~~~~~

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939
W.H. Auden


I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.



Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.


(my emphasis)
 NaiveandWitty
Joined: 9/28/2006
Msg: 46
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/30/2006 10:02:33 PM
That voice flows like a river... like a calm river with ripples therein...
Felt through the calmness...

This is only opinion, but understood pain manifests such masterpieces...
 Mandielove
Joined: 11/25/2006
Msg: 47
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/30/2006 10:20:42 PM
Since we can post many poems here, I'd thought to add another one. I love the Romantic Poets, so I thought to add another one. This is "Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold:

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; -on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.



The last two lines just hit me in the gut everytime. For some reason it always seems to manifest its way into my life lol.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 48
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/31/2006 9:08:25 AM
Thorb asked on another thread ( http://forums.plentyoffish.com/datingposts6229461.aspx ) when the use of "thee" and "thou" came back into use. . . . And whilst I know it hasn't, as a Quaker, I hear it often, and it does appeal to me. At any rate, I immediately thought of this:

Thee I love, more than the meadow so green and still
More than the mulberries on the hill
More than the buds on the May apple tree, I love thee

Arms have I, strong as the oak, for this occasion
Lips have I, to kiss thee, too, in friendly persuasion

Thee is mine, though I don't know many words of praise
Thee pleasures me in a hundred ways
Put on your bonnet, your cape, and your glove
And come with me, for thee I love


Thee is mine, though I don't know many words of praise
Thee pleasures me in a hundred ways
Put on your bonnet, your cape, and your glove
And come with me, for thee I love



 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 49
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/31/2006 9:19:35 AM
Ah, Mandi! That was the very poem I planned to post next!! Thank you!

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.


Was almost a mantra between my last love and I. We were both political animals -- met during the Howard Dean campaign, and because of the campaign. He was an old warhorse: had marched with Martin Luther King across the Petis Bridge. How *not* to love such a man?!
 alyosha
Joined: 11/13/2006
Msg: 50
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/31/2006 9:33:29 AM
Julie, would you consider this consolation for getting beaten to Dover Beach?

All of creation is offended by this distress.
It is like the keening sound the moon makes sometimes,
rising. The lovers especially cannot bear it,
it fills them with unspeakable sadness, so that
they close their eyes again and hold each other, each
feeling the mortal singularity of the body
they have enchanted out of death for an hour or so,
and one day, running at sunset, the woman says to the man,
I woke up feeling so sad this morning because I realized
that you could not, as much as I love you,
dear heart, cure my loneliness,
wherewith she touched his cheek to reassure him
that she did not mean to hurt him with this truth.
And the man is not hurt exactly,
he understands that life has limits, that people
die young, fail at love,
fail of their ambitions.


Robert Hass, excerpt from "Privilege of Being," from Human Wishes
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