Poetry slam

[blanc]

thanks to the posters on this thread. I don't know why it should seem more appropriate to browse an RI anthology than foodle around on the net choosing poetry for myself, but here it is, and its making me feel marginally less bereft in the mornings.

[Jeff]

That sudden time I heard
the pulse of song in a thrush throat
my windy visions fluttered
like snow-clouds buffeting the moon.

I was born into an ambush
of preachers, propagandists, grafters,
("Fear life and death!" "Hate and pay me!")
and tho I learned to despise them all
my dreams were of rubbish and destruction.

But that song, and the drop-notes
of a brook truckling through log-breaks and cedars,
I came to on numb clumsy limbs
to find outside the beauty inside me.

- Milton Acorn, "Pastoral"

[Perelandra]

SHINE, PERISHING REPUBLIC

Robinson Jeffers

While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening
to empire
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the
mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots
to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and decadence;
and home to the mother.
You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stubbornly
long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains:
shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thickening
center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster's feet there
are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant,
insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught – they say –
God, when he walked on earth.

[Perelandra]

Madame, you are a shrine of all beauty,
As far encircling as the map of the world.
For you shine as the glorious crystal,
And your round cheeks are like Ruby.
Therewith you are so merry and so jocund,
That at a revel when that I see you dance;
It is an ointment unto my wound,
Though you, to me, do no dalliance.

For though I weep a basin of tears,
Yet may that woe not confound my heart.
Your seemly voice that you so delicately bring forth,
Make my thoughts, in joy and bliss, abound.
So courteously I go, with love bound
That, to myself, I say in my penance,
"Suffer me to love you Rosemounde;
Though you, to me, do no dalliance".

Never was pike so imbued in galantine
As I in love, am imbued and wounded.
For which I very oft, of myself, deign
That I am true Tristam the Second.
My love may not be cooled nor sunk,
I burn in an amourous pleasance.
Do what you like, I bid you find your thrall
Though you, to me, do no dalliance.

very gently,————//————Chaucer

[Perelandra]

duplicate

[Jeff]

This is it
The New World Order
of wrinkles and bad breath
It's not going to be
like it was before
eating you
with my eyes closed
hoping you won't get up
and go away
It's going to be something else
Something worse
Something sillier
Something like this
only shorter

- Leonard Cohen

[IanEye]

Oh Gentle Bosc Pear
Lay you down in my tummy
Soon you will be poop.

- Robert Corddry

[OP ED]

Good weapons are instruments of fear; all creatures hate them.
Therefore followers of Tao never use them.
The wise man prefers the left.
The man of war prefers the right.
Weapons are instruments of fear; they are not a wise man's tools.
He uses them only when he has no choice.
Peace and quiet are dear to his heart,
And victory no cause for rejoicing.
If you rejoice in victory, then you delight in killing;
If you delight in killing, you cannot fulfill yourself.



On happy occasions precedence is given to the left,
On sad occasions to the right.
In the army the general stands on the left,
The commander-in-chief on the right.
This means that war is conducted like a funeral.
When many people are being killed,
They should be mourned in heartfelt sorrow.
That is why a victory must be observed like a funeral.




The Tao begot one.
One begot two.
Two begot three.
And three begot the ten thousand things.
The ten thousand things carry yin and embrace yang.
They achieve harmony by combining these forces.



Men hate to be "orphaned," "widowed," or "worthless,"
But this is how kings and lords describe themselves.



For one gains by losing
And loses by gaining.



What others teach, I also teach; that is:
"A violent man will die a violent death!"
This will be the essence of my teaching.



Everyone under heaven says that my Tao is great and beyond compare.
Because it is great, it seems different.
If it were not different, it would have vanished long ago.
I have three treasures which I hold and keep.
The first is mercy; the second is economy;
The third is daring not to be ahead of others.
From mercy comes courage; from economy comes generosity;
From humility comes leadership.

Nowadays men shun mercy, but try to be brave;
They abandon economy, but try to be generous;
They do not believe in humility, but always try to be first.
This is certain death.

Mercy brings victory in battle and strength in defense.
It is the means by which heaven saves and guards.

[OP ED]

http://www.yorku.ca/inpar/Christ_Kennedy.pdf

[OP ED]

Originally posted elsewhere, some of OP ED's day to day therapy art.

For BPH.

automatic writing/drawing:


(its about a girl in a beanbag chair)

picture of a good friend of mine. associated text to be edited in later.

note: i didn't draw her standing in such a strange position.
i drew her laying in a bean bag chair.




Edit:

:: ::
Relevant text from the journal entry.
I have removed some sections that weren't part of it, including what appeared to have been a grocery list.
:: ::





"I have long time holden my peace; I have been still, and restrained myself. Now will I cry like a travailing woman; I will destroy and devour at once."
Isaiah 42:14

trip with [redacted] to [redacted] on [redacted]


Crackled.

Here be Dragons:

(Survive/evade/resist/escape)

1. Pay heed to principle provocations.
2. Establishing a presence.
3. Prioritize: repudiate, repatriate.
4. Avoid repetition of unmotivated efforts.
5. Retire.
6. Beware Trapdoors. (Secure the parameters)

A needle grin splits the Boggart's face, revealing countless rows of dirk-like chompers as he continues to chatter in a manner that while entrancingly melodious (timbre) is indeed, also occasionally somewhat nasal.

"I made it myself, from leftover centaur parts"

The slimy Pokol activates the device, neatly maneuvering the controls which appear to have once been a fairly impressive set of antlers. An eerie glow begins to emanate from the creature's sordid contraption. Slowly it coalesces into a crystalline orb hovering just out of reach. There is an image therein. The vision is filled with static, but familiar outlines can be discerned. There is a mountain, or perhaps merely a sizable pile of rather largish hills stacked atop one another. Carved into the face of the rock is a woman (like unto the Daughter of the Most High). Epic like cities. It reminds one of Mt. Rushmore, only, y'know, like, a lot fucking bigger. An endless Ocean, most crimson, laps at her heels. (Never stops gnawing) Year after Year she erodes in the rain.
At the foot of the mountain, there is a bronze plate with an inscription:

"The Christians Spent what Jesus Saved.
Never Hearts nor Minds did they Obey.

(it continues)

Thou art what thou eats: yea though grown light grass lain,
lo! Leaning grain-fed lass loosens, lifts loss featherweight
Cleanses colons:
[and semicolons too;]
Complete competition crowds concerns. Calms brains.
No matter, relentless revisions cannot reclaim.
(Couplings crushed converge. Concrete corkscrewn cold contagions closing complicates)
Ravenous.
Cunningly-Crafted-Cauldron's constant cremations consummate.
All Roads bum rushed, rapid hobknobbing returns its face.
Knocks nightwatched though vineyards hounding hot scent of lace.
Portals told locked, the Phones never Rang. unfortunate unscheduled departures are made.
Roused Ruins reeking, (riddled/red lettered) recently rough ridden upbraids:
"You were supposed to ask permission Before you came"

Rhetorical recompense not withstanding, your scheme's not in vain
(Conceptions can fetter compliance with the Law of these days)
By compulsions convulsions so crept and kept like a slave.
Toward balanced steadfastness and for release I have prayed.
The world implemented to torture discounts. A seller's market for pain.
From far, Frettings are fashioned then pounded to place.
Well rounded wordless wishes wasted white washing shame.
A Maze it may resemble, tho never mistaken for Grace!

Suddenly circumspect, seeking shelter she strays
bad but branded and stone thrown remains she unfazed.
Shivering, serpent swept, seeking slumber she sways
Blameless, unrepentant, seeking solace she stays.
Been Saddled and Sized up, her captives by gaze.
Done dirt work with Devils never changing her ways.
Her Skirts all blood crusted of Kings and of Knaves.
Leaves lines of chastisement wherever she lays.
Through flesh fraught with shackles smithy spirit still Reigns.
though knee bent in mire, with Gold we'll have paved
Struggling always uphill till last we've been slain.
Sounds of footsteps. Fallen Feathers. Angels dancing on our graves.




there you have it.

[Alaya]

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

Wallace Stevens



I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

[brainpanhandler]

Dust of Snow

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

-- Robert Frost



A Patch of Old Snow

There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.

It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten --
If I ever read it.

-- Robert Frost

[brainpanhandler]

And for OE -

The Sound of the Trees

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say, but I shall be gone.

-- Robert Frost

[Alaya]

Dover Beach


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-blanched 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 A gaean, 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 furled.
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.


~ Matthew Arnold

[Perelandra]

I love that poem and the one I'll respond with. I could swear I've posted it before, but I couldn't find it.

The Dover Bitch
by Anthony Hecht

A Criticism of Life: for Andrews Wanning

So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
And he said to her, 'Try to be true to me,
And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad
All over, etc., etc.'
Well now, I knew this girl. It's true she had read
Sophocles in a fairly good translation
And caught that bitter allusion to the sea,
But all the time he was talking she had in mind
The notion of what his whiskers would feel like
On the back of her neck. She told me later on
That after a while she got to looking out
At the lights across the channel, and really felt sad,
Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds
And blandishments in French and the perfumes.
And then she got really angry. To have been brought
All the way down from London, and then be addressed
As a sort of mournful cosmic last resort
Is really tough on a girl, and she was pretty.
Anyway, she watched him pace the room
And finger his watch-chain and seem to sweat a bit,
And then she said one or two unprintable things.
But you mustn't judge her by that. What I mean to say is,
She's really all right. I still see her once in a while
And she always treats me right. We have a drink
And I give her a good time, and perhaps it's a year
Before I see her again, but there she is,
Running to fat, but dependable as they come.
And sometimes I bring her a bottle of Nuit d' Amour.