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Seeing as there's still over an hour left of World Poetry Day, It would be appropriate to leave this here. When things aren't easy, I often refer to this.
Sonnet 141 - William Shakespeare
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note; But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who, in despite of view, is pleas’d to dote; Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted; Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be: Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
Quite fitting considering the current state of affairs
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World Poetry Day on 23:20 - Mar 21 with 2267 views
I’m having a real day of it. There was something I had to do. But what? There are no alternatives, just the one something. I have a drink, it doesn’t help - far from it! I feel worse. I can’t remember how I felt, so perhaps I feel better. No, Just a little darker. If I could get really dark, richly dark, like being drunk, that’s the best that’s open as a field. Not the best,
but the best except for the impossible pure light, to be as if above a vast prairie, rushing and pausing over the tiny golden heads in deep grass.
But still now, familiar laughter low from a dark face, affection human and often even
motivational? the warm walking night wandering
amusement of darkness, lips and the light, always in wind. Perhaps that's it: to clean something. A window?
C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière, Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière, Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.
We started the season with a Murphy up front We dreamed of the playoffs or promotional hunt But not before long came your first transfer stunt When our striker was sold and we started to grunt No passing or moving but long Berra punts I'm not very elegant and so this is blunt But please Mr Evans stop acting a....
We started the season with a Murphy up front We dreamed of the playoffs or promotional hunt But not before long came your first transfer stunt When our striker was sold and we started to grunt No passing or moving but long Berra punts I'm not very elegant and so this is blunt But please Mr Evans stop acting a....
We're the Ipswich, we're the Ipswich, The whistle blows, the whistle blows. Bart saves, Bart saves, Bart saves, Bart saves, Bart saves, Bart saves, Bart saves, Bart saves, Bart saves, Bart saves, Bart saves, oh, that ones in. We lose 1-0 yet again. Crestfallen, we dream of a new dawn.
AT dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun In the wild purple of the glow'ring sun, Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!
I’m having a real day of it. There was something I had to do. But what? There are no alternatives, just the one something. I have a drink, it doesn’t help - far from it! I feel worse. I can’t remember how I felt, so perhaps I feel better. No, Just a little darker. If I could get really dark, richly dark, like being drunk, that’s the best that’s open as a field. Not the best,
but the best except for the impossible pure light, to be as if above a vast prairie, rushing and pausing over the tiny golden heads in deep grass.
But still now, familiar laughter low from a dark face, affection human and often even
motivational? the warm walking night wandering
amusement of darkness, lips and the light, always in wind. Perhaps that's it: to clean something. A window?
Both by Frank O'Hara?
Thanks for introducing me to an excellent poet who's new to me!
She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she. The song and water were not medleyed sound Even if what she sang was what she heard, Since what she sang was uttered word by word. It may be that in all her phrases stirred The grinding water and the gasping wind; But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang. The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew It was the spirit that we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea That rose, or even colored by many waves; If it was only the outer voice of sky And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled, However clear, it would have been deep air, The heaving speech of air, a summer sound Repeated in a summer without end And sound alone. But it was more than that, More even than her voice, and ours, among The meaningless plungings of water and the wind, Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone, Knew that there never was a world for her Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know, Why, when the singing ended and we turned Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights, The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, As the night descended, tilting in the air, Mastered the night and portioned out the sea, Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles, Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon, The maker’s rage to order words of the sea, Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred, And of ourselves and of our origins, In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
Wallace Stevens, “The Idea of Order at Key West” from Collected Poems. Copyright 1923, 1951, 1954 by Wallace Stevens. Reprinted with the permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. Source: The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens (Alfred A. Knopf, 1990)
Thanks for introducing me to an excellent poet who's new to me!
It's one poem (just titled 'Anxiety'), for some reason all versions online seem to have omitted the last few lines.
He was a beautiful soul, this is my favourite of his (thinking of getting the last line inked):
Now That I Am In Madrid And Can Think
I think of you and the continents brilliant and arid and the slender heart you are sharing my share of with the American air as the lungs I have felt sonorously subside slowly greet each morning and your brown lashes flutter revealing two perfect dawns colored by New York
see a vast bridge stretching to the humbled outskirts with only you standing on the edge of the purple like an only tree and in Toledo the olive groves’ soft blue look at the hills with silver like glasses like and old ladies hair it’s well known that God and I don’t get along together it’s just a view of the brass works for me, I don’t care about the Moors seen through you the great works of death, you are greater
you are smiling, you are emptying the world so we can be alone
It's one poem (just titled 'Anxiety'), for some reason all versions online seem to have omitted the last few lines.
He was a beautiful soul, this is my favourite of his (thinking of getting the last line inked):
Now That I Am In Madrid And Can Think
I think of you and the continents brilliant and arid and the slender heart you are sharing my share of with the American air as the lungs I have felt sonorously subside slowly greet each morning and your brown lashes flutter revealing two perfect dawns colored by New York
see a vast bridge stretching to the humbled outskirts with only you standing on the edge of the purple like an only tree and in Toledo the olive groves’ soft blue look at the hills with silver like glasses like and old ladies hair it’s well known that God and I don’t get along together it’s just a view of the brass works for me, I don’t care about the Moors seen through you the great works of death, you are greater
you are smiling, you are emptying the world so we can be alone
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