Dead Poet's Society.

[wildsweetone]

Hughes and Knight. Can you have one without the other?


And the Walls Came Tumblin’ Down
by S&D (who is not a dead poet)

In my younger days,
when so much was unlearned,
instead of unknown,
I would often overplay
and warp the number 4 reed
on the blow plate
of my Hohner Blues Harp.

The wooden comb of that harp
was whiskey barrel mellow
and the vibration of bending
that number 4 blow note resonated
root chakra deep and low
over the back of my tongue.

I couldn't afford a new harp every time
I blew out that note, so when I didn't
overplay, and I hit it sweet with a low
tremelo, Rev’n Joe Fuller, the man
I learned harp from first, would tell me,

Das da sound'll make yo’ wife
wanna take 'er cloves off.

And when I did blow that note out
and had to play without it until
I could save the nineteen and change
for another harp, he would tell me,

Dat sho'nuff sound like Lang'son
Hughves widout Effridge Knight.



.

i love it!

and, i've not heard of Hughes and Knight before this thread. there's so much out there to read, i may give up writing to catch up! (now there's a good excuse if ever i heard one).


The Negro Speaks Of Rivers

I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Langston Hughes

(ps S & D, I'm glad you're not a dead poet! )

 

[wildsweetone]

The Slow Nature

(an Incident of Froom Valley)

"THY husband--poor, poor Heart!--is dead--
Dead, out by Moreford Rise;
A bull escaped the barton-shed,
Gored him, and there he lies!"

--"Ha, ha--go away! 'Tis a tale, methink,
Thou joker Kit!" laughed she.
"I've known thee many a year, Kit Twink,
And ever hast thou fooled me!"

--"But, Mistress Damon--I can swear
Thy goodman John is dead!
And soon th'lt hear their feet who bear
His body to his bed."

So unwontedly sad was the merry man's face--
That face which had long deceived--
That she gazed and gazed; and then could trace
The truth there; and she believed.

She laid a hand on the dresser-ledge,
And scanned far Egdon-side;
And stood; and you heard the wind-swept sedge
And the rippling Froom; till she cried:

"O my chamber's untidied, unmade my bed,
Though the day has begun to wear!
'What a slovenly hussif!' it will be said,
When they all go up my stair!"

She disappeared; and the joker stood
Depressed by his neighbor's doom,
And amazed that a wife struck to widowhood
Thought first of her unkempt room.

But a fortnight thence she could take no food,
And she pined in a slow decay;
While Kit soon lost his mournful mood
And laughed in his ancient way.

Thomas Hardy

 

[My Erotic Trail]

The Letter
by Charlotte Bronte

What is she writing? Watch her now,
How fast her fingers move!
How eagerly her youthful brow
Is bent in thought above!
Her long curls, drooping, shade the light,
She puts them quick aside,
Nor knows that band of crystals bright,
Her hasty touch untied.
It slips adown her silken dress,
Falls glittering at her feet;
Unmarked it falls, for she no less
Pursues her labour sweet.

The very loveliest hour that shines,
Is in that deep blue sky;
The golden sun of June declines,
It has not caught her eye.
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate,
The white road, far away,
In vain for her light footsteps wait,
She comes not forth to-day.
There is an open door of glass
Close by that lady's chair,
From thence, to slopes of messy grass,
Descends a marble stair.

Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom
Around the threshold grow;
Their leaves and blossoms shade the room
From that sun's deepening glow.
Why does she not a moment glance
Between the clustering flowers,
And mark in heaven the radiant dance
Of evening's rosy hours?
O look again! Still fixed her eye,
Unsmiling, earnest, still,
And fast her pen and fingers fly,
Urged by her eager will.

Her soul is in th'absorbing task;
To whom, then, doth she write?
Nay, watch her still more closely, ask
Her own eyes' serious light;
Where do they turn, as now her pen
Hangs o'er th'unfinished line?
Whence fell the tearful gleam that then
Did in their dark spheres shine?
The summer-parlour looks so dark,
When from that sky you turn,
And from th'expanse of that green park,
You scarce may aught discern.

Yet, o'er the piles of porcelain rare,
O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase,
Sloped, as if leaning on the air,
One picture meets the gaze.
'Tis there she turns; you may not see
Distinct, what form defines
The clouded mass of mystery
Yon broad gold frame confines.
But look again; inured to shade
Your eyes now faintly trace
A stalwart form, a massive head,
A firm, determined face.

Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek
A brow high, broad, and white,
Where every furrow seems to speak
Of mind and moral might.
Is that her god? I cannot tell;
Her eye a moment met
Th'impending picture, then it fell
Darkened and dimmed and wet.
A moment more, her task is done,
And sealed the letter lies;
And now, towards the setting sun
She turns her tearful eyes.

Those tears flow over, wonder not,
For by the inscription see
In what a strange and distant spot
Her heart of hearts must be!
Three seas and many a league of land
That letter must pass o'er,
Ere read by him to whose loved hand
'Tis sent from England's shore.
Remote colonial wilds detain
Her husband, loved though stern;
She, 'mid that smiling English scene,
Weeps for his wished return.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Nefarious War
by Li Po

Translated from the Chinese by Shigeyoshi Obata


Last year we fought by the head-stream of the So-Kan,
This year we are fighting on the Tsung-ho road.
We have washed our armor in the waves of the Chiao-chi lake,
We have pastured our horses on Tien-shan's snowy slopes.
The long, long war goes on ten thousand miles from home.
Our three armies are worn and grown old.

The barbarian does man-slaughter for plowing;
On his yellow sand-plains nothing has been seen but blanched skulls and bones.
Where the Chin emperor built the walls against the Tartars,
There the defenders of Han are burning beacon fires.
The beacon fires burn and never go out.
There is no end to war!--

In the battlefield men grapple each other and die;
The horses of the vanquished utter lamentable cries to heaven,
While ravens and kites peck at human entrails,
Carry them up in their flight, and hang them on the branches of dead trees.
So, men are scattered and smeared over the desert grass,
And the generals have accomplished nothing.

Oh, nefarious war! I see why arms
Were so seldom used by the benign sovereigns.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Two snails, smirking smugly,
slid through the slippery sedge.


Two sledgehammers
smartly smashed the snails,
who smirked no longer smugly,
being but smudges upon the sand.

Written in a Japanese restaurant on the Hill in Boulder,
Ann Jespersen,

 

[wildsweetone]

Poetry

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Pablo Neruda

 

[wildsweetone]

The Dictators

An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence

Pablo Neruda



(had enough of this poet yet? i think he's awesome!)

 

[wildsweetone]

The Life of Love XVI

Spring


Come, my beloved; let us walk amidst the knolls,
For the snow is water, and Life is alive from its
Slumber and is roaming the hills and valleys.
Let us follow the footprints of Spring into the
Distant fields, and mount the hilltops to draw
Inspiration high above the cool green plains.


Dawn of Spring has unfolded her winter-kept garment
And placed it on the peach and citrus trees; and
They appear as brides in the ceremonial custom of
the Night of Kedre.


The sprigs of grapevine embrace each other like
Sweethearts, and the brooks burst out in dance
Between the rocks, repeating the song of joy;
And the flowers bud suddenly from the heart of
Nature, like foam from the rich heart of the sea.


Come, my beloved; let us drink the last of Winter's
Tears from the cupped lilies, and soothe our spirits
With the shower of notes from the birds, and wander
In exhilaration through the intoxicating breeze.


Let us sit by that rock, where violets hide; let us
Pursue their exchange of the sweetness of kisses.


Summer


Let us go into the fields, my beloved, for the
Time of harvest approaches, and the sun's eyes
Are ripening the grain.
Let us tend the fruit of the earth, as the
Spirit nourishes the grains of Joy from the
Seeds of Love, sowed deep in our hearts.
Let us fill our bins with the products of
Nature, as life fills so abundantly the
Domain of our hearts with her endless bounty.
Let us make the flowers our bed, and the
Sky our blanket, and rest our heads together
Upon pillows of soft hay.
Let us relax after the day's toil, and listen
To the provoking murmur of the brook.


Autumn


Let us go and gather grapes in the vineyard
For the winepress, and keep the wine in old
Vases, as the spirit keeps Knowledge of the
Ages in eternal vessels.


Let us return to our dwelling, for the wind has
Caused the yellow leaves to fall and shroud the
Withering flowers that whisper elegy to Summer.
Come home, my eternal sweetheart, for the birds
Have made pilgrimage to warmth and lest the chilled
Prairies suffering pangs of solitude. The jasmine
And myrtle have no more tears.


Let us retreat, for the tired brook has
Ceased its song; and the bubblesome springs
Are drained of their copious weeping; and
Their cautious old hills have stored away
Their colorful garments.


Come, my beloved; Nature is justly weary
And is bidding her enthusiasm farewell
With quiet and contented melody.


Winter


Come close to me, oh companion of my full life;
Come close to me and let not Winter's touch
Enter between us. Sit by me before the hearth,
For fire is the only fruit of Winter.


Speak to me of the glory of your heart, for
That is greater than the shrieking elements
Beyond our door.
Bind the door and seal the transoms, for the
Angry countenance of the heaven depresses my
Spirit, and the face of our snow-laden fields
Makes my soul cry.


Feed the lamp with oil and let it not dim, and
Place it by you, so I can read with tears what
Your life with me has written upon your face.


Bring Autumn's wine. Let us drink and sing the
Song of remembrance to Spring's carefree sowing,
And Summer's watchful tending, and Autumn's
Reward in harvest.


Come close to me, oh beloved of my soul; the
Fire is cooling and fleeing under the ashes.
Embrace me, for I fear loneliness; the lamp is
Dim, and the wine which we pressed is closing
Our eyes. Let us look upon each other before
They are shut.
Find me with your arms and embrace me; let
Slumber then embrace our souls as one.
Kiss me, my beloved, for Winter has stolen
All but our moving lips.


You are close by me, My Forever.
How deep and wide will be the ocean of Slumber,
And how recent was the dawn!

Khalil Gibran

 

[My Erotic Trail]

thanks for the read wild~
I liked Elizabeth's poem that was similar to this, breaking up the seasons and making a year out of it (~_~)

The Life of Love XVI

Spring


Come, my beloved; let us walk amidst the knolls,
For the snow is water, and Life is alive from its
Slumber and is roaming the hills and valleys.
Let us follow the footprints of Spring into the
Distant fields, and mount the hilltops to draw
Inspiration high above the cool green plains.


Dawn of Spring has unfolded her winter-kept garment
And placed it on the peach and citrus trees; and
They appear as brides in the ceremonial custom of
the Night of Kedre.


The sprigs of grapevine embrace each other like
Sweethearts, and the brooks burst out in dance
Between the rocks, repeating the song of joy;
And the flowers bud suddenly from the heart of
Nature, like foam from the rich heart of the sea.


Come, my beloved; let us drink the last of Winter's
Tears from the cupped lilies, and soothe our spirits
With the shower of notes from the birds, and wander
In exhilaration through the intoxicating breeze.


Let us sit by that rock, where violets hide; let us
Pursue their exchange of the sweetness of kisses.


Summer


Let us go into the fields, my beloved, for the
Time of harvest approaches, and the sun's eyes
Are ripening the grain.
Let us tend the fruit of the earth, as the
Spirit nourishes the grains of Joy from the
Seeds of Love, sowed deep in our hearts.
Let us fill our bins with the products of
Nature, as life fills so abundantly the
Domain of our hearts with her endless bounty.
Let us make the flowers our bed, and the
Sky our blanket, and rest our heads together
Upon pillows of soft hay.
Let us relax after the day's toil, and listen
To the provoking murmur of the brook.


Autumn


Let us go and gather grapes in the vineyard
For the winepress, and keep the wine in old
Vases, as the spirit keeps Knowledge of the
Ages in eternal vessels.


Let us return to our dwelling, for the wind has
Caused the yellow leaves to fall and shroud the
Withering flowers that whisper elegy to Summer.
Come home, my eternal sweetheart, for the birds
Have made pilgrimage to warmth and lest the chilled
Prairies suffering pangs of solitude. The jasmine
And myrtle have no more tears.


Let us retreat, for the tired brook has
Ceased its song; and the bubblesome springs
Are drained of their copious weeping; and
Their cautious old hills have stored away
Their colorful garments.


Come, my beloved; Nature is justly weary
And is bidding her enthusiasm farewell
With quiet and contented melody.


Winter


Come close to me, oh companion of my full life;
Come close to me and let not Winter's touch
Enter between us. Sit by me before the hearth,
For fire is the only fruit of Winter.


Speak to me of the glory of your heart, for
That is greater than the shrieking elements
Beyond our door.
Bind the door and seal the transoms, for the
Angry countenance of the heaven depresses my
Spirit, and the face of our snow-laden fields
Makes my soul cry.


Feed the lamp with oil and let it not dim, and
Place it by you, so I can read with tears what
Your life with me has written upon your face.


Bring Autumn's wine. Let us drink and sing the
Song of remembrance to Spring's carefree sowing,
And Summer's watchful tending, and Autumn's
Reward in harvest.


Come close to me, oh beloved of my soul; the
Fire is cooling and fleeing under the ashes.
Embrace me, for I fear loneliness; the lamp is
Dim, and the wine which we pressed is closing
Our eyes. Let us look upon each other before
They are shut.
Find me with your arms and embrace me; let
Slumber then embrace our souls as one.
Kiss me, my beloved, for Winter has stolen
All but our moving lips.


You are close by me, My Forever.
How deep and wide will be the ocean of Slumber,
And how recent was the dawn!

Khalil Gibran

 

[My Erotic Trail]

thanks for the read wild~
I liked Elizabeth's poem that was similar to this, breaking up the seasons and making a year out of it (~_~)

I am looking for was to express AMBITION!


"Ambition without knowledge is like a boat in the desert"

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Fawn
by My Erotic Tail ©

Rolling rubber
and Country Road
rollercoaster
thru thicket
and wilderness
with new beginnings
at every bend.

Pointing fingers
smiling eyes
and throttle release.
Jerking head glances
natures majestic beauty
oh so deer.

Long perked ears
and poka-dots
attentive and cautious
as the car stops
fawn motionless
still as wood
camouflaged
till white tail
like a flag
waves.

Sqeaking door
curiously
with helpfull intent
for youth
energeticly not
feet carry closer
leather boots
to an alert ear's
caution.

Watery eyes
sniffling nose
of a fawn
slightly spooked
but glued
next to it's mother
that was down
forever
down a country road.

 

[vampiredust]

Seven-Sided Poem by Carlos Drummond De Andrade

When I was born, a crooked angel,
the kind who live in shadows,
said: Go, Carlos! Be gauche in life.

The houses spy the men
chasing after women.
Perhaps if the afternoon were blue
there wouldn’t be so many desires.

The tram passes by full of legs:
white black yellow legs.
Why so many legs, God, my heart asks.
But my eyes
never ask a thing.

The man behind the moustache
is serious, simple, and strong.
Almost never talks.
Has a few, close friends,
that man behind the glasses and the moustache.

Lord, why did you abandon me
if you knew I wasn’t God?
if you knew I was weak.

World world vast globe
if my name were Job
it would be a rhyme, not a solution.
World world vast globe
vaster still is my heart.

I ought not tell you,
but this moon
but this congac
gives us heartache like the devil.

 

[wildsweetone]

i'm in the mood for Plath today



Balloons
by Sylvia Plath

Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk

Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish---
Such queer moons we live with

Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting

The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small

Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,

Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

i'm in the mood for Plath today



Balloons
by Sylvia Plath

Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk

Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish---
Such queer moons we live with

Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting

The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small

Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,

Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.

okay, I bite...

what is this poem saying?

 

[wildsweetone]

okay, I bite...

what is this poem saying?

what do you think it says?

have a go.



here's one comment i found when i googled:

Sylvia Plath Forum . com

"Balloons?" When a poet who has spent the last few months depicting herself as a Nazi lampshade suddenly hands us a bunch of cute balloons and babies, we have to ask ourselves, in the words of Dorothy Parker, "What fresh hell is this?" These babies are special. In Plath's poetry, they only show up together in the same room exactly three times: In "Death and Co.," they are wearing "Ionian death gowns," while Death admiringly gives them the once-over, licking his lips in anticipation. In "Edge," one assumes they're wearing their Ionian death gowns once again, since this time they are actually dead (murdered) by "Greek necessity." Perhaps they are wearing their death gowns in "Balloons" as well, but one can't be sure. Regardless, this extremely ironic poem, full of "cute" imagery which it deftly pricks and shatters as easily as one of its balloons, does not deliver good news. It depicts the loss of innocence, the futility of art and fantasy in the face of reality, and foreshadows the writer's suicide -- the balloons, remember, are souls ("soul-ovals"), and from our research we know that red is SP's totem color, representing the life force staving off the death force. Here, the child takes a bite out of SP's soul, and is left with a "red shred." Not only does this conjure up a subtle image of bloodshed, but the poet brilliantly manages, without a single word about it, to vividly evoke the NEXT MOMENT of the poem, an astounding achievement, in which the child, in tears of anguish over the loss of his "funny pink world," clutches that limp red remnant of his mother in a diabolical reversal of the Pieta. That this poem was written concurrently with "Edge" simply confirms, to my mind, this reading. Ending the Collected Poems with "Balloons" rather than "Edge" would perhaps be an even more macabre and unthinkable conclusion to an already harrowing journey.

Stewart Clarke
New York, USA
8th April 1998

interesting eh?

 

[My Erotic Trail]

what do you think it says?

have a go.



here's one comment i found when i googled:



interesting eh?

interesting is a good word for it <grin

 

[wildsweetone]

Night Funeral in Harlem
by Langston Hughes

Night funeral

In Harlem:



Where did they get

Them two fine cars?



Insurance man, he did not pay--

His insurance lapsed the other day--

Yet they got a satin box

for his head to lay.



Night funeral

In Harlem:



Who was it sent

That wreath of flowers?



Them flowers came

from that poor boy's friends--

They'll want flowers, too,

When they meet their ends.



Night funeral

in Harlem:



Who preached that

Black boy to his grave?



Old preacher man

Preached that boy away--

Charged Five Dollars

His girl friend had to pay.



Night funeral

In Harlem:



When it was all over

And the lid shut on his head

and the organ had done played

and the last prayers been said

and six pallbearers

Carried him out for dead

And off down Lenox Avenue

That long black hearse done sped,

The street light

At his corner

Shined just like a tear--

That boy that they was mournin'

Was so dear, so dear

To them folks that brought the flowers,

To that girl who paid the preacher man--

It was all their tears that made

That poor boy's

Funeral grand.



Night funeral

In Harlem.

 

[wildsweetone]

Let go of your worries by Rumi

Let go of your worries

and be completely clear-hearted,

like the face of a mirror

that contains no images.

If you want a clear mirror,

behold yourself

and see the shameless truth,

which the mirror reflects.

If metal can be polished

to a mirror-like finish,

what polishing might the mirror

of the heart require?

Between the mirror and the heart

is this single difference:

the heart conceals secrets,

while the mirror does not.

 

[Byron In Exile]

wow, I like this, I see it as the vision of what will come on their day of burial?

Hi, Art! Sorry I missed this. Yes, in the first stanza the subject died a year before, and heard the corn as she was "carried by the farms," and imagined what it would look like. She feels an impulse to "get out" of her coffin, but something holds her back. She thinks later about how the harvest will be, the apples and pumpkins, then who might miss her at Thanksgiving, and next she wonders if it might "blur the Christmas glee" that her stocking is now at a height not even Santa Claus could reach. But then she decides that all of this speculation only brings her grief, so instead, she prefers to imagine how it will be when all those she left behind will eventually come to her.

'T was just this time last year I died.
I know I heard the corn,
When I was carried by the farms,—
It had the tassels on.

I thought how yellow it would look
When Richard went to mill;
And then I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.

I thought just how red apples wedged
The stubble’s joints between;
And carts went stooping round the fields
To take the pumpkins in.

I wondered which would miss me least,
And when Thanksgiving came,
If father’d multiply the plates
To make an even sum.

And if my stocking hung too high,
Would it blur the Christmas glee,
That not a Santa Claus could reach
The altitude of me?

But this sort grieved myself, and so
I thought how it would be
When just this time, some perfect year,
Themselves should come to me.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Hi, Art! Sorry I missed this. Yes, in the first stanza the subject died a year before, and heard the corn as she was "carried by the farms," and imagined what it would look like. She feels an impulse to "get out" of her coffin, but something holds her back. She thinks later about how the harvest will be, the apples and pumpkins, then who might miss her at Thanksgiving, and next she wonders if it might "blur the Christmas glee" that her stocking is now at a height not even Santa Claus could reach. But then she decides that all of this speculation only brings her grief, so instead, she prefers to imagine how it will be when all those she left behind will eventually come to her.

INTERESTING (~_~)

Sorry it took me so long to find this <grin

 

[wildsweetone]

Masks
by: Ezra Pound

These tales of old disguisings, are they not
Strange myths of souls that found themselves among
Unwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue,
Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgot
The star-span acres of a former lot
Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,
Or carnate with his elder brothers sung
Ere ballad-makers lisped of Camelot?

Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,
Old painters color-blind come back once more,
Old poets skill-less in the wind-heart runes,
Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore:

All they that with strange sadness in their eyes
Ponder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse?

From "A Lume Spento", 1908

 

[clutching_calliope]

Genius - Mark Twain

......

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Genius, like gold and precious stones,
is chiefly prized because of its rarity.

Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild,
incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility,
and get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter.

Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres
far above the vulgar world and fills his soul
with regal contempt for the gross and sordid things of earth.

It is probably on account of this
that people who have genius
do not pay their board, as a general thing.

Geniuses are very singular.

If you see a young man who has frowsy hair
and distraught look, and affects eccentricity in dress,
you may set him down for a genius.

If he sings about the degeneracy of a world
which courts vulgar opulence
and neglects brains,
he is undoubtedly a genius.

If he is too proud to accept assistance,
and spurns it with a lordly air
at the very same time
that he knows he can't make a living to save his life,
he is most certainly a genius.

If he hangs on and sticks to poetry,
notwithstanding sawing wood comes handier to him,
he is a true genius.

If he throws away every opportunity in life
and crushes the affection and the patience of his friends
and then protests in sickly rhymes of his hard lot,
and finally persists,
in spite of the sound advice of persons who have got sense
but not any genius,
persists in going up some infamous back alley
dying in rags and dirt,
he is beyond all question a genius.

But above all things,
to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse
and then rush off and get booming drunk,
is the surest of all the different signs
of genius.

I liked this... then agian, Mark Twain is one of my favs!
I almost made my pen name.... "Art Twain" <grinin

 

[clutching_calliope]

......

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Thanks, MET, I really like him also. Especially his quotations.

And if you had a different name, then I couldn't think of my favourite childhood movie theatre whenever I see it! The Metropolitan, it had those fancy heavy, red velvet curtains and an usher that wore a pillbox hat. It burned down, hope that doesn't put you off .

I am on fire... <grinin'
Twain quotes...<bigrin... as I!

What a lumbering poor vehicle prose is for the conveying of a great thought! ...Prose wanders around with a lantern & laboriously schedules & verifies the details & particulars of a valley & its frame of crags & peaks, then Poetry comes, & lays bare the whole landscape with a single splendid flash.

Anybody can write the first line of a poem, but it is a very difficult task to make the second line rhyme with the first.