Tag Archives: Poetry

The Muckery

a work in progress, an immediate response to the need to get something down…

Great wealth

of shit

the world

and we,

the exalted

denizens of dung,

go beetling,

beetling –

till,

our private portion

of

the brooding mass

at last

delivered

to the

rank

heights of heaven,

We —

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In Short

What is life

After all –

A bawl.

A blip.

A bleep.

The chance to sleep

After all —

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Naming of Parts

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have naming of parts.

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Along the Blue-Treaded Way

Educated fleas and your top o’ the mourning gnats.
Bewintered bluebirds that spring into song.
And all the day, along the blue-treaded way,
There sounds a requiem for all that was soft, fine and gay.

Exalted larks in strange exultations.
A brace of nightingales embraced against the storm.
And all along the hedgrerows
The thrushes in their throes,
And so it goes –
And so it goes.

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A Mi Hermano Miguel

A mi hermano Miguel

In memoriam

Hermano, hoy estoy en el poyo de la casa.
Donde nos haces una falta sin fondo¡
Me acuerdo que jugábamos esta hora, y que mamá
nos acariciaba: “Pero, hijos…”

Ahora yo me escondo,
como antes, todas estas oraciones
vespertinas, y espero que tú no des conmigo.
Por la sala, el zaguán, los corredores.
Después, te ocultas tú, y yo no doy contigo.
Me acuerdo que nos hacíamos llorar,
hermano, en aquel juego.

Miguel, tú te escondiste
una noche de agosto, al alborear;
pero, en vez de ocultarte riendo, estabas triste.
Y tu gemelo corazón de esas tardes
extintas se ha aburrido de no encontrarte. Y ya
cae sombra en el alma.

Oye, hermano, no tardes
en salir. Bueno? Puede inquietarse mamá.

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Purdah

This is my favourite of many loved poems by Sylvia Plath.

“I shall unloose / I shall unloose”

The unleashing is an explosion.

Purdah

Jade —
Stone of the side,
The antagonized

Side of green Adam, I
Smile, cross-legged,
Enigmatical,

Shifting my clarities.
So valuable!
How the sun polishes this shoulder!

And should
The moon, my
Indefatigable cousin

Rise, with her cancerous pallors,
Dragging trees —
Little bushy polyps,

Little nets,
My visibilities hide.
I gleam like a mirror.

At this facet the bridegroom arrives
Lord of the mirrors!
It is himself he guides

In among these silk
Screens, these rustling appurtenances.
I breathe, and the mouth

Veil stirs its curtain
My eye
Veil is

A concatenation of rainbows.
I am his.
Even in his

Absence, I
Revolve in my
Sheath of impossibles,

Priceless and quiet
Among these parrakeets, macaws!
O chatterers

Attendants of the eyelash!
I shall unloose
One feather, like the peacock.

Attendants of the lip!
I shall unloose
One note

Shattering
The chandelier
Of air that all day flies

Its crystals
A million ignorants.
Attendants!

Attendants!
And at his next step
I shall unloose

I shall unloose —
From the small jeweled
Doll he guards like a heart —

The lioness,
The shriek in the bath,
The cloak of holes.

Sylvia Plath, 1962

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I came across this poem today. I loved it instantly.  It had to be shared.

There are so many amazing lines, but these are undoubtedly my favourite: “to fling his soul / Upon the growing gloom.”

The word ‘fling’ is simply perfect.

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

Thomas Hardy, 1900

The Darkling Thrush

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There Are Times

Horas numero, non modo serenas

Times there are for joy
And times there are to wallow.
Clocks will mark all hours
Whether happy or set with sorrow.

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Sighs

Sighs

IN the wintry night,
Under a pale, cold light,
I can see my sighs.
They drop like hammers
From my mouth.

In space
Infinite
I suppose they would fall like
Feathers
– Infinitely –

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An Epitaph

I would have written of me on my stone:

I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.

Robert Frost

***

An Epitaph

Here lies one born a star.
His late death
Was but a dazzling supernova
For Pantagruelian eyes.
To those of us who knew him well
And loved him better,
His light went out long ago,
In darkness,
Unogled by a world
Fallen in the sleep of some other meal.
Today,
Yours is the shadow,
As long it has been ours.

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