Poems that you love

[John Galt]

Lucky
by Tony Hoagland



If you are lucky in this life,
you will get to help your enemy
the way I got to help my mother
when she was weakened past the point of saying no.

Into the big enamel tub
half-filled with water
which I had made just right,
I lowered the childish skeleton
she had become.

Her eyelids fluttered as I soaped and rinsed
her belly and her chest,
the sorry ruin of her flanks
and the frayed gray cloud
between her legs.

Some nights, sitting by her bed
book open in my lap
while I listened to the air
move thickly in and out of her dark lungs,
my mind filled up with praise
as lush as music,

amazed at the symmetry and luck
that would offer me the chance to pay
my heavy debt of punishment and love
with love and punishment.

And once I held her dripping wet
in the uncomfortable air
between the wheelchair and the tub,
until she begged me like a child

to stop,
an act of cruelty which we both understood
was the ancient irresistible rejoicing
of power over weakness.

If you are lucky in this life,
you will get to raise the spoon
of pristine, frosty ice cream
to the trusting creature mouth
of your old enemy

because the tastebuds at least are not broken
because there is a bond between you
and sweet is sweet in any language.

[milo]

Continuing our exploration of dadaism and ready-mades:

José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales

José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales,
in a few short weeks it will be spring. The snows
of winter will flee away, the ice will vanish,
and the air will become soft and balmy. In short,
José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales,
the annual miracle of the years will
awaken and come to pass, but you won’t be here.
The rivulet will run its purring course to the sea,
timid desert flowers will put forth their tender
shoots, the glorious valleys of this imperial
domain will blossom as the rose. Still, you won’t be
here to see.

From every tree top some wild woods
songster will carol his mating song, butterflies
will sport in the sunshine, the busy bee will hum
happy as it pursues its accustomed vocation,
the gentle breeze will tease the tassels of the wild
grasses, and all nature, José Manuel Miguel
Xavier Gonzales, will be glad but you. You
won’t be here to enjoy it because I command
the sheriff to lead you out to some remote spot,
swing you by the neck from a nodding bough of some
sturdy oak, and let you hang until you are dead.

And then, José Manuel Miguel Xavier
Gonzales, I further command that such officer,
retire quickly from your dangling corpse, that vultures
may descend upon your filthy body until
nothing shall remain but bare, bleached bones of a cold-
blooded, copper-colored, blood-thirsty, throat-cutting,
chili-eating, sheep-herding, murdering son of a bitch.



The sentence pronounced on murderer José Miguel Manuel Xavier Gonzales by a federal trial judge in New Mexico in 1881, according to Futility Closet. A few words removed to aid the line lengths: 'the' (from line 9), 'or some other officer of the country' (20), 'or officers' (24) and 'from the heavens' (26). Submitted by Gabriel Smy.

[Truerenigma]

Continuing our exploration of dadaism and ready-mades:

José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales

José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales,
in a few short weeks it will be spring. The snows
of winter will flee away, the ice will vanish,
and the air will become soft and balmy. In short,
José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales,
the annual miracle of the years will
awaken and come to pass, but you won’t be here.
The rivulet will run its purring course to the sea,
timid desert flowers will put forth their tender
shoots, the glorious valleys of this imperial
domain will blossom as the rose. Still, you won’t be
here to see.

From every tree top some wild woods
songster will carol his mating song, butterflies
will sport in the sunshine, the busy bee will hum
happy as it pursues its accustomed vocation,
the gentle breeze will tease the tassels of the wild
grasses, and all nature, José Manuel Miguel
Xavier Gonzales, will be glad but you. You
won’t be here to enjoy it because I command
the sheriff to lead you out to some remote spot,
swing you by the neck from a nodding bough of some
sturdy oak, and let you hang until you are dead.

And then, José Manuel Miguel Xavier
Gonzales, I further command that such officer,
retire quickly from your dangling corpse, that vultures
may descend upon your filthy body until
nothing shall remain but bare, bleached bones of a cold-
blooded, copper-colored, blood-thirsty, throat-cutting,
chili-eating, sheep-herding, murdering son of a bitch.



The sentence pronounced on murderer José Miguel Manuel Xavier Gonzales by a federal trial judge in New Mexico in 1881, according to Futility Closet. A few words removed to aid the line lengths: 'the' (from line 9), 'or some other officer of the country' (20), 'or officers' (24) and 'from the heavens' (26). Submitted by Gabriel Smy.

I've always called it a found poem. Ready-made has a nice homey ring to it though

[milo]

Continuing our exploration of dadaism and ready-mades:

José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales

José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales,
in a few short weeks it will be spring. The snows
of winter will flee away, the ice will vanish,
and the air will become soft and balmy. In short,
José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales,
the annual miracle of the years will
awaken and come to pass, but you won’t be here.
The rivulet will run its purring course to the sea,
timid desert flowers will put forth their tender
shoots, the glorious valleys of this imperial
domain will blossom as the rose. Still, you won’t be
here to see.

From every tree top some wild woods
songster will carol his mating song, butterflies
will sport in the sunshine, the busy bee will hum
happy as it pursues its accustomed vocation,
the gentle breeze will tease the tassels of the wild
grasses, and all nature, José Manuel Miguel
Xavier Gonzales, will be glad but you. You
won’t be here to enjoy it because I command
the sheriff to lead you out to some remote spot,
swing you by the neck from a nodding bough of some
sturdy oak, and let you hang until you are dead.

And then, José Manuel Miguel Xavier
Gonzales, I further command that such officer,
retire quickly from your dangling corpse, that vultures
may descend upon your filthy body until
nothing shall remain but bare, bleached bones of a cold-
blooded, copper-colored, blood-thirsty, throat-cutting,
chili-eating, sheep-herding, murdering son of a bitch.



The sentence pronounced on murderer José Miguel Manuel Xavier Gonzales by a federal trial judge in New Mexico in 1881, according to Futility Closet. A few words removed to aid the line lengths: 'the' (from line 9), 'or some other officer of the country' (20), 'or officers' (24) and 'from the heavens' (26). Submitted by Gabriel Smy.

I've always called it a found poem. Ready-made has a nice homey ring to it though

Yes, the school has been renamed by most modern practitioners s "found poetry" in an apparent abandonment of its dadaistic roots. Things I don't care for in the renaming:

1. It abandoned the dadaistic principle of taking a mundane or common article and creating art through the interaction between the consumer and the label.

2. It demotes the situation and the labelling focusing instead on the aesthetic that dadaism rejected. (Retinal art)

3. It produces endless streams of "jingle-ism" - people presenting the writing on their starbuck's cup as "found poetry" when in actuality it was written in a desparate attempt to sound poetic and is actually not poetic at all.

[Truerenigma]

Continuing our exploration of dadaism and ready-mades:

José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales

José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales,
in a few short weeks it will be spring. The snows
of winter will flee away, the ice will vanish,
and the air will become soft and balmy. In short,
José Manuel Miguel Xavier Gonzales,
the annual miracle of the years will
awaken and come to pass, but you won’t be here.
The rivulet will run its purring course to the sea,
timid desert flowers will put forth their tender
shoots, the glorious valleys of this imperial
domain will blossom as the rose. Still, you won’t be
here to see.

From every tree top some wild woods
songster will carol his mating song, butterflies
will sport in the sunshine, the busy bee will hum
happy as it pursues its accustomed vocation,
the gentle breeze will tease the tassels of the wild
grasses, and all nature, José Manuel Miguel
Xavier Gonzales, will be glad but you. You
won’t be here to enjoy it because I command
the sheriff to lead you out to some remote spot,
swing you by the neck from a nodding bough of some
sturdy oak, and let you hang until you are dead.

And then, José Manuel Miguel Xavier
Gonzales, I further command that such officer,
retire quickly from your dangling corpse, that vultures
may descend upon your filthy body until
nothing shall remain but bare, bleached bones of a cold-
blooded, copper-colored, blood-thirsty, throat-cutting,
chili-eating, sheep-herding, murdering son of a bitch.



The sentence pronounced on murderer José Miguel Manuel Xavier Gonzales by a federal trial judge in New Mexico in 1881, according to Futility Closet. A few words removed to aid the line lengths: 'the' (from line 9), 'or some other officer of the country' (20), 'or officers' (24) and 'from the heavens' (26). Submitted by Gabriel Smy.

I've always called it a found poem. Ready-made has a nice homey ring to it though

Yes, the school has been renamed by most modern practitioners s "found poetry" in an apparent abandonment of its dadaistic roots. Things I don't care for in the renaming:

1. It abandoned the dadaistic principle of taking a mundane or common article and creating art through the interaction between the consumer and the label.

2. It demotes the situation and the labelling focusing instead on the aesthetic that dadaism rejected. (Retinal art)

3. It produces endless streams of "jingle-ism" - people presenting the writing on their starbuck's cup as "found poetry" when in actuality it was written in a desparate attempt to sound poetic and is actually not poetic at all.

I'm on board. I never liked the label "found poetry", but for much different semantic reasons than you point out--that I won't get into here--though I don't see any reason to disagree with your arguments, nor can I think of any reasons to make up right now. (sadly--it's been awhile since I've enjoyed a good debate.)

Your label, and "ready made" seems to correct the issues that I had with other, though. "Found poetry" is only a label I'm familiar with, not necessarily something I ascribe to.

I enjoy collage, but yeah the "starbucks trenders" have taken all the fun out of the other. There is no creativity, and no eye for the relevant, no eye for metaphor, left--just a bunch of jokers hopped up on their favorite bean and astonished by all they see. (not that being hopped up is a problem, if you're not just another chum...err chime)

[milo]

I've always called it a found poem. Ready-made has a nice homey ring to it though

Yes, the school has been renamed by most modern practitioners s "found poetry" in an apparent abandonment of its dadaistic roots. Things I don't care for in the renaming:

1. It abandoned the dadaistic principle of taking a mundane or common article and creating art through the interaction between the consumer and the label.

2. It demotes the situation and the labelling focusing instead on the aesthetic that dadaism rejected. (Retinal art)

3. It produces endless streams of "jingle-ism" - people presenting the writing on their starbuck's cup as "found poetry" when in actuality it was written in a desparate attempt to sound poetic and is actually not poetic at all.

I'm on board. I never liked the label "found poetry", but for much different semantic reasons than you point out--that I won't get into here--though I don't see any reason to disagree with your arguments, nor can I think of any reasons to make up right now. (sadly--it's been awhile since I've enjoyed a good debate.)

Your label, and "ready made" seems to correct the issues that I had with other, though. "Found poetry" is only a label I'm familiar with, not necessarily something I ascribe to.

I enjoy collage, but yeah the "starbucks trenders" have taken all the fun out of the other. There is no creativity, and no eye for the relevant, no eye for metaphor, left--just a bunch of jokers hopped up on their favorite bean and astonished by all they see. (not that being hopped up is a problem, if you're not just another chum...err chime)

what's great is that "ready made" was itself taken as a ready made. In the early 20th century, American produced goods had to be categorized as either "hand-made" or "ready-made" which referred to mass produced factory goods. The Dadaists actually made a metaphor out of the naming of their metaphors!

[milo]

Place & Time

The atoms in a fluid can roll and tumble
and cascade around each other.
It's that flowing freedom that gives
fluid motion its hypnotic quality.

Allow yourself to become mesmerized
by the flow of a fast-moving river
around a bridge trestle and you'll know what I mean.

And there is dance in the roiling turbulence.
But, most importantly, the choreography
you're watching doesn't care about place and time.
What you see before your eyes today
is being repeated all across the cosmos.

If you don't believe me, go flush your toilet.



Taken from the NPR article, "How To See A Galaxy In Your Toilet Bowl", 18th February 2014. Submitted by Howie Good.

[Brownlie]

Place & Time

The atoms in a fluid can roll and tumble
and cascade around each other.
It's that flowing freedom that gives
fluid motion its hypnotic quality.

Allow yourself to become mesmerized
by the flow of a fast-moving river
around a bridge trestle and you'll know what I mean.

And there is dance in the roiling turbulence.
But, most importantly, the choreography
you're watching doesn't care about place and time.
What you see before your eyes today
is being repeated all across the cosmos.

If you don't believe me, go flush your toilet.



Taken from the NPR article, "How To See A Galaxy In Your Toilet Bowl", 18th February 2014. Submitted by Howie Good.

Not to mention the host of rebel angels expelled from the body politic. For twixt the pulpy cheeks lies the golden gate.

[NobodyNothing]

I adore Elizabeth Bishop. One of my top-shelf poets. I'm sure most are familiar with this poem, but I felt the want to post it here in this thread.

What blows me away about this poem, beyond the mere acoustics of it, is the slow and subtle mounting irony within it, building up beneath the happenstances expressed almost off-handedly therein, taking you right up to the edge, right to the point where it sticks its dagger into your heart.

WOW! What a talent. What a poet. What a poem. A wonderful poem to read live, especially during national poetry month.

One Art

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.

[billy]

i haven't read much bishop if any apart from a once over as i posted some of her poems on the site. i like how she messes around with the refrains in this villi

[Truerenigma]

Sonnet 145

"Those lips that love's own hand did make"


Those lips that love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said "I hate,"
To me that languished for her sake.
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet.
"I hate" she altered with an end
That followed it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
From heaven to hell is flown away.
"I hate" from hate away she threw.
And saved my life, saying "not you."

William Shakespeare



"Loving in truth..."



Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That the dear she might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe:
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled stepdame Study's blows;
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."

Sir Philip Sidney

In the Cemetery


"You see those mothers squabbling there?"
Remarks the man of the cemetery.
"One says in tears, ''Tis mine lies here!'
Another, 'Nay, mine, you Pharisee!'
Another, 'How dare you move my flowers
And put your own on this grave of ours!'
But all their children were laid therein
At different times, like sprats in a tin.
"And then the main drain had to cross,
And we moved the lot some nights ago,
And packed them away in the general foss
With hundreds more. But their folks don't know,
And as well cry over a new-laid drain
As anything else, to ease your pain!"

Thomas Hardy

[milo]

Request Item has been Cancelled

Type computer in the search.
and you will find
standard desktop,
laptop, standard tablet,
mouse and keyboard

printer- choose hardware not listed -
datalines and motorola units
hardware not listed.

The service that you need
can be found
by entering these items in the "Search" field.

The benefit of using the correct
catalog items is
to ensure your case is promptly routed
to the proper team,
thus reducing the fulfillment times.

We will be closing this request
and ask that you submit a new
request so it can be
routed properly.

Please contact the EIT
Service Center with any questions.

*email from the Get IT Help. Minor changes.

---

14 days of booze and hookers

This is a reminder that
March month end/3rd Quarter
is approaching , we will need
all of your expense accruals
in to Scott and myself by noon
Wednesday April 2nd. Please
also a reminder all p-card holders
at your facility that they must go
and allocate all p-card expenses
by end of day
mmmmMonday March 31st.

There still seems to be
some ongoing confusion around
p-card allocations,
American Express ends their cycle
on the 1st of every month,
however for month end processing
we must have everything
allocated on the last
business day
mmmmof the month.

All expenses on their p-card
that are not allocated by then
will automatically book to your
miscellaneous account and then I
will have to manually move them
all to their correct general ledger
account. If you have any questions
mmmmplease let me know.


*email reminder from comptroller. Minor changes.

[Leanne]

Looking through the recent threads, I read this as "Poems that love you". I want it to be so.

That is all.

[milo]

Looking through the recent threads, I read this as "Poems that love you". I want it to be so.

That is all.

>< >< ><

[NobodyNothing]

i haven't read much bishop if any apart from a once over as i posted some of her poems on the site. i like how she messes around with the refrains in this villi

This is one of her most accessible poems (she only published like 100 in her life). She was so f*cking precise. I so admire that. Nothing out of place, over or under said; crafted for the ease of the reader eyes on the page as well as for their inner ear; in almost perfect control of the mounting and abating energies within each poem; and deceptively brilliant, able to be read on all sorts of different levels. I swear, just reading a few of her poems, really taking them in (she spent like forever on each lol), you become a better poet.

Anyway...babbling.

[billy]

[Truerenigma]

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

Dylan Thomas

Favorite reading:



TBH it wasn't really one of my favorites until I heard that reading.

[billy]

would have been much better in a welsh accent

---

maybe by richard burton

[Carousal]

Nah not Burton, I much prefer Phillip Matoc who gives the definitive reading of Fern Hill and the prose reading of ‘A Journey’ Do yourself a favour and give it a listen.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=560rnXaIEi4

[milo]

1. La la

In a filtered cigarette drizzle we listen to the famous Hissing Window,
popularized in naughty seaside postcards. Inside a grass hut, clean
white stationery hinged with dog hairs makes a cloud in the famous
Hissing Mirror, through which float steam-powered sparrows with
hand-printed instructions. La la.

2. Berlin (a ballet)


Chestnuts in full leaf and a glass of red wine when the washing is done!
The afternoon contracted a headache from gazing at the literary genius
using the alcoholic’s telephone to call the forest’s dark fringe full of
pregnant soldiers. Then the piece closed on a attic full of insidious
seashells in women’s red pocket. The end. The people shuffle out through
a dark corridor and get lost amidst an international exposition of
tractors.

3. German Folk Tale


There is a golden fedora hidden in the flora. There is a bearded cider
press inside the blood-stained dollhouse near the flora. There is a desk
on a mountain stored in the bearded cider press. There is the shadow of
the bearded cider press fallen upon the forest reserved to the
manufacture of puppets wearing golden fedoras hidden in the flora. There
is a puppet reflected in a mirror in the blood-stained dollhouse that
contains the bearded cider press. There is a blood-stained fedora in the
blood-stained desk on the blood-stained puppet mountain. There is the
flora hidden in the blood-stained desk. The blood-stained dollhouse is
the puppet’s flora. The bearded cider press is the golden fedora’s fauna.
------------
dmh

---

Uniceros and Rhinocorn
"Books are not made to be believed, but to be subjected to enquiry."
--Umberto Eco, 'The Name of the Rose'


Uniceros lives in a lilac grove,
alone on the island of Lindisfarne.
She is the careless colour of seafoam
and runs like a shadow on the ocean.
Her cloven hooves possess the wildest grace
that horses never had; their cymbal-plough
will stud the ground with diamonds and outpace
deserts as impossibly as burnt snow.
I've read about her in De Bestiis: some
call her al-ma'il for the warlike slant
of her horn, the ferociousness of storms
in fiery eyes, her itching skin pulled taut
for battle. That horn has cut down dragons,
made the midnight tremble with its coming.

Rhinocorn lives in the Altogether
Uninhabited Interior. Its teeth
grew through its head into a horn; before
it had no means with which to fight. It bathes
at Socotra, blows bubbles through its nose
where the fons paradisi meets the sea
and though crude folds have gathered at its knees
and neck, it's the sweetest thing that I've seen.
Its horn points mothlike to the waterhole,
and has been known to heal a poisoned king.
Its heart is as soft as eroded shale
and its eyes catch the sky's cirrus shifting.
That horn can match the stroke of any child
and leave you humming with the same child's smile.

A wisdom different to mine might tell
another truth, of noble symbols or
rough beasts in false books made by infidels.
These fables paged the hoof prints that you saw,
so there must be a thing that made the marks:
we must have hope that the possible is
and love for those with faith what's possible was.

==========
Sources:
Eco, Umberto, "The Name of the Rose", Translated W. Weaver.
Beagle, Peter, "The Last Unicorn"
Kipling, Rudyard, "How the Rhinoceros Got Its Skin" from "Just So
Stories"


George Tolis