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[IncognitoHFX]

Whose woods are these I think I know
His house is in the village though
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow

The little horse must think it qu.eer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year

He gives his harness bell a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sounds
The sweep of easy wind and downy flake

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have miles to go before I sleep
Miles to go before I sleep

-Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

... I typed it from memory

[cbclark4]

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882)

[faster]

from LOVED FOREVER
- Gherasim Luca


If there is love in general, I must above all love the one who is not the loved and it is in this very love that I make myself love like love and that the loved loves me as lover of love that I love as loved.

By which, you must not take It that loves loves the loved but, on the contrary, that it is the loved who loves whom one loves all while loving oneself as love of a loved and that this loved loves by herself as the same loved and as this very loved.

A love who would have to love the loved without being the very loved would be whom one does not love. The very loved would be whom one does not love.

The loved

whom I love has to love whom she loves; that is, whom she will love.

Thus, in loving the lover or love, my beloved loves love in her lover, as far as she is herself the loved of the nonlover who loves.

For the non-loved to be able to not be love and for her to be able to love the lover of non-love without the loved being the non-loved of love, it is necessary that she have to love herself the not-being-loved, it is necessary that she have to not love the non-lover of her love.

And this very love who is the lover of the loved makes there be an attracted non-lover.

This signifies not that my beloved loves whom she loves, but simply that she loves to love not loved love but loving love, attracting love, lovingly attracted by her lovingly loved lover.

And it goes with this that for the attracted-attracting lover, to-love-the-one-not-the-loved is entirely attracted by the non-loved, the lover loving she who is not the attracting loved in the attracted mode of the loved non-loved, the not-to-love-the-non-loved is never loved but lovingly non-loved in an attracting love, love cannot be loved but as it is love of the loved even as only loving the adored non-loved.

Thus, the loved loves what I love; that is, oneself, the adored.

Only this loved must love a loved, who loves herself and who is attracted by her love to be loved by herself. When, in effect, the loved loves herself as not loving whom! love, she already loves whom she does not love, she loves the adored non-loved.

It�s that, from the time of the attraction of the loved, the lover did not love only the loved but also the ardent non-loved.

She whom I make myself non-love, I do only insofar as I do not love what she does not love what I love to rip open, but I make myself precisely not love a non-loved who makes herself not love what I have to love, that is, what I have to rip open in the ardent soul of its love.

Only this double attraction of my beloved is what I love not to not love: or I make myself not love the loved and then the loved is love for me and I love and I love my love for her; in this case the loved ceases to be love for me; or the love does love my love for her and makes herself only be loved by my non-love for her but in this case I become love for me and she does not love her love beyond my love for her.

Love is itself this non-love which I love.

On the side of the love of the loved, the loved Is loved as the adored non-loved who loves me, the walls of her belly for ripping open axe walled in the center; on the side of the loved of love, the adored non-loved is loved like loved loved, for each love that I have to love is adored forever.

However, this love fanned in its center which is my love to adore is not an opening in the wall but opening without wall.

For this does not concern opening what is not open but rendering opening that which is only open; it concerns opening the open, rendering loving-attracting the loved to love and of fanning not the center of a belly but the hundred fanned winds beyond the ripping open walls.

And it is from these winds fanned by the ripped-open non-belly of my beloved that the artificial golden age makes its attractions fabricated In the attracting-fabricating center of the love to love.

As a matter of fact, the fabricated-fabricating attraction of the love to love was already there, but walled in the murmurs of the already-there.

This is why the already-loved is no longer the already loved-there.

But this always-loved, as love of my love, I love beyond the loved-there loves it inasmuch as she is anywhere; that is, as loved-everywhere-murmuring.

As such she is and is not everywhere: soul-hole, belly whole, while the loved-there is not there and it is this not-there lovingly fanned which is the non-love of my love.

To rip open everything is to empty the hole of her ripping open non-hole, not by rights of non-loved to empty�this loved-non-loved would send us back to the never-loving walled forever in her belly that I cannot empty and in which, precisely, it is nothing to speak properly since she loves whom she loves�but by rights of love to love everywhere and always in the hole of her soul fabricated like an adored and disturbing non-whole.

Thus, it concerns the filling this adored non-whole with a hole to make a hole, to empty, to love, to disturb to murmur.

But since this hole to make a hole is the loved forever and thus only one of the loveds, one has already said that it is in itself the empty to empty; for this empty to empty the empty of the loved being a loved, an emptied, it is properly holed just like that which has in itself the loved, the holed.

In other terms, the loved is not the opposite of the loved to love but only the opposite of itself, the emptied; thus the loved is in herself the adored non-whole; or again she is not an opposite of the non-whole but is the hole of an empty to empty which fills the adored non whole like a whole.

What remains, thus, is to replace the adored non whole with all the gold with air with soul with love, with all the winds fanned by love, with all the murmurs attracted against the walls, against the mothers, with all the anti-hole holes of our lovers.

trans. by Jean McGarry

[Pyongshin Sangja]

Tim and I were walking in Kent
We spied Three Ladies in a tent
They were three and we were two
So I bucked one and Timbuctoo

Hope Limericks are part of this 'post a poem thing'...

[jajdude]

[Qinella]

[dutchy pink]

not exactly a poem, but it was at some point.....

Brevity - by J. Robert Lennon

A local novelist spent ten years writing a book about our region and its inhabitants which, when completed, added up to more than a thousand pages. Exhausted by her effort, she at last sent it off to a publisher, only to be told that it would have to be cut by nearly half. Though daunted by the work ahead of her, the novelist was encouraged by the publisher�s interest, and spent more than a year excising material.
But by the time she reached the requested length, the novelist found it difficult to stop. In the early days of her editing, she would struggle for hours to remove words from a sentence, only to discover that its paragraph was better off without it. Soon she discovered that removing sentences from paragraphs was rarely as effective as cutting entire paragraphs, nor was selectively erasing paragraphs from a chapter as satisfying as eliminating chapters entirely. After another year, she had whittled the book down into a short story, which she sent to magazines.
Multiple rejections, however, drove her back to the chopping block, where she reduced her story to a vignette, the vignette to an anecdote, the anecdote to an aphorism, and the aphorism, at last, to this haiku:

Tiny Upstate town
Undergoes many changes
Nonetheless endures

Unfortunately, no magazine would publish the haiku. The novelist has printed it on note cards, which she can be found giving away to passersby in our town park, where she is also known sometimes to sleep, except when the police, whose thuggish antics she so neatly parodied in her original manuscript, bring her in on charges of vagrancy. I have a copy of the haiku pinned above my desk, its note card grimy and furred along the edges from multiple profferings, and I read it frequently, sometimes with pity but always with awe.

[Nowhere Man]

YOUR DOG DIES

it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.

-Raymond Carver

[cbclark4]

Well, he went down to dinner in his Sunday best
Excitable boy, they all said
And he rubbed the pot roast all over his chest
Excitable boy, they all said
Well, he's just an excitable boy

He took in the four a.m. show at the Clark
Excitable boy, they all said
And he bit the usherette's leg in the dark
Excitable boy, they all said
Well, he's just an excitable boy

He took little Susie to the Junior Prom
Ooh, wa-ooh
Excitable boy, they all said
Oo-ooh, excitable boy
And he raped her and killed her, then he took her home
Ooh, wa-ooh
Excitable boy, they all said
Oo-ooh, excitable boy
Well, he's just an excitable boy

After ten long years they let him out of the home
Excitable boy, they all said
Oo-ooh, excitable boy
And he dug up her grave and built a cage with her bones
Excitable boy, they all said
Oo-ooh, excitable boy
Well, he's just an excitable boy

Warren Zevon

[jgca]

A Study of Reading Habits

When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.

Later, with inch-thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my cloak and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark.
The women I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.

Don't read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who's yellow and keeps the store,
Seem far too familiar. Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.

--Philip Larkin--

[Pyongshin Sangja]

[mrgiles]

wow! some great poems here. my favourite? changes by the hour!

right now i'm into:

DICTEE by theresa hak kyung cha (especially the bits about her mum)

the ring and the book by robert browning

오적 (five thieves) by 김지하 (kim chiha). there are some truly awful translations in that translation of modern korean poetry series of same title.

the cantos by ezra pound (esp the stuff he started writing when he got caught in pisa).

those are too long to put here.

mostly i love aussie poets. chris brennan, judy wright, john shaw neilson, and FRANCIS WEBB. his "ward two" sequence is some of the best stuff i've read. don't have his book here right now, so this is one i found on the internet. his verbs, always so active, are tightened to a fever pitch here. also a bit of humour here, subtle and dangerous as usual.

On Going Free

To Leo Kelly

Thunder. Cleavage. My minute and negative
Electron is set buzzing into space
Among uncharged hills and buses, and is anger.
I tell you, malnourished flowers are not alive
Nor is light light nor is green green to my hunger
Harrying inertia for the point and place
That is yourself - not chair but nucleus,
Pivot and all location for gyre and grace.

A little while ago I passed a gap
And there Canobolas hung couchant, new:
Stone and a zither of glitter and a singing
And huge veiled knees of blueness and a cap
Of cloud and leagues, and all that long hair clinging.
I stood and begged my homing, and there grew
The Child, the Pinnacle hovering into view -
Frowning me on my way and on to you.

To Wild Dog Creek: a green-syrup fatigued gesture
At feckless dopey flies. One harlequin hill:
What quip of the jovial God-atom could toss
Such a lewd hill into nicely bourgeois pasture?
But to its fleshless shoulder clung a tree
Saintly, askew, prostrating itself to the boss
Of that hill, to gust and rain, with qualms of moss
At arms and head: chrismata, aureola, cross.

I cannot know what que3r heavens you inhabit
Nor what whimsical impetus fixed my sheer absurd
Shoulders around your disoriented root;
But you were my banal near-rebellious robot
Within that ward, those walls, skittering in brute
Patternless circuits of habit at a word.
You bore the spirit in your branches like a bird.
My slackened shoulder blades creaked whenever you stirred.

by francis webb.


it's weird that he can get away with using so many -ing constructions - that usually deaden the impact of verbs - and still have his poems be so MOVING - in a number of senses.

i just had to edit the word q u e e r. what's with the erratic censorship of this forum???

[mrgiles]

oh!! and blake's illuminated books: the four zoas, jerusalem, innocence and experience.

unequalled art. i love his big beefy rhythms in the prophetic books, and the amazingly compressed nature of his words in his seemingly simple songs.

if u haven't seen the illuminated books, erdman's work on them is now available commercially. shd be able to check em out even here in k land.

[theatrelily]

[Pyongshin Sangja]

Here's one for Quinella, since he obviously likes the style...

Sexual Life

The sexual life of a camel
Is stranger than anyone thinks
At the height of the mating season
He tries to b u g g e r the Sphinx

But The Sphinx's posterior orifice
Is plugged up with sand from the Nile
Which accounts for the hump on the camel
And the Sphinx's inscrutable smile

The sexual life of a bullfrog
Is something I can't comprehend
At the height of the mating season
He licks the arse of a friend

But the arse of the common ol' bullfrog
Is covered with green hair and slime
Which accounts for the warts on a bullfrog
And why he goes 'Brrrrp' all the time

The sexual life of Quinella
Is often something quite vile
At the height of the mating season
He spews forth his juvenile bile

But his juvenile bile's easy to miss
And definitely not difficult to dis
Which accounts for Quinella's long frown
And why he's such an arse clown