Written by
Joyce Kilmer |
(For Aline)
Monsignore,
Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,
Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,
Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,
I respectfully salute you,
I genuflect
And I kiss your episcopal ring.
It is not, Monsignore,
The fragrant memory of your holy life,
Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,
Which causes me now to address you.
But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,
It seems appropriate to me to state
According to a venerable and agreeable custom,
That I love a beautiful lady.
Her eyes, Monsignore,
Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections
On everything that she looks at,
Such as a wall
Or the moon
Or my heart.
It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,
Yet not quite like it,
For the blueness is not transparent,
Only translucent.
Her soul's light shines through,
But her soul cannot be seen.
It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise
And noble.
She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment,
Made in the manner of the Japanese.
It is very blue --
I think that her eyes have made it more blue,
Sweetly staining it
As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form.
Loving her, Monsignore,
I love all her attributes;
But I believe
That even if I did not love her
I would love the blueness of her eyes,
And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.
Monsignore,
I have never before troubled you with a request.
The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas
are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid,
Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,
And your brother bishop, my patron,
The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari.
But, of your courtesy, Monsignore,
Do me this favour:
When you this morning make your way
To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses
because of her who sits upon it,
When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,
I beg you, say to her:
"Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth,
Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful
to you
For wearing a blue gown.
"
|
Written by
Sylvia Plath |
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
That wasn't it.
I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter--
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt.
They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me.
Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits.
Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled.
I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice.
It's a gift.
|
Written by
Robert Creeley |
1)
Sleeping birds, lead me,
soft birds, be me
inside this black room,
back of the white moon.
In the dark night
sight frightens me.
2)
Who is it nuzzles there
with furred, round headed stare?
Who, perched on the skin,
body's float, is holding on?
What other one stares still,
plays still, on and on?
3)
Stand upright, prehensile,
squat, determined,
small guardians of the painful
outside coming in --
in stuck in vials with needles,
bleeding life in, particular, heedless.
4)
Matrix of world
upon a turtle's broad back,
carried on like that,
eggs as pearls,
flesh and blood and bone
all borne along.
5)
I'll tell you what you want,
to say a word,
to know the letters in yourself,
a skin falls off,
a big eared head appears,
an eye and mouth.
6)
Under watery here,
under breath, under duress,
understand a pain
has threaded a needle with a little man --
gone fishing.
And fish appear.
7)
If small were big,
if then were now,
if here were there,
if find were found,
if mind were all there was,
would the animals still save us?
8)
A head was put
upon the shelf got took
by animal's hand and stuck
upon a vacant corpse
who, blurred, could nonetheless
not ever be the quietly standing bird it watched.
9)
Not lost,
not better or worse,
much must of necessity depend on resources,
the pipes and bags brought with us
inside, all the sacks
and how and to what they are or were attached.
10)
Everybody's child
walks the same winding road,
laughs and cries, dies.
That's "everybody's child,"
the one who's in between
the others who have come and gone.
11)
Turn as one will, the sky will always be
far up above the place he thinks to dream as earth.
There float the heavenly
archaic persons of primordial birth,
held in the scan of ancient serpent's tooth,
locked in the mind as when it first began.
12)
Inside I am the other of a self,
who feels a presence always close at hand,
one side or the other, knows another one
unlocks the door and quickly enters in.
Either as or, we live a common person.
Two is still one.
It cannot live apart.
13)
Oh, weep for me --
all from whom life has stolen
hopes of a happiness stored
in gold's ubiquitous pattern,
in tinkle of commodious, enduring money,
else the bee's industry in hives of golden honey.
14)
He is safely put
in a container, head to foot,
and there, on his upper part, wears still
remnants of a life he lived at will --
but, lower down, he probes at that doubled sack
holds all his random virtues in a mindless fact.
15)
The forms wait, swan,
elephant, crab, rabbit, horse, monkey, cow,
squirrel and crocodile.
From the one
sits in empty consciousness, all seemingly has come
and now it goes, to regather,
to tell another story to its patient mother.
16)
Reflection reforms, each man's a life,
makes its stumbling way from mother to wife --
cast as a gesture from ignorant flesh,
here writes in fumbling words to touch,
say, how can I be,
when she is all that was ever me?
17)
Around and in --
And up and down again,
and far and near --
and here and there,
in the middle is
a great round nothingness.
18)
Not metaphoric,
flesh is literal earth.
turns to dust
as all the body must,
becomes the ground
wherein the seed's passed on.
19)
Entries, each foot feels its own way,
echoes passage in persons,
holds the body upright,
the secret of thresholds, lintels,
opening body above it,
looks up, looks down, moves forward.
20)
Necessity, the mother of invention,
father of intention,
sister to brother to sister, to innumerable others,
all one as the time comes,
death's appointment,
in the echoing head, in the breaking heart.
21)
In self one's place defined,
in heart the other find.
In mind discover I,
in body find the sky.
Sleep in the dream as one,
wake to the others there found.
22)
Emptying out
each complicating part,
each little twist of mind inside,
each clenched fist,
each locked, particularizing thought,
forgotten, emptying out.
23)
What did it feel like
to be one at a time --
to be caught in a mind
in the body you'd found
in yourself alone --
in each other one?
24)
Broken hearts, a curious round of echoes --
and there behind them the old garden
with its faded, familiar flowers,
where all was seemingly laced together --
a trueness of true,
a blueness of blue.
25)
The truth is in a container
of no size or situation.
It has nothing
inside.
Worship --
Warship.
Sail away.
|
Written by
Amy Lowell |
Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered
over with silver, brocaded
In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes,
it lies there,
Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it,
caressing.
Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her
lingers and drugs me!
A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf
down
on my face,
And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim
in cool-tinted heavens.
Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement.
Rose-leaves blow and patter against it.
Below the stone
steps a lute tinkles.
A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor.
A
big-bellied
Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water
of a basin,
Sunk in the black and white marble.
The west wind has
lifted a scarf
On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage
of colour.
She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath
her slight stirring.
Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her,
a jewel
Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to
a handful of cinders,
And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine.
How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty,
and one is alone!
|
Written by
D. H. Lawrence |
Not every man has gentians in his house
in Soft September, at slow, Sad Michaelmas.
Bavarian gentians, big and dark, only dark
darkening the daytime torchlike with the smoking blueness of Pluto's
gloom,
ribbed and torchlike, with their blaze of darkness spread blue
down flattening into points, flattened under the sweep of white day
torch-flower of the blue-smoking darkness, Pluto's dark-blue daze,
black lamps from the halls of Dis, burning dark blue,
giving off darkness, blue darkness, as Demeter's pale lamps give off
light,
lead me then, lead me the way.
Reach me a gentian, give me a torch
let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower
down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness.
even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September
to the sightless realm where darkness was awake upon the dark
and Persephone herself is but a voice
or a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark
of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom,
among the splendor of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on the
lost bride and groom.
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