Written by
Sylvia Plath |
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
where wave pretends to drench real sky.'
'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
is our life's whole nemesis.
So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
implacably from twelve to one.
We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
who insists his playmates run.
Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
should inflame the sleeping town.
So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
playing his prodigal charades.
The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
graves all carol in reply.
Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
while footlights flare and houselights dim.
Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
joins his enemies' recruits.
The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
an insight like the flight of birds:
Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
cycling phoenix never stops.
So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
away our rationed days and weeks.
Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
the simple sum of heart plus heart.
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Written by
Barry Tebb |
I was never a film buff, give me Widmark and Wayne any day
Saturday matin?es with Margaret Gardener still hold sway
As my memory veers backwards this temperate Boxing Day-
Westerns and war films and a blurred Maigret,
Coupled with a worn-out sixties Penguin Mallarm?-
How about that mix for a character trait?
Try as I may I can’t get my head round the manifold virtues
Of Geraldine Monk or either Riley
Poetry has to have a meaning, not just patterns on a page,
Vertical words and snips of scores just make me rage.
Is Thom Gunn really the age-old sleaze-weasel Andrew Duncan says?
Is Tim Allen right to give Geraldine Monk an eleven page review?
At least they care for poetry to give their lives to it
As we do, too.
My syntax far from perfect, my writing illegible
But somehow I’ll get through, Bloodaxe and Carcourt
May jeer but an Indian printer’s busy with my ‘Collected’
And, Calcutta typesetters permitting, it will be out this year
With the red gold script of sari cloth on the spine
And **** those dusty grey contemporary voices
Those verses will be mine.
Haslam’s a whole lot better but touchy as a prima donna
And couldn’t take it when I said he’d be a whole lot better
If he’d unloose his affects and let them scatter
I’m envious of his habitat, The Haworth Moors
Living there should be the inspiration of my old age
But being monophobic I can’t face the isolation
Or persuade my passionate friend to join me.
What urban experiences can improve
Upon a cottage life with my own muse!
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Written by
David Lehman |
for Jim Cummins
In Iowa, Jim dreamed that Della Street was Anne Sexton's
twin. Dave drew a comic strip called the "Adventures of Whitman,"
about a bearded beer-guzzler in Superman uniform. Donna dressed
like Wallace Stevens
in a seersucker summer suit. To town came Ted Berrigan,
saying, "My idea of a bad poet is Marvin Bell."
But no one has won as many prizes as Philip Levine.
At the restaurant, people were talking about Philip Levine's
latest: the Pulitzer. A toast was proposed by Anne Sexton.
No one saw the stranger, who said his name was Marvin Bell,
pour something into Donna's drink. "In the Walt Whitman
Shopping Center, there you feel free," said Ted Berrigan,
pulling on a Chesterfield. Everyone laughed, except T. S. Eliot.
I asked for directions. "You turn right on Gertrude Stein,
then bear left. Three streetlights down you hang a Phil Levine
and you're there," Jim said. When I arrived I saw Ted Berrigan
with cigarette ash in his beard. Graffiti about Anne Sexton
decorated the men's room walls. Beth had bought a quart of Walt
Whitman.
Donna looked blank. "Walt who?" The name didn't ring a Marvin Bell.
You laugh, yet there is nothing inherently funny about Marvin Bell.
You cry, yet there is nothing inherently scary about Robert Lowell.
You drink a bottle of Samuel Smith's Nut Brown Ale, as thirsty as
Walt Whitman.
You bring in your car for an oil change, thinking, this place has the aura
of Philip Levine.
Then you go home and write: "He kissed her Anne Sexton, and she
returned the favor, caressing his Ted Berrigan."
Donna was candid. "When the spirit of Ted Berrigan
comes over me, I can't resist," she told Marvin Bell,
while he stood dejected at the xerox machine. Anne Sexton
came by to circulate the rumor that Robert Duncan
had flung his drink on a student who had called him Philip Levine.
The cop read him the riot act. "I don't care," he said, "if you're Walt
Whitman."
Donna told Beth about her affair with Walt Whitman.
"He was indefatigable, but he wasn't Ted Berrigan."
The Dow Jones industrials finished higher, led by Philip Levine,
up a point and a half on strong earnings. Marvin Bell
ended the day unchanged. Analyst Richard Howard
recommended buying May Swenson and selling Anne Sexton.
In the old days, you liked either Walt Whitman or Anne Sexton,
not both. Ted Berrigan changed that just by going to a ballgame with
Marianne Moore.
And one day Philip Levine looked in the mirror and saw Marvin Bell.
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Written by
Oscar Wilde |
My limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For, calling on my Lady's name,
My lips have now forgot to sing.
O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love's sake,
My gentle Lady passeth by.
She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart's delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtesan
Or moonlit water in the night.
Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
Of autumn corn are not more fair.
Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.
Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet's throat
Is not so sweet to look upon.
As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
Where the peach reddens to the south.
O twining hands! O delicate
White body made for love and pain!
O House of love! O desolate
Pale flower beaten by the rain!
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 34] SESTINA II Giovane donna sott' un verde lauro. THOUGH DESPAIRING OF PITY, HE VOWS TO LOVE HER UNTO DEATH. A youthful lady 'neath a laurel greenWas seated, fairer, colder than the snowOn which no sun has shone for many years:Her sweet speech, her bright face, and flowing hairSo pleased, she yet is present to my eyes,And aye must be, whatever fate prevail. These my fond thoughts of her shall fade and failWhen foliage ceases on the laurel green;Nor calm can be my heart, nor check'd these eyesUntil the fire shall freeze, or burns the snow:Easier upon my head to count each hairThan, ere that day shall dawn, the parting years. But, since time flies, and roll the rapid years,And death may, in the midst, of life, assail,With full brown locks, or scant and silver hair,I still the shade of that sweet laurel greenFollow, through fiercest sun and deepest snow,Till the last day shall close my weary eyes. Oh! never sure were seen such brilliant eyes,In this our age or in the older years,Which mould and melt me, as the sun melts snow,Into a stream of tears adown the vale,Watering the hard roots of that laurel green,Whose boughs are diamonds and gold whose hair. I fear that Time my mien may change and hair,Ere, with true pity touch'd, shall greet my eyesMy idol imaged in that laurel green:For, unless memory err, through seven long yearsTill now, full many a shore has heard my wail,By night, at noon, in summer and in snow. Thus fire within, without the cold, cold snow,Alone, with these my thoughts and her bright hair,Alway and everywhere I bear my ail,Haply to find some mercy in the eyesOf unborn nations and far future years,If so long flourishes our laurel green. [Pg 35]The gold and topaz of the sun on snowAre shamed by the bright hair above those eyes,Searing the short green of my life's vain years.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 74] CANZONE IX. Gentil mia donna, i' veggio. IN PRAISE OF LAURA'S EYES: THEY LEAD HIM TO CONTEMPLATE THE PATH OF LIFE. Lady, in your bright eyesSoft glancing round, I mark a holy light,Pointing the arduous way that heavenward lies;And to my practised sight,From thence, where Love enthroned, asserts his might,Visibly, palpably, the soul beams forth.This is the beacon guides to deeds of worth,And urges me to seek the glorious goal;This bids me leave behind the vulgar throng,Nor can the human tongueTell how those orbs divine o'er all my soulExert their sweet control,Both when hoar winter's frosts around are flung,And when the year puts on his youth again,Jocund, as when this bosom first knew pain. Oh! if in that high sphere,From whence the Eternal Ruler of the starsIn this excelling work declared his might,All be as fair and bright,Loose me from forth my darksome prison here,That to so glorious life the passage bars;Then, in the wonted tumult of my breast,I hail boon Nature, and the genial dayThat gave me being, and a fate so blest,And her who bade hope beamUpon my soul; for till then burthensomeWas life itself become:But now, elate with touch of self-esteem,High thoughts and sweet within that heart arise,Of which the warders are those beauteous eyes. No joy so exquisiteDid Love or fickle Fortune ere devise,In partial mood, for favour'd votaries,But I would barter itFor one dear glance of those angelic eyes,Whence springs my peace as from its living root.O vivid lustre! of power absolute[Pg 75]O'er all my being—source of that delight,By which consumed I sink, a willing prey.As fades each lesser rayBefore your splendour more intense and bright,So to my raptured heart,When your surpassing sweetness you impart,No other thought of feeling may remainWhere you, with Love himself, despotic reign. All sweet emotions e'erBy happy lovers felt in every clime,Together all, may not with mine compare,When, as from time to time,I catch from that dark radiance rich and deepA ray in which, disporting, Love is seen;And I believe that from my cradled sleep,By Heaven provided this resource hath been,'Gainst adverse fortune, and my nature frail.Wrong'd am I by that veil,And the fair hand which oft the light eclipse,That all my bliss hath wrought;And whence the passion struggling on my lips,Both day and night, to vent the breast o'erfraught,Still varying as I read her varying thought. For that (with pain I find)Not Nature's poor endowments may aloneRender me worthy of a look so kind,I strive to raise my mindTo match with the exalted hopes I own,And fires, though all engrossing, pure as mine.If prone to good, averse to all things base,Contemner of what worldlings covet most,I may become by long self-discipline.Haply this humble boastMay win me in her fair esteem a place;For sure the end and aimOf all my tears, my sorrowing heart's sole claim,Were the soft trembling of relenting eyes,The generous lover's last, best, dearest prize. My lay, thy sister-song is gone before.And now another in my teeming brainPrepares itself: whence I resume the strain. Dacre.
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Written by
Amy Lowell |
Within the gold square of the proscenium arch,
A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds,
Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind.
Gold carving edges the balconies,
Rims the boxes,
Runs up and down fluted pillars.
Little knife-stabs of gold
Shine out whenever a box door is opened.
Gold clusters
Flash in soft explosions
On the blue darkness,
Suck back to a point,
And disappear.
Hoops of gold
Circle necks, wrists, fingers,
Pierce ears,
Poise on heads
And fly up above them in coloured sparkles.
Gold!
Gold!
The opera house is a treasure-box of gold.
Gold in a broad smear across the orchestra pit:
Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas;
Gold -- spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-gold
Of harps.
The conductor raises his baton,
The brass blares out
Crass, crude,
Parvenu, fat, powerful,
Golden.
Rich as the fat, clapping hands in the boxes.
Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped,
Crash.
The orange curtain parts
And the prima-donna steps forward.
One note,
A drop: transparent, iridescent,
A gold bubble,
It floats . . . floats . . .
And bursts against the lips of a bank president
In the grand tier.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE XII. Una donna più bella assai che 'l sole. GLORY AND VIRTUE. A lady, lovelier, brighter than the sun,Like him superior o'er all time and space,Of rare resistless grace,Me to her train in early life had won:She, from that hour, in act, and word and thought,—For still the world thus covets what is rare—In many ways though broughtBefore my search, was still the same coy fair:For her alone my plans, from what they were,Grew changed, since nearer subject to her eyes;Her love alone could spurMy young ambition to each hard emprize:So, if in long-wish'd port I e'er arrive,I hope, for aye through her,When others deem me dead, in honour to survive. Full of first hope, burning with youthful love,She, at her will, as plainly now appears,Has led me many years,But for one end, my nature best to prove:Oft showing me her shadow, veil, and dress,But never her sweet face, till I, who right[Pg 109]Knew not her power to bless,All my green youth for these, contented quite,So spent, that still the memory is delight:Since onward yet some glimpse of her is seen,I now may own, of late,Such as till then she ne'er for me had been,She shows herself, shooting through all my heartAn icy cold so greatThat save in her dear arms it ne'er can thence depart. Not that in this cold fear I all did shrink,For still my heart was to such boldness strungThat to her feet I clung,As if more rapture from her eyes to drink:And she—for now the veil was ta'en awayWhich barr'd my sight—thus spoke me, "Friend, you seeHow fair I am, and mayAsk, for your years, whatever fittest be.""Lady," I said, "so long my love on theeHas fix'd, that now I feel myself on fire,What, in this state, to shun, and what desire."She, thereon, with a voice so wond'rous sweetAnd earnest look replied,By turns with hope and fear it made my quick heart beat:— "Rarely has man, in this full crowd below,E'en partial knowledge of my worth possess'dWho felt not in his breastAt least awhile some spark of spirit glow:But soon my foe, each germ of good abhorr'd,Quenches that light, and every virtue dies,While reigns some other lordWho promises a calmer life shall rise:Love, of your mind, to him that naked lies,So shows the great desire with which you burn,That safely I divineIt yet shall win for you an honour'd urn;Already one of my few friends you are,And now shall see in signA lady who shall make your fond eyes happier far." "It may not, cannot be," I thus began;—When she, "Turn hither, and in yon calm nook[Pg 110]Upon the lady lookSo seldom seen, so little sought of man!"I turn'd, and o'er my brow the mantling shame,Within me as I felt that new fire swell,Of conscious treason came.She softly smiled, "I understand you well;E'en as the sun's more powerful rays dispelAnd drive the meaner stars of heaven from sight,So I less fair appear,Dwindling and darken'd now in her more light;But not for this I bar you from my train,As one in jealous fear—One birth, the elder she, produced us, sisters twain." Meanwhile the cold and heavy chain was burstOf silence, which a sense of shame had flungAround my powerless tongue,When I was conscious of her notice first:And thus I spoke, "If what I hear be true,Bless'd be the sire, and bless'd the natal dayWhich graced our world with you!Blest the long years pass'd in your search away!From the right path if e'er I went astray,It grieves me more than, haply, I can show:But of your state, if IDeserve more knowledge, more I long to know."She paused, then, answering pensively, so bentOn me her eloquent eye,That to my inmost heart her looks and language went:— "As seem'd to our Eternal Father best,We two were made immortal at our birth:To man so small our worthBetter on us that death, like yours, should rest.Though once beloved and lovely, young and bright,So slighted are we now, my sister sweetAlready plumes for flightHer wings to bear her to her own old seat;Myself am but a shadow thin and fleet;Thus have I told you, in brief words, whate'erYou sought of us to find:And now farewell! before I mount in airThis favour take, nor fear that I forget."[Pg 111]Whereat she took and twinedA wreath of laurel green, and round my temples set. My song! should any deem thy strain obscure,Say, that I care not, and, ere long to hear,In certain words and clear,Truth's welcome message, that my hope is sure;For this alone, unless I widely errOf him who set me on the task, I came,That others I might stirTo honourable acts of high and holy aim. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 225] SONNET CCXXIII. Qual donna attende a gloriosa fama. THE EYES OF LAURA ARE THE SCHOOL OF VIRTUE. Feels any fair the glorious wish to gainOf sense, of worth, of courtesy, the praise?On those bright eyes attentive let her gazeOf her miscall'd my love, but sure my foe.Honour to gain, with love of God to glow,Virtue more bright how native grace displays,May there be learn'd; and by what surest waysTo heaven, that for her coming pants, to go.The converse sweet, beyond what poets write,Is there; the winning silence, and the meekAnd saint-like manners man would paint in vain.The matchless beauty, dazzling to the sight,Can ne'er be learn'd; for bootless 'twere to seekBy art, what by kind chance alone we gain. Anon., Ox., 1795.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
O'er the dark pines she sees the silver moon,
And in the west, all tremulous, a star;
And soothing sweet she hears the mellow tune
Of cow-bells jangled in the fields afar.
Quite listless, for her daily stent is done,
She stands, sad exile, at her rose-wreathed door,
And sends her love eternal with the sun
That goes to gild the land she'll see no more.
The grave, gaunt pines imprison her sad gaze,
All still the sky and darkling drearily;
She feels the chilly breath of dear, dead days
Come sifting through the alders eerily.
Oh, how the roses riot in their bloom!
The curtains stir as with an ancient pain;
Her old piano gleams from out the gloom
And waits and waits her tender touch in vain.
But now her hands like moonlight brush the keys
With velvet grace -- melodious delight;
And now a sad refrain from over seas
Goes sobbing on the bosom of the night;
And now she sings. (O! singer in the gloom,
Voicing a sorrow we can ne'er express,
Here in the Farness where we few have room
Unshamed to show our love and tenderness,
Our hearts will echo, till they beat no more,
That song of sadness and of motherland;
And, stretched in deathless love to England's shore,
Some day she'll hearken and she'll understand.)
A prima-donna in the shining past,
But now a mother growing old and gray,
She thinks of how she held a people fast
In thrall, and gleaned the triumphs of a day.
She sees a sea of faces like a dream;
She sees herself a queen of song once more;
She sees lips part in rapture, eyes agleam;
She sings as never once she sang before.
She sings a wild, sweet song that throbs with pain,
The added pain of life that transcends art --
A song of home, a deep, celestial strain,
The glorious swan-song of a dying heart.
A lame tramp comes along the railway track,
A grizzled dog whose day is nearly done;
He passes, pauses, then comes slowly back
And listens there -- an audience of one.
She sings -- her golden voice is passion-fraught,
As when she charmed a thousand eager ears;
He listens trembling, and she knows it not,
And down his hollow cheeks roll bitter tears.
She ceases and is still, as if to pray;
There is no sound, the stars are all alight --
Only a wretch who stumbles on his way,
Only a vagrant sobbing in the night.
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