Edwin Arlington Robinson |
Christmas was in the air and all was well
With him, but for a few confusing flaws
In divers of God's images.
A friend of his would neither buy nor sell,
Was he to answer for the axe that fell?
He pondered; and the reason for it was,
Partly, a slowly freezing Santa Claus
Upon the corner, with his beard and bell.
Acknowledging an improvident surprise,
He magnified a fancy that he wished
The friend whom he had wrecked were here again.
Not sure of that, he found a compromise;
And from the fulness of his heart he fished
A dime for Jesus who had died for men.
Gary Snyder |
You said, that October,
In the tall dry grass by the orchard
When you chose to be free,
"Again someday, maybe ten years.
After college I saw you
You were strange,
And I was obsessed with a plan.
Now ten years and more have
Gone by: I've always known
where you were—
I might have gone to you
Hoping to win your love back.
You still are single.
I thought I must make it alone.
Have done that.
Only in dream, like this dawn,
Does the grave, awed intensity
Of our young love
Return to my mind, to my flesh.
We had what the others
All crave and seek for;
We left it behind at nineteen.
I feel ancient, as though I had
Lived many lives.
And may never now know
If I am a fool
Or have done what my
Richard Brautigan |
Get enough food to eat,
and eat it.
Find a place to sleep where it is quiet,
and sleep there.
Reduce intellectual and emotional noise
until you arrive at the silence of yourself,
and listen to it.
Barry Tebb |
Eamer o’ Keefe with your tinge of brogue
And Irish warmth, Daisy and Debjani
With your karma and cool verse, I salute you.
( III )
"Ecoutez la voix du vent" – listen to the wind’s voice
As Milosz commands "All your griefs,
My sad ones, are in vain" but offering
In recompense soaring sonatas which remain unread
Untranslated, relegated to the reserve stock
Of the Institut Fran?ais, along with Fargue,
Jacob and Larbaud while all those Bloodaxe deadheads
Blossom and bloom round poetry’s tomb
Where still there’s room for Ursula’s
Queen’s Medal for Poetry, lacklustre poetaster
From Harry Chamber’s Press at Peterloo –
That Augean stable has too much shit
For even me to clear with my scabrous wit.
I burn to turn myself into the translator of French poetry
For our time and not to waste what little life I’ve left
Attacking Survivors ‘Coming Through’ –
A second-hand title for a third rate book
Of botched and blotched attempts at verse and worse.
Down with O’Brien and Forbes, those two of our time
Who above all others vie for the crown of infamy and slime.
Underground poets of Albion unite
Its time to clear the literary world of shite.