Written by
Amy Clampitt |
past parentage or gender
beyond sung vocables
the slipped-between
the so infinitesimal
fault line
a limitless
interiority
beyond the woven
unicorn the maiden
(man-carved worm-eaten)
God at her hip
incipient
the untransfigured
cottontail
bluebell and primrose
growing wild a strawberry
chagrin night terrors
past the earthlit
unearthly masquerade
(we shall be changed)
a silence opens
*
the larval feeder
naked hairy ravenous
inventing from within
itself its own
raw stuffs'
hooked silk-hung
relinquishment
behind the mask
the milkfat shivering
sinew isinglass
uncrumpling transient
greed to reinvest
*
names have been
given (revelation
kif nirvana
syncope) for
whatever gift
unasked
gives birth to
torrents
fixities
reincarnations of
the angels
Joseph Smith
enduring
martyrdom
a cavernous
compunction driving
founder-charlatans
who saw in it
the infinite
love of God
and had
(George Fox
was one)
great openings
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Written by
Thomas Hardy |
THERE were two youths of equal age,
Wit, station, strength, and parentage;
They studied at the self-same schools,
And shaped their thoughts by common rules.
One pondered on the life of man,
His hopes, his endings, and began
To rate the Market's sordid war
As something scarce worth living for.
"I'll brace to higher aims," said he,
"I'll further Truth and Purity;
Thereby to mend and mortal lot
And sweeten sorrow. Thrive I not,
"Winning their hearts, my kind will give
Enough that I may lowly live,
And house my Love in some dim dell,
For pleasing them and theirs so well."
Idly attired, with features wan,
In secret swift he labored on;
Such press of power had brought much gold
Applied to things of meaner mould.
Sometimes he wished his aims had been
To gather gains like other men;
Then thanked his God he'd traced his track
Too far for wish to drag him back.
He look?d from his loft one day
To where his slighted garden lay;
Nettles and hemlock hid each lawn,
And every flower was starved and gone.
He fainted in his heart, whereon
He rose, and sought his plighted one,
Resolved to loose her bond withal,
Lest she should perish in his fall.
He met her with a careless air,
As though he'd ceased to find her fair,
And said: "True love is dust to me;
I cannot kiss: I tire of thee!"
(That she might scorn him was he fain,
To put her sooner out of pain;
For incensed love breathes quick and dies,
When famished love a-lingering lies.)
Once done, his soul was so betossed,
It found no more the force it lost:
Hope was his only drink and food,
And hope extinct, decay ensued.
And, living long so closely penned,
He had not kept a single friend;
He dwindled thin as phantoms be,
And drooped to death in poverty....
Meantime his schoolmate had gone out
To join the fortune-finding rout;
He liked the winnings of the mart,
But wearied of the working part.
He turned to seek a privy lair,
Neglecting note of garb and hair,
And day by day reclined and thought
How he might live by doing nought.
"I plan a valued scheme," he said
To some. "But lend me of your bread,
And when the vast result looms nigh,
In profit you shall stand as I."
Yet they took counsel to restrain
Their kindness till they saw the gain;
And, since his substance now had run,
He rose to do what might be done.
He went unto his Love by night,
And said: "My Love, I faint in fight:
Deserving as thou dost a crown,
My cares shall never drag thee down."
(He had descried a maid whose line
Would hand her on much corn and wine,
And held her far in worth above
One who could only pray and love.)
But this Fair read him; whence he failed
To do the deed so blithely hailed;
He saw his projects wholly marred,
And gloom and want oppressed him hard;
Till, living to so mean an end,
Whereby he'd lost his every friend,
He perished in a pauper sty,
His mate the dying pauper nigh.
And moralists, reflecting, said,
As "dust to dust" in burial read
Was echoed from each coffin-lid,
"These men were like in all they did."
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Written by
Robert Burns |
YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o’ the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro’ the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed.
Not Gowrie’s rich valley, nor Forth’s sunny shores,
To me hae the charms o’yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely, sequesterèd stream,
Besides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;
For there, wi’ my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o’er us unheeded flie the swift hours o’love.
She is not the fairest, altho’ she is fair;
O’ nice education but sma’ is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo’e the dear lassie because she lo’es me.
To Beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement hae polish’d her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.
But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond-sparkling e’e,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart beating love as I’m clasp’d in her arms,
O, these are my lassie’s all-conquering charms!
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Written by
Robert William Service |
Franklin fathered bastards fourteen,
(So I read in the New Yorker);
If it's true, in terms of courtin'
Benny must have been a corker.
To be prudent I've aspired,
And my passions I have mastered;
So that I have never sired
A single bastard.
One of course can never know;
But I think that if I had
It would give me quite a glow
When a kiddie called me 'Dad.'
Watching toddlers at their play,
Parentage I'd gladly claim,
But their mothers smiling say:
'You're not to blame.'
Ben founded the Satevepost,
And for that I much respect him;
But fourteen is quite a host
Paternally to elect him.
'Fatherhood is not a crime,'
Deemed fat Ben, 'there could be others . . .
Darlings, I had not the time
To wed your mothers.'
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Written by
William Strode |
As I out of a casement sent
Mine eyes as wand'ring as my thought,
Upon no certayne object bent,
But only what occasion brought,
A sight surpriz'd my hart at last,
Nor knewe I well what made it burne;
Amazement held me then so fast
I had no leasure to discerne.
Sure 'twas a Mortall, but her name,
Or happy parentage or place,
Or (that which did mee most inflame)
I cannot tell her very Face:
No; 'twere prophane to think I could,
And I should pitch my thoughts too lowe
If ever sett my love I should
On that which Art or Words can shewe.
Was ever man so vext before,
Or ever love so blind as this,
Which vows and wishes to implore,
And yet not knows for what to wish?
Thus children spend theyr wayward cryes,
Not knowing why they doe complayne;
Thus sicke men long for remedyes,
Not knowing what would ease theyr payne.
Some god call backe againe that sight;
Ile suffer double payne to boote,
For griefe and anger in mee fight
So strongly at no marke to shoote!
Not only meanes to winne her grace,
But meanes to seeke are barr'd from mee;
Despayre enforc't by such a case
Is not a sinne but miserie.
Pygmalion hold thine Image fast,
'Tis something to enjoy Love so:
Narcissus thou a shaddowe hast,
At least thereby to cheate thy woe;
But I no likenesse can inferre
My pyning fancy to supply;
Nothing to love instead of her
For feare of some idolatry.
|
Written by
William Strode |
No marvell if the Sunne's bright eye
Shower downe hott flames; that qualitie
Still waytes on light; but when wee see
Those sparkling balles of ebony
Distil such heat, the gazer straight
Stands so amazed at the sight
As when the lightning makes a breach
Through pitchie clouds: can lightning reach
The marrowe hurting not the skynne?
Your eyes to me the same have byn;
Can jett invite the loving strawe
With secrett fire? so those can draw,
And can, where ere they glance a dart,
Make stubble of the strongest hart.
Oft when I looke I may descry
A little face peep through your eye;
Sure 'tis the boy, who wisely chose
His throne among such rayes as those,
Which, if his quiver chance to fail,
May serve for darts to kill withal:
If to such powerful shafts I yeild,
If with so many wounds I bleed,
Think me noe coward, though I lye
Thus prostrate with your charming eye:
Did I say but your eye? I sweare
Death's in your beauty everywhere.
Your waxen hands when I recall,
Your lily breasts, their melting vale,
Your damaske cheeks, your lilly skynne,
Your corral lipp and dainty chynne,
Your shining locks and amber breath,
All pleasing instruments of death,
Your eye may spare itselfe: mine owne
When all your parts are duly knowne
From any part may fetch a dart
To wound itselfe. Kill not my hart,
By saying that I will dispise
The parentage from which you rise:
I know it well, and likewise knowe
That I my myselfe my breath doe owe
To Woolsey's roofe, and can it bee
I should disdayne your pedigree?
Or is your Sire a butcher found?
The fitter you to make a wound;
Wound mee againe and more and more,
So you againe will mee restore,
But if resemblance tell the father
I think hee was an Angell rather.
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