Written by
Robert Lowell |
"Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam."
The old South Boston Aquarium stands
in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.
Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;
my hand tingled
to burst the bubbles
drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.
My hand draws back. I often sigh still
for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom
of the fish and reptile. One morning last March,
I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized
fence on the Boston Common. Behind their cage,
yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting
as they cropped up tons of mush and grass
to gouge their underworld garage.
Parking spaces luxuriate like civic
sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders
braces the tingling Statehouse,
shaking over the excavations, as it faces Colonel Shaw
and his bell-cheeked ***** infantry
on St. Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief,
propped by a plank splint against the garage's earthquake.
Two months after marching through Boston,
half the regiment was dead;
at the dedication,
William James could almost hear the bronze ******* breathe.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone
in the city's throat.
Its Colonel is as lean
as a compass-needle.
He has an angry wrenlike vigilance,
a greyhound's gently tautness;
he seems to wince at pleasure,
and suffocate for privacy.
He is out of bounds now. He rejoices in man's lovely,
peculiar power to choose life and die--
when he leads his black soldiers to death,
he cannot bend his back.
On a thousand small town New England greens,
the old white churches hold their air
of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags
quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic.
The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier
grow slimmer and younger each year--
wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets
and muse through their sideburns . . .
Shaw's father wanted no monument
except the ditch,
where his son's body was thrown
and lost with his "niggers."
The ditch is nearer.
There are no statues for the last war here;
on Boylston Street, a commercial photograph
shows Hiroshima boiling
over a Mosler Safe, the "Rock of Ages"
that survived the blast. Space is nearer.
When I crouch to my television set,
the drained faces of ***** school-children rise like balloons.
Colonel Shaw
is riding on his bubble,
he waits
for the bless?d break.
The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere,
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;
a savage servility
slides by on grease.
|
Written by
Jackie Kay |
I am only nineteen
My whole life is changing
Tonight I see her
Shuttered eyes in my dreams
I cannot pretend she's never been
My stitches pull and threaten to snap
My own body a witness
Leaking blood to sheets milk to shirts
My stretch marks
Record that birth
Though I feel like somebody is dying
I stand up in my bed
And wail like a banshee
II
On the second night
I shall suffocate her with a feather pillow
Bury her under a weeping willow
Or take her far out to sea
And watch her tiny six pound body
Sink to shells and re shape herself
So much better than her body
Encased in glass like a museum piece
Or I shall stab myself
Cut my wrists steal some sleeping pills
Better than this-mummified
Preserved as a warning
III
On the third night I toss
I did not go through those months
For you to die on me now
On the third night I lie
Willing life into her
Breathing air all the way down through the corridor
To the glass cot
I push my nipples through
Feel the ferocity of her lips
IV
Here
Landed in a place I recognize
My eyes in the mirror
Hard marbles glinting
Murderous light
My breasts sag my stomach
Still soft as a baby's
My voice deep and old as ammonite
I am a stranger visiting
Myself occasionally
An empty ruinous house
Cobwebs dust and broken stairs
Inside woodworm
Outside the weeds grow tall
As she must be now
V
She, my little foreigner
No longer familiar with my womb
Kicking her language of living
Somewhere past stalking her first words
She is six years old today
I am twenty-five; we are only
That distance apart yet
Time has fossilised
Prehistoric time is easier
I can imagine dinosaurs
More vivid than my daughter
Dinosaurs do not hurt my eyes
Nor make me old so terribly old
We are land sliced and torn.
|
Written by
Robert Browning |
I.
All I believed is true!
I am able yet
All I want, to get
By a method as strange as new:
Dare I trust the same to you?
II.
If at night, when doors are shut,
And the wood-worm picks,
And the death-watch ticks,
And the bar has a flag of smut,
And a cat's in the water-butt---
III.
And the socket floats and flares,
And the house-beams groan,
And a foot unknown
Is surmised on the garret-stairs,
And the locks slip unawares---
IV.
And the spider, to serve his ends,
By a sudden thread,
Arms and legs outspread,
On the table's midst descends,
Comes to find, God knows what friends!---
V.
If since eve drew in, I say,
I have sat and brought
(So to speak) my thought
To bear on the woman away,
Till I felt my hair turn grey---
VI.
Till I seemed to have and hold,
In the vacancy
'Twixt the wall and me,
From the hair-plait's chestnut gold
To the foot in its muslin fold---
VII.
Have and hold, then and there,
Her, from head to foot,
Breathing and mute,
Passive and yet aware,
In the grasp of my steady stare---
VIII.
Hold and have, there and then,
All her body and soul
That completes my whole,
All that women add to men,
In the clutch of my steady ken---
IX.
Having and holding, till
I imprint her fast
On the void at last
As the sun does whom he will
By the calotypist's skill---
X.
Then,---if my heart's strength serve,
And through all and each
Of the veils I reach
To her soul and never swerve,
Knitting an iron nerve---
XI.
Command her soul to advance
And inform the shape
Which has made escape
And before my countenance
Answers me glance for glance---
XII.
I, still with a gesture fit
Of my hands that best
Do my soul's behest,
Pointing the power from it,
While myself do steadfast sit---
XIII.
Steadfast and still the same
On my object bent,
While the hands give vent
To my ardour and my aim
And break into very flame---
XIV.
Then I reach, I must believe,
Not her soul in vain,
For to me again
It reaches, and past retrieve
Is wound in the toils I weave;
XV.
And must follow as I require,
As befits a thrall,
Bringing flesh and all,
Essence and earth-attire,
To the source of the tractile fire:
XVI.
Till the house called hers, not mine,
With a growing weight
Seems to suffocate
If she break not its leaden line
And escape from its close confine.
XVII.
Out of doors into the night!
On to the maze
Of the wild wood-ways,
Not turning to left nor right
From the pathway, blind with sight---
XVIII.
Making thro' rain and wind
O'er the broken shrubs,
'Twixt the stems and stubs,
With a still, composed, strong mind,
Nor a care for the world behind---
XIX.
Swifter and still more swift,
As the crowding peace
Doth to joy increase
In the wide blind eyes uplift
Thro' the darkness and the drift!
XX.
While I---to the shape, I too
Feel my soul dilate
Nor a whit abate,
And relax not a gesture due,
As I see my belief come true.
XXI.
For, there! have I drawn or no
Life to that lip?
Do my fingers dip
In a flame which again they throw
On the cheek that breaks a-glow?
XXII.
Ha! was the hair so first?
What, unfilleted,
Made alive, and spread
Through the void with a rich outburst,
Chestnut gold-interspersed?
XXTII.
Like the doors of a casket-shrine,
See, on either side,
Her two arms divide
Till the heart betwixt makes sign,
Take me, for I am thine!
XXIV.
``Now---now''---the door is heard!
Hark, the stairs! and near---
Nearer---and here---
``Now!'' and at call the third
She enters without a word.
XXV.
On doth she march and on
To the fancied shape;
It is, past escape,
Herself, now: the dream is done
And the shadow and she are one.
XXVI.
First I will pray. Do Thou
That ownest the soul,
Yet wilt grant control
To another, nor disallow
For a time, restrain me now!
XXVII.
I admonish me while I may,
Not to squander guilt,
Since require Thou wilt
At my hand its price one day
What the price is, who can say?
|
Written by
D. H. Lawrence |
I wonder, can the night go by;
Can this shot arrow of travel fly
Shaft-golden with light, sheer into the sky
Of a dawned to-morrow,
Without ever sleep delivering us
From each other, or loosing the dolorous
Unfruitful sorrow!
What is it then that you can see
That at the window endlessly
You watch the red sparks whirl and flee
And the night look through?
Your presence peering lonelily there
Oppresses me so, I can hardly bear
To share the train with you.
You hurt my heart-beats’ privacy;
I wish I could put you away from me;
I suffocate in this intimacy,
For all that I love you;
How I have longed for this night in the train,
Yet now every fibre of me cries in pain
To God to remove you.
But surely my soul’s best dream is still
That one night pouring down shall swill
Us away in an utter sleep, until
We are one, smooth-rounded.
Yet closely bitten in to me
Is this armour of stiff reluctancy
That keeps me impounded.
So, dear love, when another night
Pours on us, lift your fingers white
And strip me naked, touch me light,
Light, light all over.
For I ache most earnestly for your touch,
Yet I cannot move, however much
I would be your lover.
Night after night with a blemish of day
Unblown and unblossomed has withered away;
Come another night, come a new night, say
Will you pluck me apart?
Will you open the amorous, aching bud
Of my body, and loose the burning flood
That would leap to you from my heart?
|
Written by
Rg Gregory |
(i) introduction
his home in ruins
his parents gone
frederick seeks
to reclaim his throne
to the golden mountain
he sets his path
the enchantress listening
schemes with wrath
four desperate trials
which she takes from store
to silence frederick
for ever more
(ii) the mist
softly mist suppress all sight
swirling stealthily as night
slur the sureness of his steps
suffocate his sweetest hopes
swirling curling slip and slide
persuasively seduce his stride
from following its essential course
seal his senses at its source
bemuse the soil he stands upon
till power of choice has wholly gone
seething surreptitious veil
across the face of light prevail
against this taciturn and proud
insurgent - o smother him swift cloud
yet if you cannot steal his breath
thus snuffing him to hasty death
at least in your umbrageous mask
stifle his ambitious task
mystify his restless brain
sweep him swirl him home again
(iii) the bog
once more the muffling mists enclose
frederick in their vaporous throes
forcing him with unseeing sway
to veer from his intended way
back they push and back
make him fall
stumble catch
his foot become
emmired snatch
hopelessly at fog
no grip slip further back
into the sucking fingers of the bog
into the slush
squelching and splotch-
ing the marsh
gushes and gurgles
engulfing foot leg
chuckling suckles
the heaving thigh
the plush slugged waist
sucking still and still flushing
with suggestive slurp
plop slap
sluggishly upwards
unctuous lugubrious
soaking and enjoying
with spongy gestures
the swallowed wallowing
body - the succulence
of soft shoulder
squirming
elbow
wrist
then
all.......
but no
his desperate palm
struggling to forsake
the clutches of the swamp
finds one stark branch overhanging
to fix glad fingers to and out of the maw
of the murderous mud safely delivers him
(iv) the magic forest
safely - distorted joke
from bog to twisted forest
gnarled trees writhe and fork
asphixiated trunks - angular branches
hook claw throttle frederick in their creaking
joints
jagged weird
knotted and misshapen
petrified maniacal
figures frantically contorted
grotesque eccentric in the moon-toothed
half-light
tug clutch struggle
with the haggard form
zigzag he staggers
awe-plagued giddy
near-garrotted mind-deranged
forcing his sagging limbs through the mangled danger
till almost beyond redemption beyond self-care
he once again survives to breathe free air
(v) the barrier of thorns
immediately a barrier of thorns
springs up to choke his track
thick brier evil bramble twitch
stick sharp needles in his skin
hag's spite inflicts its bitter sting
frederick (provoked to attack
stung stabbed by jabbing spines
wincing with agony and grief) seeks to hack
a clear way through
picking swinging at
the spiky barricade inch by prickly inch
smarting with anger bristling with a thin
itch and tingling of success - acute
with aching glory the afflicted victim
of a witch's pique frederick
frederick the king snips hews chops
rips slashes cracks cleaves rends pierces
pierces and shatters into pointless pieces
this mighty barrier of barbs - comes through at last
(belzivetta's malignant magic smashed)
to freedom peace of mind and dreamless sleep
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Her -- "last Poems" --
Poets -- ended --
Silver -- perished -- with her Tongue --
Not on Record -- bubbled other,
Flute -- or Woman --
So divine --
Not unto its Summer -- Morning
Robin -- uttered Half the Tune --
Gushed too free for the Adoring --
From the Anglo-Florentine --
Late -- the Praise --
'Tis dull -- conferring
On the Head too High to Crown --
Diadem -- or Ducal Showing --
Be its Grave -- sufficient sign --
Nought -- that We -- No Poet's Kinsman --
Suffocate -- with easy woe --
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom --
Put Her down -- in Italy?
|
Written by
Anne Sexton |
I would like to bury
all the hating eyes
under the sand somewhere off
the North Atlantic and suffocate
them with the awful sand
and put all their colors to sleep
in that soft smother.
Take the brown eyes of my father,
those gun shots, those mean muds.
Bury them.
Take the blue eyes of my mother,
naked as the sea,
waiting to pull you down
where there is no air, no God.
Bury them.
Take the black eyes of my love,
coal eyes like a cruel hog,
wanting to whip you and laugh.
Bury them.
Take the hating eyes of martyrs,
presidents, bus collectors,
bank managers, soldiers.
Bury them.
Take my eyes, half blind
and falling into the air.
Bury them.
Take your eyes.
I come to the center,
where a shark looks up at death
and thinks of my heart
and squeeze it like a doughnut.
They'd like to take my eyes
and poke a hatpin through
their pupils. Not just to bury
but to stab. As for your eyes,
I fold up in front of them
in a baby ball and you send
them to the State Asylum.
Look! Look! Both those
mice are watching you
from behind the kind bars.
|
Written by
William Topaz McGonagall |
The 27th Regiment has mutinied at Kalapore;
That was the substance of a telegram, which caused great uproar,
At Sattara, on the evening of the 8th of July,
And when the British officers heard it, they heaved a bitter sigh.
'Twas in the year of 1857,
Which will long be remembered: Oh! Heaven!
That the Sepoys revolted, and killed their British officers and their wives;
Besides, they killed their innocent children, not sparing one of their lives.
There was one man there who was void of fear,
He was the brave Lieutenant William Alexander Kerr;
And to face the rebels boldly it was his intent,
And he assured his brother officers his men were true to the Government.
And now that the danger was so near at hand,
He was ready to put his men to the test, and them command;
And march to the rescue of his countrymen at Kalapore,
And try to quell the mutiny and barbarous uproar.
And in half an hour he was ready to start,
With fifty brave horsemen, fearless and smart;
And undaunted Kerr and his horsemen rode on without dismay,
And in the middle of the rainy season, which was no child's play.
And after a toilsome march they reached Kalapore,
To find their countrymen pressed very hard and sore;
The mutineers had attacked and defeated the Kalapore Light Infantry,
Therefore their fellow countrymen were in dire extremity.
Then the Sepoys established themselves in a small square fort;
It was a place of strength, and there they did resort;
And Kerr had no guns to batter down the gate,
But nevertheless he felt undaunted, and resigned to his fate.
And darkness was coming on and no time was to be lost,
And he must attack the rebels whatever be the cost;
Therefore he ordered his troopers to prepare to storm the fort,
And at the word of command towards it they did resort.
And seventeen troopers advanced to the attack,
And one of his men, Gumpunt Row Deo Kerr, whose courage wasn't slack;
So great was his courage he couldn't be kept back,
So he resolved with Lieutenant Kerr to make the attack.
Then with crowbars they dashed at the doors vigorously,
Whilst bullets rained around them, but harmlessly;
So they battered on the doors until one gave way,
Then Lieutenant Kerr and his henchmen entered without dismay.
Then Kerr's men rushed in sword in hand,
Oh! what a fearful onslaught, the mutineers couldn't it withstand,
And Kerr's men with straw set the place on fire,
And at last the rebels were forced to retire.
And took refuge in another house, and barricaded it fast,
And prepared to defend themselves to the last;
Then Lieutenant Kerr and Row Deo Kerr plied the crowbars again,
And heavy blows on the woordwork they did rain.
Then the door gave way and they crawled in,
And they two great heroes side by side did begin
To charge the mutineers with sword in hand, which made them grin,
Whilst the clashing of swords and bayonets made a fearful din.
Then hand to hand, and foot to foot, a fierce combat began,
Whilst the blood of the rebels copiously ran,
And a ball cut the chain of Kerr's helmet in two,
And another struck his sword, but the man he slew.
Then a Sepoy clubbed his musket and hit Kerr on the head,
But fortunately the blow didn't kill him dead;
He only staggered, and was about to be bayoneted by a mutineer,
But Gumpunt Kerr laid his assailant dead without fear.
Kerr's little party were now reduced to seven,
Yet fearless and undaunted, and with the help of Heaven,
He gathered his small band possessed of courage bold,
Determined to make a last effort to capture the stronghold.
Then he cried, "My men, we will burn them out,
And suffocate them with smoke, without any doubt!"
So bundles of straw and hay were found without delay,
And they set fire to them against the doors without dismay.
Then Kerr patiently waited till the doors were consumed,
And with a gallant charge, the last attack was resumed,
And he dashed sword in hand into the midst of the mutineers,
And he and his seven troopers played great havoc with their sabres.
So by the skillful war tactics of brave Lieutenant Kerr,
He defeated the Sepoy mutineers and rescued his countrymen dear;
And but for Lieutenant Kerr the British would have met with a great loss,
And for his great service he received the Victoria Cross.
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
It's thoughts -- and just One Heart --
And Old Sunshine -- about --
Make frugal -- Ones -- Content --
And two or three -- for Company --
Upon a Holiday --
Crowded -- as Sacrament --
Books -- when the Unit --
Spare the Tenant -- long eno' --
A Picture -- if it Care --
Itself -- a Gallery too rare --
For needing more --
Flowers -- to keep the Eyes -- from going awkward --
When it snows --
A Bird -- if they -- prefer --
Though Winter fire -- sing clear as Plover --
To our -- ear --
A Landscape -- not so great
To suffocate the Eye --
A Hill -- perhaps --
Perhaps -- the profile of a Mill
Turned by the Wind --
Tho' such -- are luxuries --
It's thoughts -- and just two Heart --
And Heaven -- about --
At least -- a Counterfeit --
We would not have Correct --
And Immortality -- can be almost --
Not quite -- Content --
|