I’ve strolled down Bedford from Barrow,
maybe a couple times or more.
When I would get to 86,
I headed through the garden door.
I felt inspiration flowing,
from the rafters down to the floor.
Words for future generations,
by the authors that I adore.
They sat on these stools by the bar,
and drank their whiskey from this glass.
They saw the world through this window,
and watched it gently slide on past.
The true spirit of literature,
hangs in every sip I take.
I try to honor their presence,
in each single line that I make.
So, here’s to you Chumley’s Tavern,
drink a toast to your ancient past.
But alas, just like all good things,
you have come to your end at last.
Steinbeck and Millay may live forever,
through eloquent words that they wrote.
But as for you and me dear friend,
we’ll just be history’s footnote.
Edna St Vincent Millay 'A POET&his BOOK_____
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Spring hangs
like a dripping woolen coat
from the pewter frame
of a glowering sky.
Why is it that poets write of spring
as if it were made
of rose petals and birdsong?—
and insist that spring is when 'true love' blooms?
There are no flowers, no birds, no eager lovers
with this horrid impostor, this con of a season.
Here by me,
on my windswept, narrow land,
I know well how it goes—
spring holds winter's slushy hand,
and the two of them laugh heartily at us,
flinging their icy spittle
in our faces.
Edna St Vincent Millay
for poetic immortality oft did pray
With her command of the ' traditionel
then married & became so conventional
Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er . . . Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”?She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name . . .
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here?carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
In Homage to Edna St Vincent Millay
To gaze upon truth is to look upon beauty bare,
Though few have done so save those who walk
The halls of academe, and speak with nature in
Its nakedness. We, we such souls who wander in
The wilderness of life, lost, anxious, low in mood,
Beset with this concern, and that conflict,
We have our own truths. That distant footfall
Of sandal on stone is but an echo far away,
Lost within the clamour of our thoughts.
Truth is the silence that follows our plea
Thrown into the aether, or countless rejection
Of casual offers of close engagement. Truth
Is the cold realisation of life taking this rocky path,
Rather than that gold paved avenue to paradise.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Not choosy about person's sex when she played
Nor age of the person with whom she lay
However, her poetry brightens my day
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Contest: Seeking A Fresh Crop Of Clerihew
A journey told in stanzas,
Layered with devout cynicism.
Lyrical dreams set to pen,
Painted a world with poetry.
A Pulitzer Prize heart,
Flooded the page in verse.
Inspired by her many affairs,
She shared her poetic soul,
To her beloved America.
____________________________
Inspired by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Hair the shade of fire
Flaring like a spire
Over the sad space
Of her gypsy face:
Candle colored red
Burning down and dead.
Candle in a breeze
Of eternities,
Edna flickered faint,
Charring like some martyred saint
Scarlet at the stake,
Embered… for art’s sake.