Poet's Corner

midcan5

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A bit of a change, some may laugh, some may cry....

"Twisting and turning to alternative facts
The viewer cannot bear to read Twitter;
The swamp remains un-drained;
Mere commentary is loosed upon the world,
The Putin tide is loosed, and everywhere
Millennial innocence is drowned;
The 'best' lack all connection, while the worst
Are full of passionate insecurity."

Rest below.

A Citizen Paying Attention: The Second Don-ing (with apologies to the shade of W.B. Yeats, as well as to my fellow Americans)

-------------------------

'The Beautiful Poetry Of Donald Trump'

By Rob Sears

"I’m really rich
I’m very proud of my new crystal collection
I have a Gucci store that’s worth more than Romney
I order thousands of televisions a year
Six people do nothing but sort my mail
Sorry haters and losers!
He who has the gold makes the rules"

More below.

The Beautiful Poetry of Donald Trump
 

Mindful

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Cancer.

By Guy Walker.

In normal times we can expect obedient
squadrons, in silent faithfulness, to do
their duty in repairing the ingredient
that bears the codes; the daily damage to
the chains of information that denote
us and exactly what we are. Remote
from us, forgotten, their activity;
they’re blithe and automatic over years,
intelligencers (docile engineers),
all working with a perfect industry.

We can accept our programmed obsolescence
and Hayfleck’s limiting when ripeness comes;
harder to baulk at such guessed-at senescence
when Deaths’ promised full-stop resolves our sums
and consummates our grammar. A known end,
to a parametered-type mind, will lend
resistance to (without it, atrophied
and shapeless) sense. For not to know we die,
to be unparsed, would terrify;
to mean at all needs context to succeed.

But when, awry, a strand of DNA,
missteps, in absent mind, to lose the plot,
then is unleashed (that unknown, secret day)
a disinhibited ‘immortal.’ Not
inclined to toe the line this megalo
obeys blind evolution’s rules, and so
runs riot; a renegade, an order-trasher,
hell-bent on self-promotion; vandal who,
unschooled, conducts a vulgar palace coup,
And shows himself a boorish party-crasher.

Abandoning the logos and its codes,
illiterate of sense, a tumour juts
its snout into a library, discommodes
systems of form and information put
in order by design. An ignorant
Yahoo, gross presence, strayed abroad with scant
regard for sense or system, overturning
the delicately loaded stacks that house
our tales. How guess what world-mistake aroused
this blinkered drunk, so wholly undiscerning?

Precarious person is alloyed with flesh,
a farting, salty livestock; animal
whose pleasures, intimately, are enmeshed,
whose fierce and briny loves, hold us in thrall
so joyously. We husband it, our beast,
until the siege-craft of this arriviste,
mole-like, surprises us inside our keep
from unexpected quarters of ourselves;
our person’s home wherein he delves,
to sabotage our balance and to reap

the cruellest harvest from distress. We learn
a queasy intuition from this Fifth
Column; a knowledge we discern
as inescapable and that comes with
our plight—when fragile cells are undermined,
our selves, and what we like to call our mind’s
attempted too. There’s barely separation
between our person and our person. A
great miracle being fouled will bring dismay
and, in this case, a double consternation.
 

Mindful

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Crystalline Heaven, Gustave Dore, 19th cent

Gaudeamus Igitur

How is it to be whole? Either oh-so-high,
Above the fray, poised and self-possessed,
Or in the cellar of unacknowledged despair,
a precinct below, too hollow to scare,
Where petty appetite and sorrow score their
Mark, feigning grandeur, while trivial
Souls roil pitifully with quotidian sighs.
How be whole? Why, learn that to die
Is part of our poem, sung unto the
Crystalline sphere with its kaleidoscope
Of Seraphim and rippling cascades of hope:
Our storied empryean blazoned gold.
Trust the holy Singer, then, preparing our place,
His tale of longing, His advent of grace.
 

midcan5

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'What You Need to be Warm' by Neil Gaiman

"A baked potato of a winter’s night to wrap your hands around or burn your mouth.
A blanket knitted by your mother’s cunning fingers. Or your grandmother’s.
A smile, a touch, trust, as you walk in from the snow
or return to it, the tips of your ears pricked pink and frozen.

The tink tink tink of iron radiators waking in an old house.
To surface from dreams in a bed, burrowed beneath blankets and comforters,
the change of state from cold to warm is all that matters, and you think
just one more minute snuggled here before you face the chill. Just one.
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Places we slept as children: they warm us in the memory.
We travel to an inside from the outside. To the orange flames of the fireplace
or the wood burning in the stove. Breath-ice on the inside of windows,
to be scratched off with a fingernail, melted with a whole hand.

Frost on the ground that stays in the shadows, waiting for us.
Wear a scarf. Wear a coat. Wear a sweater. Wear socks. Wear thick gloves.
An infant as she sleeps between us. A tumble of dogs,
a kindle of cats and kittens. Come inside. You’re safe now.

A kettle boiling at the stove. Your family or friends are there. They smile.
Cocoa or chocolate, tea or coffee, soup or toddy, what you know you need.
A heat exchange, they give it to you, you take the mug
and start to thaw. While outside, for some of us, the journey began

as we walked away from our grandparents’ houses
away from the places we knew as children: changes of state and state and state,
to stumble across a stony desert, or to brave the deep waters,
while food and friends, home, a bed, even a blanket become just memories.

Sometimes it only takes a stranger, in a dark place,
to hold out a badly knitted scarf, to offer a kind word, to say
we have the right to be here, to make us warm in the coldest season.

You have the right to be here."

'Ridiculously hard': how Neil Gaiman wrote a poem for refugees from 1,000 tweets
 

beautress

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cv-19 (3/25/2020)

forte is will
you cannot see them
attaching frill
their multiples grim
until they kill

their defeat
seems as elusive
as your retreat
from their collusive
undoes repeat

o man their gall
is isolation
as we stall
their congregation
to the wall

shall we win
matching such will
As they spin
poison and swill
into our kin?

o man, the light
prayer and hymn
will make right
their chances dim
being our blight​
 

beautress

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Some years ago, a friend and I were discussing the finer points of cane syrup. The making of cane syrup is still a fall activity in parts of the south, much as it has been for generations. Little has changed in the cooking procedure. I prefer the lighter syrup...and he prefers the heavy bodied dark. As in making a dark roux - the darker syrup requires taking it almost, but not quite, to the stage of being burnt.

The whimsical, fleeting, unsophisticated kiss on the palate of the light - or the heavy, powerful, lingering taste of the dark - can apply to poetry as well as cane syrup, and life too, I suppose. Anyway, our discussion on the finer points of cane syrup...some years ago...inspired these few lines.

(Untitled)
You choose the dark...
I'll take the light.

One seeks the sun...
the other the night.

To inner voices we hark...
As we ponder man's plight.

When our journey is done...
Could both...be right?

SeaGal 2008
if maple syrup were the light,
it brings to senses such delight

and if the other, dark molasses,
'tis gingerbread for lads and lasses.​
 

beautress

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six months ago
he sang a hymn
and i fell for
the likes of him

knowing not his name,
his face
caused me to search
the web his grace

i didn't find
in cyber cloaks
my heart's desire
of karaokes

but happenstance,
his visage bright'ning
was seen by me
with heart alighting

he never recollected
- wrong or right -
he most respected
love's first sight

my patient search
that failed online
succeeded with
an outcome fine

for elders we
in love refined
may always have
our hearts entwined

 

beautress

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mechanical man
with memory
meets woman who
works with emory
sharpening with a file so fine
it puts his file in terpentine
the moral of this story is
some poems are good
while others fizz
:laughing0301:
 

Mindful

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Beautress:

Do you think this is topical, during such difficult times?

April is the cruellest month.

The Waste Land. T.S. Eliot





I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD​
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

 

beautress

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Beautress:

Do you think this is topical, during such difficult times?

April is the cruellest month.

The Waste Land. T.S. Eliot





I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD​
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.


Wonderful and troubling words at the same time. Thanks for asking me my opinion, Mindful, but I'm just an humble woman who works in cotton textiles, reads oppositionary opinions, and who is always faithful to beliefs in the Lord instilled in me by a freemason grandfather, turn-of-the century schoolmarm grandma, a father with ptsd from WWII and Korea, and instructors who prodded me into thinking independently. To be truthful with you, I do not know the answers, but inside you the answer will be made clear sooner or later. May all of God's goodness guide you, His angels inspire you and those you respect, your faith become so strong that Satan shall fear you for all practical purposes. :huddle: My vote goes with those who believe in the goodness instilled by God to those whom he chooses, who for one reason or another are won over to his wisdom found in the Good Book, which is easy enough to understand by untrained youths to those suddenly born again by decrees we may have never heard of but know about by realizing some things will remain a mystery to us. All I can say is God will sustain mankind. We are his beloved and favored creations who bear his image.
 

midcan5

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'Ends and beginnings'

"In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field,, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the elctric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
the association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie˜
A dignified and commodious sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning."


From East Coker, The Four Quartets, by T.S. Eliot
 

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