Poem of the Day

[alisom]

Nice!

[Chimera]

Originally posted by alisom:

Nice!

Warya Rushkii your obligated to have atleast one post that contains an entire sentence, this is an important rule, which is punishable by death if broken. My binoculars are locked on your posts from now on.

[Mr. Somalia]

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree :

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round :

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

 

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !

A savage place ! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover !

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced :

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war !

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves ;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw :

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !

His flashing eyes, his floating hair !

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

[Mr. Somalia]

My Name by Mark Strand

 

Once when the lawn was a golden green

and the marbled moonlit trees rose like fresh memorials

in the scented air, and the whole countryside pulsed

with the chirr and murmur of insects, I lay in the grass,

feeling the great distances open above me, and wondered

what I would become and where I would find myself,

and though I barely existed, I felt for an instant

that the vast star-clustered sky was mine, and I heard

my name as if for the first time, heard it the way

one hears the wind or the rain, but faint and far off

as though it belonged not to me but to the silence

from which it had come and to which it would go.

[Mr. Somalia]

Song of Myself(excerpt) by Walt Whitman

 

This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger,

It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous, I make

appointments with all,

I will not have a single person slighted or left away,

The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited,

The heavy-lipp'd slave is invited, the venerealee is invited;

There shall be no difference between them and the rest.

 

This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of

hair,

 

This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning,

This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,

This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.

Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?

Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica

on the side of a rock has.

 

Do you take it I would astonish?

Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering

through the woods?

Do I astonish more than they?

 

This hour I tell things in confidence,

I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

 

20

 

Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;

How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?

 

What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?

 

All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,

Else it were time lost listening to me.

 

I do not snivel that snivel the world over,

That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.

 

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids,

conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd,

I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.

 

Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?

 

Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair,

counsel'd with doctors and calculated close,

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

 

...

 

I exist as I am, that is enough,

If no other in the world be aware I sit content,

And if each and all be aware I sit content.

 

One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is

myself,

And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or

ten million years,

I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can

wait.

[Mr. Somalia]

Meditation on the Word Need by Linda Rodriguez

 

The problem with words of emotion

is how easily meaning drains

from their fiddle-sweet sounds

and they become empty instruments.

I can say love

and mean desire to give—

open-handed, open-hearted—

or I am drawn to the light

shining from your soul—

or my life is empty without you—

or I want to run my hands

and mouth down the length of you—

or all of these at once.

 

Need, now, is a plain word.

I need a nail to hang this picture.

I need money to pay my bills.

I need air and light,

water and food,

shelter from storm and sun and cold.

To be healthy,

to be sane,

to survive,

I need you.

[Mr. Somalia]

Money by John Updike

 

Money is such a treat.

It takes up so little space.

It takes no more ink

for the bank to print $9,998

than to print $1,001.

It flows, electronically;

it does not gather dust.

Like water, it (dis)solves everything.

Oceanic, it is yet as lucid

as a mountain pool; the depositor

can see clear to the sandy bottom.

It is ubiquitous and under pressure, yet

pennies don't drip from faucets.

Money is so tidy, so neat.

 

It is freedom in action: when you

give a twenty-buck bill to the cabbie,

you don't tell him how to spend it.

He can blow it on coke,

for all you care. All you care

about is your change. No wonder

the ex-Communists are dizzy. In

the old Soviet Union

there was nothing to buy,

nothing to spend. It was freedom

of a kind, but not our kind. We need

money, the dull electric thrill

when the automatic teller spits out

the disposable receipt.

[Mr. Somalia]

This Longing by Martin Steingesser

 

... awoke to rain

around 2:30 this morning

thinking of you, because I'd said

only a few days before, this

 

is what I wanted, to lie with you in the dark

listening how rain sounds

in the tree beside my window,

on the sill, against the glass, damp

 

cool air on my face. I am loving

fresh smells, light flashes in the

black window, love how you are here

when you're not, knowing we will

 

lie close, nothing between us; and maybe

it will be still, as now, the longing

that carries us

into each other's arms

 

asleep, neither speaking

least it all too soon turn to morning, which

it does. Rain softens, low thunder, a car

sloshes past.

[Mr. Somalia]

Sonnet 43: How do I love thee, let me count the ways by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints—I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

[Mr. Somalia]

i carry your heart with me by e. e. cummings

 

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

 

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

[chubacka]

"TO A POET A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE"

 

I who am dead a thousand years,

And wrote this sweet archaic song,

Send you my words for messengers

The way I shall not pass along.

 

I care not if you bridge the seas,

Or ride secure the cruel sky,

Or build consummate palaces

Of metal or of masonry.

 

But have you wine and music still,

And statues and a bright-eyed love,

And foolish thoughts of good and ill,

And prayers to them who sit above?

 

How shall we conquer? Like a wind

That falls at eve our fancies blow,

And old Maeonides the blind

Said it three thousand years ago.

 

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,

Student of our sweet English tongue,

Read out my words at night, alone:

I was a poet, I was young.

 

Since I can never see your face,

And never shake you by the hand,

I send my soul through time and space

To greet you. You will understand.

 

By James Elroy Flecker (1884-1915).

[Mr. Somalia]

The Hurt Locker by Brian Turner

 

Nothing but the hurt left here.

Nothing but bullets and pain

and the bled out slumping

and all the fcuks and god-damns

and Jesus Christs of the wounded.

Nothing left here but the hurt.

 

Believe it when you see it.

Believe it when a 12-year-old

rolls a grenade into the room.

Or when a sniper punches a hole

deep into someone’s skull.

Believe it when four men

step from a taxicab in Mosul

to shower the street in brass

and fire. Open the hurt locker

and see what there is of knives

and teeth. Open the hurt locker and learn

how rough men come hunting for souls.

[Mr. Somalia]

Thesaurus by Billy Collins

 

It could be the name of a prehistoric beast

that roamed the Paleozoic earth, rising up

on its hind legs to show off its large vocabulary,

or some lover in a myth who is metamorphosed into a book.

 

It means treasury, but it is just a place

where words congregate with their relatives,

a big park where hundreds of family reunions

are always being held,

house, home, abode, dwelling, lodgings, and digs,

all sharing the same picnic basket and thermos;

hairy, hirsute, woolly, furry, fleecy, and shaggy

all running a sack race or throwing horseshoes,

inert, static, motionless, fixed and immobile

standing and kneeling in rows for a group photograph.

 

Here father is next to sire and brother close

to sibling, separated only by fine shades of meaning.

And every group has its odd cousin, the one

who traveled the farthest to be here:

astereognosis, polydipsia, or some eleven

syllable, unpronounceable substitute for the word tool.

Even their own relatives have to squint at their name tags.

 

I can see my own copy up on a high shelf.

I rarely open it, because I know there is no

such thing as a synonym and because I get nervous

around people who always assemble with their own kind,

forming clubs and nailing signs to closed front doors

while others huddle alone in the dark streets.

 

I would rather see words out on their own, away

from their families and the warehouse of Roget,

wandering the world where they sometimes fall

in love with a completely different word.

Surely, you have seen pairs of them standing forever

next to each other on the same line inside a poem,

a small chapel where weddings like these,

between perfect strangers, can take place.

[Mr. Somalia]

Auguries of Innocence by William Blake

 

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

 

A Robin Red breast in a Cage

Puts all Heaven in a Rage.

A dove house fill'd with doves & Pigeons

Shudders Hell thro' all its regions.

A dog starv'd at his Master's Gate

Predicts the ruin of the State.

A Horse misus'd upon the Road

Calls to Heaven for Human blood.

Each outcry of the hunted Hare

A fibre from the Brain does tear.

A Skylark wounded in the wing,

A Cherubim does cease to sing.

The Game Cock clipp'd and arm'd for fight

Does the Rising Sun affright.

Every Wolf's & Lion's howl

Raises from Hell a Human Soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here & there,

Keeps the Human Soul from Care.

The Lamb misus'd breeds public strife

And yet forgives the Butcher's Knife.

The Bat that flits at close of Eve

Has left the Brain that won't believe.

The Owl that calls upon the Night

Speaks the Unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little Wren

Shall never be belov'd by Men.

He who the Ox to wrath has mov'd

Shall never be by Woman lov'd.

The wanton Boy that kills the Fly

Shall feel the Spider's enmity.

He who torments the Chafer's sprite

Weaves a Bower in endless Night.

The Catterpillar on the Leaf

Repeats to thee thy Mother's grief.

Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,

For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the Horse to War

Shall never pass the Polar Bar.

The Beggar's Dog & Widow's Cat,

Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.

The Gnat that sings his Summer's song

Poison gets from Slander's tongue.

The poison of the Snake & Newt

Is the sweat of Envy's Foot.

The poison of the Honey Bee

Is the Artist's Jealousy.

The Prince's Robes & Beggars' Rags

Are Toadstools on the Miser's Bags.

A truth that's told with bad intent

Beats all the Lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;

Man was made for Joy & Woe;

And when this we rightly know

Thro' the World we safely go.

Joy & Woe are woven fine,

A Clothing for the Soul divine;

Under every grief & pine

Runs a joy with silken twine.

The Babe is more than swadling Bands;

Throughout all these Human Lands

Tools were made, & born were hands,

Every Farmer Understands.

Every Tear from Every Eye

Becomes a Babe in Eternity.

This is caught by Females bright

And return'd to its own delight.

The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & Roar

Are Waves that Beat on Heaven's Shore.

The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath

Writes Revenge in realms of death.

The Beggar's Rags, fluttering in Air,

Does to Rags the Heavens tear.

The Soldier arm'd with Sword & Gun,

Palsied strikes the Summer's Sun.

The poor Man's Farthing is worth more

Than all the Gold on Afric's Shore.

One Mite wrung from the Labrer's hands

Shall buy & sell the Miser's lands:

Or, if protected from on high,

Does that whole Nation sell & buy.

He who mocks the Infant's Faith

Shall be mock'd in Age & Death.

He who shall teach the Child to Doubt

The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the Infant's faith

Triumph's over Hell & Death.

The Child's Toys & the Old Man's Reasons

Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.

The Questioner, who sits so sly,

Shall never know how to Reply.

He who replies to words of Doubt

Doth put the Light of Knowledge out.

The Strongest Poison ever known

Came from Caesar's Laurel Crown.

Nought can deform the Human Race

Like the Armour's iron brace.

When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow

To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.

A Riddle or the Cricket's Cry

Is to Doubt a fit Reply.

The Emmet's Inch & Eagle's Mile

Make Lame Philosophy to smile.

He who Doubts from what he sees

Will ne'er believe, do what you Please.

If the Sun & Moon should doubt

They'd immediately Go out.

To be in a Passion you Good may do,

But no Good if a Passion is in you.

The Whore & Gambler, by the State

Licenc'd, build that Nation's Fate.

The Harlot's cry from Street to Street

Shall weave Old England's winding Sheet.

The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse,

Dance before dead England's Hearse.

Every Night & every Morn

Some to Misery are Born.

Every Morn & every Night

Some are Born to sweet Delight.

Some ar Born to sweet Delight,

Some are born to Endless Night.

We are led to Believe a Lie

When we see not Thro' the Eye

Which was Born in a Night to Perish in a Night

When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.

God Appears & God is Light

To those poor Souls who dwell in the Night,

But does a Human Form Display

To those who Dwell in Realms of day.

[Mr. Somalia]

M Quarto of Macbeth by William Shakespeare

 

Act 1, Scene 1

Enter magical menage-a-trois

 

Magus 1: More meetings, magic-mates,

Maybe mid meteorological monsoons?

Magus 2: Moment melee-muddle's managed,

Military match mediated.

Magus 3: Momentarily.

Magus 1: Mise-en-scene?

Magus 2: Moorland.

Magus 3: Meet Macbeth.

Magus 1: Metamorphosing, Mousy-Malkin.

Magus 2: Magician-mate murmers.

Magus 3: Minute!

All: Marvels manifest malodorousness, malodorousness manifests marvels;

Meander midst mist, mucky medium.

 

Act 2 scene 1

Enter Macbeth

 

Machete meeting me?

Midpoint marking my mitt? Manipulate...

Merde! Missed! Mirage maintaining mien.

Maybe mortiferous manifestation masterable?

More merde! Misapprehension, mistake,

Molten medulla manifesting mental mirage.

Mm? Marshall'st me? Motivating my movements?

Mamma mia. Mistaken madness. Mighty misconception!

Macabre monarch-murder makes me muse.

Mistrust melodramatic mirage.

My mind, make me militant, martial.

Mucho manslaughter, mortal massacre.

 

Bell rings

 

Move, Macbeth. Melody manoeuvres me.

Mishear, Monarch. Mayday, Mayday!

Maybe marvellous merriment, maybe miserable moan.

Make my month, monc!