poem by Wilfred Owen

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Poem

“One thousand three hundred ten and fifty years from the birth of Christ to this night and this is the second year since the coming of the plague to Ireland. I have written this in the twentieth year of my age. I am Hugh son of Conor MacEgan and whoever reads it let him offer a prayer for my soul. This is Christmas night. On this night I place myself under the protection of the King of Heaven and Earth, beseeching that he will bring me and my friends safe through this plague and restore us once more to joy and gladness.”

--- from a note in the margins of Seanchus Mór (or Great Ancient Tradition)

To This Night

Hand in hand
we sink to dirt floor,
light of the fire
leading our descent.
I count the seconds
to keep from screaming,
nudge my shoulder to your shoulder
to keep from fleeing.
Pray there is nothing
to this black night,
starless, cold, silent,
creeping horror around
every village corner.
I could laugh and echo
mindless matter to prove
my love for life and you
does not wane or give
to casual bright tidings:
I am a light, you are flower,
grow in the soil of my being
alive; this clarity doesn’t remain
fallow in each symmetrical tower
of brick and mahogany sublime
in a land with and without
instrumental design.

Joe Jackson Lyrics

You Can’t Get What You Want

Sometimes you start feelin’ so lost and lonely
Then you’ll find it’s all been in your mind
Sometimes you think someone is the one and only
Can’t you see, it could be you and me?
But if there’s any doubt
Then I think I’ll leave it out

’cause I’ll tell you one thing
You can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want
Said you can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want

Sometimes you keep busy reaching out for something
You don’t care, there’s always something there
Sometimes you can’t see that all you need is one thing
If it’s right, you could sleep at night
But it can take some time
But at least I’m here in line

’cause I’ll tell you one thing
You can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want
Said you can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want

Sometimes you can’t see that all you need is one thing
If it’s right, you could sleep at night
But it can take some time
But at least I’m here in line

’cause I’ll tell you one thing
You can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want
Said you can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want

mood

Poem

Beatitude

Your smile begins
the dawn, a bright
vermilion sky
uncurling
and unwinding
barbed wire coiled
along the sown field,
daybreak sun
peaks and twinkles
between oaks and pines,
allows exhalation
of thorns, cones
of anxiety
and laundered thoughts,
tear ducts and mercy.

Happy St. Patrick's Day - March 17th

Irish proverb (somewhere, I'm sure):

There are two versions of the two sides to every story &
(at least) twelve versions of every song.

An Irish Toast . . .
Here's to our wives and girlfriends: May they never meet!

Poem

The Tower of the Winds

I use Andronicus’ Tower of the Winds
to calculate an astronomical
time in the future
in the flow
of water and air,
through friction
and Coriolis force,
and the physical workings
of the known.

now we go
to listen to
the wind blow
to and fro

My wet finger forecasts
direction; the Triton
weathervane indicates clarity.
The eight deities:
from Boreas to Euros to Lips to Zephyros,
etch the face
of my purpose, belief
and Newton’s Second Law.

here we go
listening to
the winds blow
to and fro

Nine sundials mark the day
on the face
of the tower; inside Ctesibius’ water clock,
driven by water
from the Acropolis, it marks
the time and movements of matter
across the mythological figures
of the universe.

there we go
leaning into
the wind blow
to and fro

I am not influenced by the feel of wind,
I am not influenced by the reel of wind,
the nearly same pull back
and quiet
just before it smacks
you hard in the face, the chest.
Archimedes trusted the circles
of life;
yet this is personal:
the rub is real,
the force exists on our faces,
in our eyes,
in our tears, the salt drying
to a cake.

there we go
listening to
the wind blowing
to and fro

and the sulky shadow of the fire dances
with the yellowy-orange fire of our eyes
and lips that want to press upon the skin
of others more beautiful and sensual
than us
and the light breeze of the late Spring evening
in Hartford, Connecticut,
Florianopolis,
Dublin or Athens
caresses the gray of our hair, the lines
about our mouths, our eyes, and the gear
grind and mechanical squeal
of future events etched in the
markings of the sky,
time releases newer wrinkles
and newer despair
or our hearts in repair. Gear in gear
or hand in hand, wind presses my face
constantly in place, wind marks
my place with motion
and no trace

where we go
to listen to
the wind blowing
to and fro

like a wind from Djibouti
carrying poetic songs of the Somalis
and the Afar exposed to an arid land
and the winds
that carried them here and there
across an ancient world.

The Tower of the Winds - Athens, Greece

The eight directional Wind Gods of Greek mythology depicted on the tower -

Boreas: a man wearing a heavy cloak, blowing through a twisted conch shell
Kaikias: a man carrying and emptying a shield full of small, round objects, perhaps, hailstones
Apeliotes: a young man holding a cloak full of fruit and grain
Euros: an old man wrapped tightly in a cloak against the elements
Notos: a man emptying an urn and producing a shower of water
Lips: a boy pushing the stern of a ship, promising a good sailing wind
Zephyros: a youth carrying flowers into the air
Skiron: a bearded man carrying a bronze pot full of hot ashes and charcoal

Poem

Open Field

“And what do we care whether there is a resurrection or not, as long as we see a living man arise immediately in the place of the dead man? Let us take up the same cause again, continuing the same work, living the same life, dying the same death.” – Vincent Van Gogh

Under the blank, gray sky,
across the open field of snow,
the dense black forest moves away
from you the longer you walk
towards it, an optical illusion
that hovers in your mind, a chalice.
Wind whips and cold forms
ice in your nostrils, crusted snow
crunches, shards and feet
falling through to powdery fluff,
you begin to feel you will lose
your breath to the frozen sward
and every step seems to say,
“There is a God,
There is no God,
There is a God,
There is no God,”
the longer you walk
towards the line of sewn trees
that mark the dark horizon
and you wish only
you could think of the words
to a song, any song,
and someone to sing to,
to make time pass less.

Lyrics -- Boomtown Rats (Bob Geldof)

I Don’t Like Mondays

(When) The silicon chip inside her head
Gets switched to overload
And nobody’s gonna go to school today
She’s gonna make them stay at home
And daddy doesn’t understand it
He always said she was good as gold
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to be show-ow-ow-ow-own?

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoot the whole day down

The Telex machine is kept so clean
And it types to a waiting world
And mother feels so shocked
Father’s world is rocked
And their thoughts turn to their own little girl
Sweet 16 ain’t that peachy keen
Now that ain’t so neat to admit defeat
They can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reasons do you need?
Oh Oh Oh Oh

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoot
The whole day down, down, down, shoot it all down

And all the playing's stopped in the playground now
She wants to play with the toys a while
And school's out early and soon we'll be learning
And the lesson today is how to die
And then the bullhorn crackles
And the captain tackles
(With the problems of the how's and why's)
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to die, die?
Oh Oh Oh

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like
I don’t like (Tell me why)
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like
I don’t like (Tell me why)
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don't like Mondays
I wanna shoot the whole day down

Poem

The Heart’s Memory

The heart’s memory
in the labyrinth of my mind, twisted
and gnarly hedges
of distinct memories obscure
the path of feeling,
unfettered, crisp.

The heart’s memory
in the labyrinth of my heart, predictable
and succulent dreams
desire a memory and
justification for anarchy,
innate, nude.

XTC - Senses Working Overtime

Hey, hey,
The clouds are whey.
Theres straw for the donkeys,
And the innocents can all sleep safely,
All sleep safely.

My, my,
Sun is pie.
Theres fodder for the cannons,
And the guilty ones can all sleep safely,
All sleep safely.

And all the world is football-shaped
Its just for me to kick in space
And I can see, hear, smell, touch, taste
And Ive got one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to take this all in.
Ive got one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to taste the difference
tween a lemon and a lime
Pain and the pleasure
And the church bells softly chime.

Hey hey,
Night fights day.
Theres food for the thinkers,
And the innocents can all live slowly,
All live slowly.
My, my,
The sky will cry
Jewels for the thirsty,
And the guilty ones can all die slowly ,
All die slowly.

And all the world is biscuit-shaped,
Its just for me to feed my face,
And I can see, hear, smell, touch, taste,
And Ive got one, two, three, four, five,
Senses working overtime
Trying to take this all in.
Ive got one, two, three, four, five,
Senses working overtime
Trying to taste the difference,
tween a lemon and a lime,
Pain and the pleasure,
And the church bells softly chime,

And birds might fall from black skies,
And bullies might give you black eyes,
But to me its very, very beautiful
(englands glory!)
Beautiful
(a striking beauty!)

And all the world is football-shaped,
Its just for me to kick in space,
And I can see, hear, smell, touch, taste,
And Ive got one, two, three, four, five,
Senses working overtime
Trying to take this all in
Ive got one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to tell the difference
tween the goods and grime
Turds and treasure
And theres one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to take this all in
Ive got one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to taste the difference
tween a lemon and a lime
Pain and the pleasure,
And the church bells softly chime.

poems

What is a poem?

by Jane Yolen

Hard work.
Emotion surprised.
Throwing a colored shadow.
A word that doubles back on itself, not once but twice.
The exact crunch of carrots.
Precise joys.
A prayer that sounds like a curse until it is said again.
Crows punctuating a field of snow.
Hard work.

When does writing words become a poem?
- I don’t know.

When is a poem a good poem?
- I don’t know.

I’m going to stop revealing how much I don’t know now…..

Poem by Wallace Stevens

ON THE ROAD HOME

It was when I said,
“There is no such thing as the truth,”
That the grapes seemed fatter.
The fox ran out of his hole.

You….You said,
“There are many truths,
But they are not parts of a truth.”
Then the tree, at night, began to change,

Smoking through green and smoking blue.
We were two figures in a wood.
We said we stood alone.

It was when I said,
“Words are not forms of a single word.
In the sum of the parts, there are only the parts.
The world must be measured by eye.”

It was when you said,
“The idols have seen lots of poverty,
Snakes and gold and lice,
But not the truth;”

It was at that time, that the silence was largest,
And longest, the night was roundest.
The fragrance of the autumn warmest,
Closest, and strongest.

Bad News

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22818963/

lyrics

Kingston Advice

(The Clash)

In these days you can get no rice
No razor blades but you can get knife
In these days see the people run
They have no food but the boy have gun
In these days they don't throw the stone
Nor use the voice they use the gun alone
In these days to be an oddity
Be hunted down like a scarcity

In these days don't beg for life
Wanna take Kingston advice?
Oh please don't beg for your life

In these days the beat is militant
Must be a clash there's no alternative
In these days nations are militant
We have slavery under government
In these days in the firmament
I look for signs that are permanent

In these days with no love to give
The world will turn with no one left to live

In these days I don't know what to do
The more I see the more I'm destitute
In these days I don't know what to sing
The more I know the less my tune can swing

In these days you can get no rice
No razor blades but you can get knife
In these days see the people run
They have no food but the boy have gun

Poem

Tara Found

in the cloudless,
powder-blue air,
found through
an open window,
lock or no lock,
the dream of reality
slaps like glass
or the reality of a dream.
If you need
a helpful hand
to turn the latch
to your own forgiveness
or the next day,
reach for my metallic hand
shaped like a key
or stevedore knot
or my palm-shaped heart.

Poem by Wallace Stevens

MEDITATION CELESTIAL AND TERRESTRIAL

The wild warblers are warbling in the jungle
Of life and spring of the lustrous inundations,
Flood on flood, of our returning sun.

Day after day, throughout the winter,
We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason
In a world of wind and frost,

And by will, unshaken and florid
In mornings of angular ice,
That passed beyond us through the narrow sky.

But what are radiant reason and radiant will
To warblings early in the hilarious trees
Of summer, the drunken mother?

Poem

Where is Lancelot?

“There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose

your heart's desire. The other is to gain it.”

-- George Bernard Shaw

Out of the silent kingdom
the gyrfalcon soars
from the killing field,
over the allure and polished
stone walls, bleached castle towers
and merlons above the oak gates,
beyond the keep and stagnant
green moat to the dense forest,
furrowed fields and gnarled thickets
surrounding the low-lying,
copper-colored pasture
of wild barley and rye
near the Huntsman’s cabin
and rock riddled river bed where
Sir Lancelot fucks
Guinevere while thoughts
of taxes and knights at war
eat the last desire of the circular King.

my favorite painting

Las Meninas (The Maids of Honor) by Diego Velazquez

why?