Clipped from metafilter
This Is Just To Say I have taken the Jews Communists and trade unionists that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast. And Niemöller you are next
by metafilter user sixswitch in this thread
by metafilter user sixswitch in this thread
Entry tags:
Poetry Corner!
The golf links lie so near the mill
That almost every day
The laboring children can look out
And see the men at play.
— Sarah Norcliffe Cleghorn
That almost every day
The laboring children can look out
And see the men at play.
— Sarah Norcliffe Cleghorn
Physics poetry
There is no force, however great
To pull a wire, however fine
Into a horizontal line
That shall be absolutely straight
-- UnknownStone walls do not a prism make
They're better made of glass
If you had studied Science
You would not be such an ass
-- My father
Viva Brecht
Blasts from the past in this journal:
- Hollywood Elegies (Brecht's version of "I Love L.A."
- Has the government lost confidence in the people? There's a solution...
- From Hal Willner's brilliant Lost in the Stars: Stan Ridgway sings The Cannon Song (2.0M .mp3) and Dagmar Krause does Surabaya Johnny 3.8M, .mp3). Take that damned pipe out of your mouth, you rat!
Today's poem
The golf links lie so near the mill
That almost every day
The laboring children can look out
And see the men at play
That almost every day
The laboring children can look out
And see the men at play
—Sarah Norcliffe Cleghorn
Entry tags:
Whoa. Blast from the past.
I was reminded of someone today I hadn't thought about in years. When I was a yuffie in L.A., maybe 1991 or so, I met this woman through friends. She was a little younger than me, maybe 21 to my 26, and she was a poet. She'd had some local success getting reading gigs, putting out a chapbook etc. We talked on the phone a bit and then hung out some, went to dinner. She appeared to lose interest in me as a friend as soon as it was clear we weren't going to be dating.
She was attractive in a number of ways: hyperintelligent, book-crazy, talkative. I was kind of sad to see her fade away. She was also a 21-year-old poet, so self-obsessed and nutty. I remember talking to her about the UCI writing program, because my dad was just retiring from teaching in it.
So I hadn't thought about her forever, and then the subject of the dreariness of rural Illinois came up, which is where she was from. And I googled her. Holy cats, she's a professor in England now! She also has some poetry online at the Shearsman site here and also here.
Still cute too. :) Glad she made a living out of it. The soybean harvest didn't sound fun.
She was attractive in a number of ways: hyperintelligent, book-crazy, talkative. I was kind of sad to see her fade away. She was also a 21-year-old poet, so self-obsessed and nutty. I remember talking to her about the UCI writing program, because my dad was just retiring from teaching in it.
So I hadn't thought about her forever, and then the subject of the dreariness of rural Illinois came up, which is where she was from. And I googled her. Holy cats, she's a professor in England now! She also has some poetry online at the Shearsman site here and also here.
Still cute too. :) Glad she made a living out of it. The soybean harvest didn't sound fun.
Children afraid of the night
September 1, 1939
W. H. Auden
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
W. H. Auden
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
The hawk on feathered pinions mounts the air
Not so the salmon
Still less, the bear
Not so the salmon
Still less, the bear
Entry tags:
Der Panter
A poem by Rainer Maria Rilke. I think I posted this here before, but I cannot find it. In 1967, my father's colleague Hazard Adams was working on an anthology of literature in translation. He was after a translation of this poem but couldn't find a decent English version. My dad said "Let me take a look", and took the poem home for the evening. The next day he produced this, which is the one Adams used. Edit: Two typos fixed courtesy ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ch and fimmtiu. Thanks guys. Those typos have been there for years, too. Wow.
THE PANTHER
Jardin des Plantes, Paris
The bars go by, and watching them his sight
grows tired and fails to grasp what eyes are for.
There are a thousand bars, it seems to him;
behind the thousand bars there’s nothing more.
The supple gait of swift and powerful steps
pacing out its circle on the ground
is like a dance of strength around a center
in which a great bewildered mind is bound.
Yet now and then the curtain of the pupil
silently parts: a picture goes inside,
slips through the tightened limbs, and in the heart
ceases to be, like something that has died.
ch and fimmtiu. Thanks guys. Those typos have been there for years, too. Wow.THE PANTHER
Jardin des Plantes, Paris
The bars go by, and watching them his sight
grows tired and fails to grasp what eyes are for.
There are a thousand bars, it seems to him;
behind the thousand bars there’s nothing more.
The supple gait of swift and powerful steps
pacing out its circle on the ground
is like a dance of strength around a center
in which a great bewildered mind is bound.
Yet now and then the curtain of the pupil
silently parts: a picture goes inside,
slips through the tightened limbs, and in the heart
ceases to be, like something that has died.
For Bible Mike and the rest of the hellfire crew
Tongues, a poem by Barbara Hamby. From versedaily.org via robotwisdom
Entry tags:
Goth Poem.
Redeemed flaming fireflies
----=-==-====-==-=----
Their saint flowing from a helpless mother reveres me.
A spasm is towering above a razor!
A dust towering above a forbidding grass drifts, hopefully.
Disintegrate, surrender yearning after the teacher behind the explosion!
At last it is gothtastic.
Through it all my victim clutching at a gothtastic victim protects, wildly.
Barbedwiregirl
(created with the Goth Poetry Generator from this Poetry Generator page.
----=-==-====-==-=----
Their saint flowing from a helpless mother reveres me.
A spasm is towering above a razor!
A dust towering above a forbidding grass drifts, hopefully.
Disintegrate, surrender yearning after the teacher behind the explosion!
At last it is gothtastic.
Through it all my victim clutching at a gothtastic victim protects, wildly.
Barbedwiregirl
(created with the Goth Poetry Generator from this Poetry Generator page.