Twice three days
Past the last of the
Snow-and-salt trees,
Belts of long mountains,
We may find
What we deserve
In this serious desert: Continue reading
Twice three days
Past the last of the
Snow-and-salt trees,
Belts of long mountains,
We may find
What we deserve
In this serious desert: Continue reading
Fierce-proud crow-piper am I
On Prospero’s good-wind, miller days,
Born of winter raven-burn,
Murder’s elegant professor,
Confessor to fictions.
On the dark, dancing edge
Of candle flame’s tiny
Tortured shadow
A small blind imp
Pours long-hoarded
Poison into the
Dungeon’d angels goblet,
Praying that nothing,
Oh please let there be
Nothing watching, Continue reading
Nail the mewling monster to the door
With red-hot iron dogs and
Be not gentle with the sledge
That drives them home
Through bone and sinew.
If it pleads, tries to explain; Continue reading
This comes courtesy of blogger Dyan Diamond who posted this
http://wordpress.com/read/post/id/45100490/1504/
Being both curious and not a little inspired I had to look it up, first the wonderfully imaged advertisement, then the Walt Whitman poem which is voiced so perfect-well by Robin Williams.
So ,take a peek at the ad, remember I am not a great fan of I-pads (but shamelessly use one when it suits me!) and then read the original below.
Muse with me and as I did, whether it is better to have the images put before you – as is done so creatively in the ad – or to simply imagine your own.
I don’t even know what I think myself any more.
By Walt Whitman 1819–1892 Walt Whitman
Ferocious, combative and, as usual, uninvited
The Witch-Wind bustles into my
Pale world of blue, iron-flat skies.
She is familiar, perhaps, but unexpected: Continue reading
I defy you,
Or you …
Any of you who are
Capable, still, of feeling;
Not robbed of sensitivity
By society’s cavalries …
This question-prompt night, I feel the
Travel-far wind of her passing –
My cold-silver princess moon –
As it gently settles its precious
White-ice powder
On my aching soul and
The strident telephone bell exploded into his sleep. Broke into his dream., where it was an alarm on a ship. And he staggered out of his bed into the corridor. Which became the half-remembered armoured claustrophobic corridor of a military ship. Which pitched and tipped as the ship, something like a destroyer to be moving like this … his waking mind was trying to make the unconscious inhabitable. And the destroyer was beginning the nautical equivalent of a racing hand-brake turn and his stomach was rising towards his throat. So he grabbed the big circular handle that, when turned would water-tight the rooms beyond, as he gazed into the …
…. control room of a Russian submarine, with transparent battle-stage screens and computers and the iconic periscope mount.
The telephone rang again. A jarring old-fashioned Rrrrring- Rrrring of bells. Now he was awake.
Who could be ringing at this time of the morning? His mother? Presumed somewhere on the way to Australia to stay with friends? The plane ? Oh God, please let everything be OK … the silent unformed prayer. One of his daughters?
Oh God …
“Good morning sir, this is Chris from …”
Highly accented voice. Cheerful, but somebody called Chris could not have sounded less like somebody called Chris if you had given them two sacks of diamonds and a winning Lotto ticket to try hard not to sound like Chris.
His mind now was working in different directions. Part of it relieved that the call was not from his family; part of it angry that he was being disturbed from a good sleep – and one he really, really needed by some idiot cold-calling. Part of him remembering another glorious time when an alarm bell had burst into his dreams. Dreams that were not entirely dreams.
Between lucrative jobs. Away from the wife he loved and the six-month old child that had turned their lives into a wonderful new phase he was loitering on the Bergen harbour front. Interview completed, nothing particular to do, nowhere to be for an afternoon.
On this
Eve-of Aurora night
It can easily appear that
Every life is a cloudy draw.
If you can’t sit,
Can’t ride, the melancholy
And the expectations, then
The storm and the roads
Gonna see you off.
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Posts about old Hollywood, current concerns
Gunn4
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weeding the garden one slice at a time