February 27, 2006
An ode to short recoilWhen cases wonÂ’t split
because the pressure is low,
no delay is needed
and the slide rearward can go.But for a little more power,
the breech must then lock.
Even for a moment
Or youÂ’ll kB your Glock.As they recoil together
slide and barrel do mate:
the big blocky lug
joined with ejection gate.Down swings the lug
and the barrel stops short.
The slide continues back
and flings brass from the portThe spring is compressed
and the slide does rebound,
coming back forward
with a fresh shiny round.ThatÂ’s how it works,
at least you get the gist.
Now pull the trigger again
and double-tap that rapist.
Via Publicola.
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February 22, 2006
Ode for General WashingtonÂ’s BirthdayNo Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
No lyre Æolian I awake;
Â’Tis libertyÂ’s bold note I swell,
Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!
See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,
And dash it in a tyrantÂ’s face,
And dare him to his very beard,
And tell him he no more is feared—
No more the despot of ColumbiaÂ’s race!
A tyrantÂ’s proudest insults bravÂ’d,
They shout—a People freed! They hail an Empire saved.
Where is manÂ’s god-like form?
Where is that brow erect and bold—
That eye that can unmovÂ’d behold
The wildest rage, the loudest storm
That eÂ’er created fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,
That tremblest at a despotÂ’s nod,
Yet, crouching under the iron rod,
Canst laud the hand that struck thÂ’ insulting blow!
Art thou of manÂ’s Imperial line?
Dost boast that countenance divine?
Each skulking feature answers, No!
But come, ye sons of Liberty,
ColumbiaÂ’s offspring, brave as free,
In dangerÂ’s hour still flaming in the van,
Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man!
Alfred! on thy starry throne,
Surrounded by the tuneful choir,
The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
And rousÂ’d the freeborn BritonÂ’s soul of fire,
No more thy England own!
Dare injured nations form the great design,
To make detested tyrants bleed?
Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile banners waving,
Every pang of honour braving,
England in thunder calls, “The tyrant’s cause is mine!”
That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice
And hell, throÂ’ all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
That hour which saw the generous English name
Linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!
Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,
FamÂ’d for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead,
Beneath that hallowÂ’d turf where Wallace lies
Hear it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death.
Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the heroÂ’s sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath!
Is this the ancient Caledonian form,
Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?
Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
Blasting the despotÂ’s proudest bearing;
Show me that arm which, nervÂ’d with thundering fate,
Crush’d Usurpation’s boldest daring!—
Dark-quenchÂ’d as yonder sinking star,
No more that glance lightens afar;
That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.
By Robert Burns.
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February 21, 2006
In addition, David excerpts some wonderful WWII bomber poetry. I bet you didn't think there was such a thing.
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February 18, 2006
Come on, a haiku is 5 syllables, 7 syllables, then 5 syllables. How hard is that, now?
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February 15, 2006
KnucksIn Abraham LincolnÂ’s city,
Where they remember his lawyerÂ’s shingle,
The place where they brought him
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories
From Tallahassee to the Yukon,
The place now where the shaft of his tomb
Points white against the blue prairie dome,
In Abraham LincolnÂ’s city Â… I saw knucks
In the window of Mister FischmanÂ’s second-hand store
On Second Street.
I went in and asked, “How much?”
“Thirty cents apiece,” answered Mister Fischman.
And taking a box of new ones off a shelf
He filled anew the box in the showcase
And said incidentally, most casually
And incidentally:
“I sell a carload a month of these.”
I slipped my fingers into a set of knucks,
Cast-iron knucks molded in a foundry pattern,
And there came to me a set of thoughts like these:
Mister Fischman is for Abe and the “malice to none” stuff,
And the street car strikers and the strike-breakers,
And the sluggers, gunmen, detectives, policemen,
Judges, utility heads, newspapers, priests, lawyers,
They are all for Abe and the “malice to none” stuff.
I started for the door.
“Maybe you want a lighter pair,”
Came Mister FischmanÂ’s voice.
I opened the door Â… and the voice again:
“You are a funny customer.”
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories,
This is the place they brought him,
This is Abraham LincolnÂ’s home town.
I might wonder why Carl Sandburg would need knucks. But then I would be committing the error of assuming that all poetry is autobiography.
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February 08, 2006
Greenland SongDark Is the sky,
The sun sinks wearily;
My trembling heart, with sorrow filled,
Aches drearily !
My sweet child at my songs is smiling still,
While at his tender heart the icicles lie chill.
Child of my dreams I
Thy love doth cheer me;
The cruel biting frost I brave
But to be near thee!
Ah me, Ah me, could these hot tears of mine
But melt the icicles around that heart of thine!
Could we once more
Meet heart to heart,
Thy little hands close clasped in mine,
No more to part.
Then on thy chill heart rays from heaven above
Should fall, and softly melt it with the warmth of love!
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January 25, 2006
Sonnet Written On The Author's Birthday,On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk.
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart;
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.I thank thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys-
What wealth could never give nor take away!Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.
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January 11, 2006
Turner is a fantastic poet, and it's no surprise to me that his Masters of Fine Arts from the University of Oregon is in poetry .
Turner—also known as Sergeant T. or 'the professor'—was a team leader in the first Stryker brigade to be sent into the combat zone, and was stationed, for much of 2004, near Mosul. He wrote his poems secretly. People in the Army knew that he had a master’s degree, but no one ever asked him what it was for—it was an M.F.A. in poetry, from the University of Oregon—and he saw no reason to advertise it. Noncommissioned officers, he says, are the 'backbone of the Army,' and 'it’s hard to be hard-nosed if you’re writing poetry.' He didn’t want his underlings to think he was writing about 'flowers and stuff like that.'That was from a New Yorker bio of the poet. Wikipedia adds that the seven year Army veteran served with the 10th Mountain in Bosnia-Herzegovina during 1999 and 2000.
So Turner's soldier credentials are solid. "But Annika," you ask, "what's his view on the war?" Just enjoy the poem first. It stands on its own regardless of anybody's politics.
AutopsyCamp Wolverine, Kuwait
Staff Sergeant Garza, the mortuary affairs specialist
from Missouri, switches on the music to hear
thereÂ’s a long black cloud hanging in the sky, honey,
as she slices out a Y-incision with a scalpel
from collarbone to breastplate, from the xiphoid process
down the smooth skin of the belly, bringing light
into the great cavern of the body, in the deep flesh
where she cuts the cords which bind the heart,
lifting it in her gloved palms, measuring the organ
for its weight, though she canÂ’t help but wonder
what this heart has known, the secrets it holds,
how fast this heart beat when he first kissed
Shawna Allen, her lips the soft pink carnations
of spring, how they woke at dawn in Half Moon Bay
to make love in the ice-plant dunes, their hair
tangled in salt as the foam washed in, this heart
heavy with whiskey and the long midnights
driven by rain and all that life humbles in us,
a heart made of the times his father woke him
to see a meteor shower, telling him stories
of the moon, of how the Arabs believe it gathers
the souls of the dead when it fills with light,
how it carries them to the sun once itÂ’s full,
thatÂ’s what this heart holds in GarzaÂ’s hands,
thirty-four years of a life, a montage of America,
the long caravan of moments we gather
in an unwritten epic we carry within us, what is given
in ash to the earth and sea by caring hands
if weÂ’re lucky, by someone like her,
who sings low at the chorus, saying
thereÂ’s a long black cloud hanging in the sky,
weatherÂ’s gonna break and hellÂ’s gonna fly,
baby, sweet thing, darlinÂ’.
_____________Author’s note: Italicized lines are from “Black Wind Blowing” by Woody Guthrie.
More Turner can be found at The Georgia Review. The .pdf page is here.
As a veteran, what does Turner say about the War?
History may prove me wrong, but at this point in time I cannot say that the lives lost have been worth the cost. As a country, are we learning from this experience? In regard to love and relationships and personal development, I think it worth noting that there are many returning veterans who will need help for PTSD [Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder]. There are many organizations which are trying to bridge the divide and offer assistance to those who need it.I'd say Turner leans toward the tradition of Owen and Sassoon. Not my view, but that's pretty decent company for a poet to be in.
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December 21, 2005
Christmas Hymnby Charles Wesley
Hark! how all the welkin rings
Glory to the King of kings!
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!
Joyful, all ye nations, rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
Universal nature say,
Christ the Lord is born to-day!
Christ by highest Heaven adored,
Christ, the Everlasting Lord;
Late in time behold Him come,
Offspring of a VirginÂ’s womb:
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;
Hail thÂ’ Incarnate Deity,
Pleased as man with men to appear,
Jesus our Immanuel here!
Hail! the heavenly Prince of Peace!
Hail! the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings,
Risen with healing in His wings.
Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.
Come, Desire of nations, come,
Fix in us Thy humble home!
Rise, the WomanÂ’s conquering Seed,
Bruise in us the SerpentÂ’s head!
Now display Thy saving power,
Ruined nature now restore,
Now in mystic union join
Thine to ours, and ours to Thine!
AdamÂ’s likeness, Lord, efface;
Stamp Thy image in its place;
Second Adam from above,
Reinstate us in Thy love!
Let us Thee, though lost, regain,
Thee, the Life, the Heavenly Man:
O! to all Thyself impart,
Formed in each believing heart!
i love near-rhymes. This is an Eighteenth Century hymn, so it may be that those near-rhymes are due to archaic pronounciation.
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December 07, 2005
It's nice, but this next one, also by McDonald is really nice, and still timely.
The War In BosniaUnder darkness of stars our son flies
over Bosnia, keeping watch over snow.
Apache gunships will be out tonight.The moon on foreign snowfields highlights
bodies running under trees, friend or foe.
Under darkness of stars our son flieswith star scope and rockets and wide eyes
over war zones bitter enemies know.
Apache gunships will be out tonight.What keeps a nation armed and justifies
air power is such a killing field—we know,
but under darkness of stars our son flies.In boots and parka, someone watches the skies
and owns disposable Stingers, and is cold.
Apache gunships will be out tonight.I conjure God to stop him, warp his sights.
I stare with the prayer all fathers know.
Under darkness of stars our son flies.
Apache gunships will be out tonight.
Not to nitpick about this excellent poem, but wasn't there a controversy about the use of Apaches in Bosnia. As i recall, they trained and trained, and lost a few during manuevers, but never used them in combat.
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November 30, 2005
This is how Ashbery reads. When he sits down with a book of poems by somebody else he goes through it quickly. He forms a first impression of a poem almost at once, and if he isn't grabbed by it he'll flip ahead and read something else. But if he's caught up he'll keep going, still reading quite fast, not making any attempt to understand what's going on but feeling that on some other level something is clicking between him and the poem, something is working. He knows implicitly that he's getting it, though he would find it difficult to say at this point what, exactly, he's getting. It's the sound of the poem, though not literally so--it's something like the sound produced by meaning, which lets you know that there's meaning there even though you don't know what it is yet. Later, if he likes the poem, he will go back and read it more carefully, trying to get at its meaning in a more conventional way, but it's really that first impression which counts.In a sense, reading poetry is like appreciating fine art. i always try to remember to forget about prose, and the expectations of clarity one has from reading prose. Even the most dense poetry is communicating something. But just like painting or sculpture, if the message were something that could be communicated by prose, it would have been written in prose.. . .
It isn't that he believes that a poem can mean anything, or means nothing, or that language is irreducibly ambiguous, or that only an excavation of the author's unconscious can provide the key, or that the author's intention is irrelevant, or anything like that. He isn't interested in theory. It's simply that, for him, poems are pleasuable tools. He wants a poem to do something to him, to spark a thought or, even better, a verse of his own; he has no urge to do something to the poem.
People often tell him that they never understood his poems, or never understood them so well, until they heard him read them out loud. . . . [A] person might understand them better in readings because he is forced to listen to them in real time. He can't go back and try to make sense of this line or that, as he could if he were reading it in a book: if something sounds odd he must simply accept it and continue to listen, letting his mind catch on one phrase or another. And if he finds himself suddenly jolting back to attention after a minute or two of wondering whether he remembered to lock his apartment, or whether a crack in the ceiling looks more like a fried egg or France, or whether he should have a hamburger for dinner, he must accept that he has missed a bit of the poem, there is no retrieving it, and just enjoy what is left without worrying too much about how it all fits together.
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November 16, 2005
The Lawyers Know Too Much
ÂÂ
The lawyers, Bob, know too much.
They are chums of the books of old John Marshall.
They know it all, what a dead hand Wrote,
A stiff dead hand and its knuckles crumbling,
The bones of the fingers a thin white ash    The lawyers know
      a dead man’s thoughts too well.
ÂÂ
In the heels of the higgling lawyers, Bob,
Too many slippery ifs and buts and howevers,
Too much hereinbefore provided whereas,Too many doors to go in and out of.
ÂÂ
    When the lawyers are through
    What is there left, Bob?
    Can a mouse nibble at it
    And find enough to fasten a tooth in?
ÂÂ
    Why is there always a secret singing
    When a lawyer cashes in?
    Why does a hearse horse snicker
    Hauling a lawyer away?
ÂÂ
The work of a bricklayer goes to the blue.The knack of a mason outlasts a moon.
The hands of a plasterer hold a room together.
The land of a farmer wishes him back again.
    Singers of songs and dreamers of plays
    Build a house no wind blows over.The lawyers—tell me why a hearse horse snickers hauling a lawyer’s bones.
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November 09, 2005
To A Solitary DiscipleRather notice, mon cher,
that the moon is
tilted above
the point of the steeple
than that its color
is shell-pink.Rather observe
that it is early morning
than that the sky
is smooth
as a turquoise.Rather grasp
how the dark
converging lines
of the steeple
meet at a pinnacle—
perceive how
its little ornament
tries to stop them—See how it fails!
See how the converging lines
of the hexagonal spire
escape upward—
receding, dividing!
—sepals
that guard and contain
the flower!Observe
how motionless
the eaten moon
lies in the protecting lines.It is true:
in the light colors
of the morning
brown-stone and slate
shine orange and dark blueBut observe
the oppressive weight
of the squat edifice!
Observe
the jasmine lightness
of the moon.
What do i see in this poem.
Optimism?
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November 02, 2005
Embankment at Night, before the WarThe night rain, dripping unseen,
Comes endlessly kissing my face and my hands.
The river, slipping between
Lamps, is rayed with golden bands
Half way down its heaving sides;
Revealed where it hides.
Under the bridge
Great electric cars
Sing through, and each with a floor-light racing along at its side.
Far off, oh, midge after midge
Drifts over the gulf that bars
The night with silence, crossing the lamp-touched tide.
At Charing Cross, here, beneath the bridge
Sleep in a row the outcasts,
Packed in a line with their heads against the wall.
Their feet, in a broken ridge
Stretch out on the way, and a lout casts
A look as he stands on the edge of this naked stall.
Beasts that sleep will cover
Their faces in their flank; so these
Have huddled rags or limbs on the naked sleep.
Save, as the tram-cars hover
Past with the noise of a breeze
And gleam as of sunshine crossing the low black heap,
Two naked faces are seen
Bare and asleep,
Two pale clots swept and swept by the light of the cars.
Foam-clots showing between
The long, low tidal-heap,
The mud-weed opening two pale, shadowless stars.
Over the pallor of only two faces
Passes the gallivant beam of the trams;
Shows in only two sad places
The white bare bone of our shams.
A little, bearded man, pale, peaked in sleeping,
With a face like a chickweed flower.
And a heavy woman, sleeping still keeping
Callous and dour.
Over the pallor of only two places
Tossed on the low, black, ruffled heap
Passes the light of the tram as it races
Out of the deep.
Eloquent limbs
In disarray
Sleep-suave limbs of a youth with long, smooth thighs
Hutched up for warmth; the muddy rims
Of trousers fray
On the thin bare shins of a man who uneasily lies.
The balls of five red toes
As red and dirty, bare
Young birds forsaken and left in a nest of mud—
Newspaper sheets enclose
Some limbs like parcels, and tear
When the sleeper stirs or turns on the ebb of the flood—
One heaped mound
Of a womanÂ’s knees
As she thrusts them upward under the ruffled skirt—
And a curious dearth of sound
In the presence of these
Wastrels that sleep on the flagstones without any hurt.
Over two shadowless, shameless faces
Stark on the heap
Travels the light as it tilts in its paces
Gone in one leap.
At the feet of the sleepers, watching,
Stand those that wait
For a place to lie down; and still as they stand, they sleep,
Wearily catching
The floodÂ’s slow gait
Like men who are drowned, but float erect in the deep.
Oh, the singing mansions,
Golden-lighted tall
Trams that pass, blown ruddily down the night!
The bridge on its stanchions
Stoops like a pall
To this human blight.
On the outer pavement, slowly,
Theatre people pass,
Holding aloft their umbrellas that flash and are bright
Like flowers of infernal moly
Over nocturnal grass
Wetly bobbing and drifting away on our sight.
And still by the rotten
Row of shattered feet,
Outcasts keep guard.
Forgotten,
Forgetting, till fate shall delete
One from the ward.
The factories on the Surrey side
Are beautifully laid in black on a gold-grey sky.
The riverÂ’s invisible tide
Threads and thrills like ore that is wealth to the eye.
And great gold midges
Cross the chasm
At the bridges
Above intertwined plasm.
Lawrence uses the adjective "naked" three times in the same poem. "Bare" appears four times, "heap" five times. Look at his other images, they make a poem all their own:
endlessly kissing, slipping between, heaving sides, revealed where it hides, white bare bone, peaked in sleeping, the tram races out of the deep, eloquent limbs in disarray, a youth with long, smooth thighs, heaped mound of a womanÂ’s knees, she thrusts them upward under the ruffled skirt, erect in the deep, wetly bobbing and drifting, beautifully laid, midges cross the chasm, and lastly the intertwined plasm.
wow. Looks like he had some fun with that one. D.H. was one horny bastard.
More poetry: Did you know that Tuesday is Haikuesday at Crash and Byrne?
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October 26, 2005
RosaHow she sat there,
the time right inside a place
so wrong it was ready.That trim name with
its dream of a bench
to rest on. Her sensible coat.Doing nothing was the doing:
the clean flame of her gaze
carved by a camera flash.How she stood up
when they bent down to retrieve
her purse. That courtesy.
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October 20, 2005
woof woof woof woof woof woof woof
woof woof woof woof woof
Think about it.
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October 19, 2005
Casey At The Batby Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that–
We'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat.But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped–
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the sphereoid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two.""Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville ― mighty Casey has struck out.
Go Astros!
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October 13, 2005
But Pinter is as anti-American as they come, which says something about the Nobel committee, since i don't think Pinter's done anything noteworthy since he wrote The French Lieutenant's Woman.
Here's a sampling of his poetry:
DemocracyThere's no escape.
The big pricks are out.
They'll fuck everything in sight.
Watch your back.
That's not even good poetry. Its more like a piece of dialogue at some snooty Brit cocktail party where every one wears black sportcoats over black turtlenecks. Its easy to sneer at Democracy when your life is spent hobnobbing with celebs in Mayfair and the Upper East Side and you never have to deal with real people.
God Bless AmericaHere they go again,
The Yanks in their armoured parade
Chanting their ballads of joy
As they gallop across the big world
Praising America's God.The gutters are clogged with the dead
The ones who couldn't join in
The others refusing to sing
The ones who are losing their voice
The ones who've forgotten the tune.The riders have whips which cut.
Your head rolls onto the sand
Your head is a pool in the dirt
Your head is a stain in the dust
Your eyes have gone out and your nose
Sniffs only the pong of the dead
And all the dead air is alive
With the smell of America's God.
Nice. Sounds like he has a problem with religion too. It would be a shock if even one of these celebrity anti-war libs ever strayed from that template.
Update: More at The New Criterion. Hat tip to K-Lo at The Corner.
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October 12, 2005
Update: i chickened out.
Octoberby Robert Frost
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrowÂ’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapesÂ’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapesÂ’ sake along the wall.
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07:06 AM
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October 05, 2005
PoemThat's not a cross look it's a sign of life
but I'm glad you care how I look at you
this morning (after I got up) I was thinking
of President Warren G. Harding and Horace S.
Warren, father of the little blonde girl
across the street and another blonde Agnes
Hedlund (this was in the 6th grade!) what
now the day has begun in a soft grey way
with elephantine traffic trudging along Fifth
and two packages of Camels in my pocket
I can't think of one interesting thing Warren
G. Harding did, I guess I was passing notes
to Sally and Agnes at the time he came up
in our elephantine history course everything
seems slow suddenly and boring except
for my insatiable thinking towards you
as you lie asleep completely plotzed and
gracious as a hillock in the mist from one
small window, sunless and only slightly open
as is your mouth and presently your quiet eyes
your breathing is like that history lesson
Posted by: annika at
06:40 AM
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Post contains 198 words, total size 1 kb.
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