of a voice so dear to me?
the contours of your very body.
that I may never wake up again.
the only one that matters to me now.
and not those of a one who randomly crosses my path.
a ghost among the ghosts.
will walk happily over the sundial of your life.
on Minstrels (lovely) and remembered this famous one.
of the quiet winds over the ocean on a moonlit night.
most beautiful of God's creations!"
who's recently lost a loved one.
described as narrow or deep, but "ample" seems both an unusual and apt term.
But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will.
From Nosce Teipsum ('know thyself'), published in 1599.
seem to have this quality in spades.
I think it has a lot to do with the intellectual climate of the time.
golden age, responsible for such gems as today's poem.
It ended in Uttar Pradesh.
and expect to get away with it.
Some folk never grow up.
Hang on to their childhood.
watched over by the Man in the Moon.
for bringing him down to earth.
say that the magic hasn't faded.
spirits fly in and out!
"Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of Tyre?"
To beacon home from Tarshish the lordly ships of Tyre.
Thou that thyself exalted, till Kings became thy slaves?
And boasted midst the waters, Shall I not aye endure?
Where is the wealth of ages that heaped thy princely mart?
With sound of horn and sackbut, of harp and psaltery?
There is no habitation; the mansions are defaced.
Or hew the masts of cedar on frosty Lebanon.
Sit on the piles of ruins, thou throneless and discrowned!
And sing thy songs of sorrow, that thou remembered be!
sweetly in April as the English thrush. — THE ATHENÆUM.
Woe for us if we forget, we that hold by these!
That was a lady's maid.
'Twas nothing but a feint.
A boatswain he will be."
"And is he gone, and is he gone?"
And see him out of sight."
To sail with old Benbow;"
As if she'd said Gee woe!
"What a hard-ship that must be!"
And walk about in Wales."
And all her sails were furl'd.
And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
little, but that one is flawless.
bank; this is British slang and no longer current.  And the "shave"
to make you look good in the coffin.
of control and very exhilarated. And, yes, strangely happy with myself.
poem was a very welcome exception.
wind whispering quietly to the cedar floor.
expectations for the inevitable punchline.
must say it's a most welcome discovery.
Ondaatje, but Bearhug makes me want to.
but you start again    as if you had wings.
that a woman and a sane death    a better death wait for you.
and the angry night    is thick with fear.
is not only inside me now    that there's still home to go back to.
All this could happen    The moon is so round today!
Don't walk past me, friend.    Yell, and I'll stand up again!
This poem appeared in today's Washington Post Book World.
jacket, written in pencil in a small Serbian exercise book.
With Clouds". It is dated September 5, 1944.
the on-going atrocity by the fear of falling behind.
*Someone* said 'Come' -- I heard it as I bowed."
Text within *s in italics.
poem shows a different facet of the genius that is Frost.
He's won your heart, and you have punctured mine.
I have no spare; henceforth I'll bear the scar.
I dedicate myself to Higher Things.
You'll rue the day you scarpered in his Jag.
From "Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis", published 1986.
but always enthusiastic Bard of Tulse Hill.
self-consciousness that makes him so memorable.
Both are well worth a read, do take a look.
tone promising more, perhaps, than the other is willing to receive.
musician, and Eda Mirsky, a painter.
Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled!
"To the man who`ll bring to me,"
From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!"
"To the man who sets them free,"
Face to face with Death shall cope.
Let him come who dares to hope!"
"There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!"
The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine.
Another oldie and goodie from my brother's poetry text - "Poems Old and New"
at the cost of the individual) is alive and well in literature at least!
the desperately heroic act of self-redemption by one who has shamed himself.
heroism likewise wipes out his cowardice, and he dies with honour intact.
comparing the song to the poem, I've added the song lyrics below.
The owl's torches gutter. Chaos clouds the globe.
buries her bosom in its slow eclipse.
that halves your world with doubt.
'Put out the light', and God's light is put out.
a fable of blind stone.
like Pasiphae, poor girl, she'd breed horned monsters?
his soul would swallow hers?
Her white flesh rhymes with night. She climbs, secure.
their immortal coupling still halves our world.
a black bull snarled in ribbons of blood.
pulped ripe by fondling but doubly sweet.
while barren innocence whimpers for pardon.
limns lechery and stares at our disgrace.
the pure corruption in her dreaming face.
completely deletes Iago and Othello is no longer a pawn.
him impressionist if you wish!
Poem #1041: "The Schooner 'Flight'"
The bay is thick with flecks of white.
The freezing air is honed and thined.
Wings locked against the prising wind.
Bow to the wind that buffets me.
is he against the wind "as it should be" ?!
P.S. Anybody know what Seth is working on next?
clipping of one Frank Avery, who "blew his bowels out with a shotgun".
Here's Paul Simon's version of the story, from the "Sounds of Silence"
any explanation as to why Richard Cory should have shot himself.
being able to do away with himself.
It is easy to see why E.A. Robinson's poetry appealed to Paul Simon.
certainly mark Simon out as a latter-day Robinson."
performing publically, still leaves us wanting more.
funny, and maintains the mix of patter and singing most impressively.
Today's poem inspired me to dig out this poem by Judith Saunders.
like to do research mathematics than almost anything else could.