Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Thanks for the poetry respite, cent

Poem (As the cat) by William Carlos Williams As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right forefoot carefully then the hind stepped down into the pit of the empty flowerpot *

Tennessee Claflin Shope by Edgar Lee Masters

I was the laughing-stock of the village, Chiefly of the people of good sense, as they call themselves -- Also of the learned, like Rev. Peet, who read Greek The same as English. For instead of talking free trade, Or preaching some form of baptism; Instead of believing in the efficacy Of walking cracks -- picking up pins the right way, Seeing the new moon over the right shoulder, Or curing rheumatism with blue glass, I asserted the sovereignty of my own soul. Before Mary Baker G. Eddy even got started With what she called science I had mastered the "Bhagavad Gita," And cured my soul, before Mary Began to cure bodies with souls -- Peace to all worlds!


I Am The People, The Mob by Carl Sandburg

I AM the people--the mob--the crowd--the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me? I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world's food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns. I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget. Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then--I forget. When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year, who played me for a fool--then there will be no speaker in all the world say the name: "The People," with any fleck of a sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision. The mob--the crowd--the mass--will arrive then.

* Some People by Charles Bukowski

some people never go crazy. me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch for 3 or 4 days. they'll find me there. it's Cherub, they'll say, and they pour wine down my throat rub my chest sprinkle me with oils. then, I'll rise with a roar, rant, rage - curse them and the universe as I send them scattering over the lawn. I'll feel much better, sit down to toast and eggs, hum a little tune, suddenly become as lovable as a pink overfed whale. some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must lead.


Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus by William Carlos Williams

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring

a farmer was ploughing his field the whole pageantry

of the year was awake tingling near

the edge of the sea concerned with itself

sweating in the sun that melted the wings' wax

unsignificantly off the coast there was

a splash quite unnoticed this was Icarus drowning

Nice posting. Do you know about this edition of the Gita?
Williams is SO cool:

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

I'm just getting into Bukowski in some Evergreen Reader texts I've gotten my hands on. Like, I think.

These are tough acts to follow, but here's another Mexico photo (cheesy and grainy - from a cheap digital camera) to add to those in your inbox:

Todos Santos After Winter Solstice

The cock crows at dawn.
And then the dog crows.
A few other dogs join in.
The human mutters, resettles
in the bed, and drifts back
toward that dreaming quest—
fitfully: Soon a pickup truck rumbles
up the battered dirtsand roadhills. By and by
other trucks answer the cantor of the Holy
Muffler Choir. The human’s questing dreams
redirect toward potty and coffee.
A silence.
A distant cock crows.
The human restless resettles and listens
again for the song of Morpheus. Gets
another burst from the pickup cantor instead.
footsoles on cool stone clay tiles carry the waking
human another day.

* * *

Thanks for reading all the way to here.
Ad astra per ardua!
- A
Beeyootiful Soup!

Hi Brian,

-Do you know about this edition of the Gita?

I do now..thanks!

Thanks Alice -
You've been saying sweet things about us on this bloggie. We've noticed.
Bit of a lost weekend, sort of.
However, in the words of Rocky Rococo:
"You haven't seen the last of me, Danger!"
Love and all

PS: Cool new look. Whadja do?
Just changed the theme...

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