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Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

yes

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds

e e cummings

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castles in the sand

We’ve found each other.
Half surprised, bashful,
We stand together alone,
Then bend to build a sanctuary
Around us,
Defining this, projecting that,
Like children on the beach
Building castles in the sand,
“To protect us from the sea,”
We say.
“This is our cove, our love,
Us two, you, me, we…”
When beyond our walls we hear a voice,
Then see our Father’s face,
An intrusion,
Coarse, like the sands beneath our tender feet.
“Playtime’s over, kids,” and we kick, sulk,
We do not want to leave, to give
Up what we have so recently
Received.
We frown, displeasure in our brows,
As the Father gently sweeps our castles
Off their feet, then,
Eyes widening,
Watch
As from beneath the sands He raises blocks of stone
Where once our shaky spires stood, piling
One atop the other, beautiful
Temple around the
Cornerstone.
“Thus shall you love, thus shall you live,
Not as the world, but as the Word.
For I have given once, and shall I not once more,
If you would but give in, shall I not
Give?”

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one-and-twenty

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
“Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.” (more…)

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connu sous le nom de (a.k.a.):
Les rêveries du promeneur solitaire sur le bord du printemps

What follows is not so much a translation as a transposition

***

It’s the end of Winter Break. Tomorrow, Spring Term begins even though spring time has not yet come. But it is the beginning of something new, nonetheless, and coming down from Minnesota to Ithaca, it does feel as if, not that spring has come, but that I have come to spring.

On the way back from the Commons after a serendipitous purchase, I forget I’m on a different bus, and end up in a corner of the school I have never seen before. And since I’m in no hurry, it being an hour before dinner, I decide to take a walk.

(more…)

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you and i are not snobs

you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough. We are human beings;for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery,the mystery of growing:which happens only and whenever we are faithful to ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming. Life,for eternal us,is now,and now is much too busy being a little more than everything to seem anything,catastrophic included.

Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human being

Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question

– Introduction of New Poems, e.e. cummings

it's no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and
ourselves are alike. Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the squarerootofminusone. You and I are human
beings;mostpeople are snobs. Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to mostpeople? Catastrophe
unmitigated.

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carnation milk

Carnation Milk is the best in the land;
Here I sit with a can in my hand –
No tits to pull, no hay to pitch,
You just punch a hole in the son of a bitch!
-Anonymous

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the winter is the spring

The winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please—no bees to hum—
The coming spring’s already come.

I never want the Christmas rose
To come before its time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,
Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm hing;
‘Tis but the winter garb of spring.

I never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm’s best in white.
I love to see the tempest come
And love its piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love to cling
O’er snow-white meadows sees the spring.

I love the snow, the crumpling snow
That hangs on everything,
It covers everything below
Like white dove’s brooding wing,
A landscape to the aching sight,
A vast expanse of dazzling light.

It is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring—the dress,
White Easter of the year in bud,
That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his posies bring,
Nature’s white spurts of the spring.

– John Clare

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