The pleated lady was still a nest of her knitting. Four pouchy fellows kept their policy of gin and tonic while trading some money. The parasol girls slept, sun-sitting their lovely years. No one thought how precious it was, or even how funny the festival seemed, square rigged in the air. The air was a season they had bought, like the cloth of sand. I've been waiting on this private stretch of summer land, counting thesefiveyears and wondering why.
I mean, it was different that time with Ezio Pinza flying a kite. Maybe, after all, he knew something more and was right. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
Read & Write Poetic Morning Pages
I confess I am only broken by the sources of things; as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic, unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings. I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said. Your business is watching my words. But I admit nothing. I work with my best, for instance, when I can write my praise for a nickel machine, that one night in Nevada: telling how the magic jackpot came clacking three bells out, over the lucky screen. Two male Ph.
And the missile that launched a missile launched out into a marvelous scientific balloon that rolled and bobbed about in the mists of Venus; suddenly sank like a sweet fat grape, oozing past gravity to snuggle down upon the triumphant shape of space. And parades assembled, the loud earth tellers spent all fifteen minutes on it, even shortened their weather forecast. The place became crater on each side, sank down to its first skull, shedding forests, oceans, dried bones and neons, as it fell through time like a forgotten pitted stone. These two men walked hopefully out onto their hot empty planet with machines, rats, tanks, boxes, insects and the one odd set of three almost new snakes, to make the tests they were meant to do.
But on the seventh month the cages grew small, too small to interview, too tight to bear. The rats were gray and heavy things where they ran against wire and the snakes built eggs on eggs and even the fish began to bump in water as they spawned on every side of each other's swim. And the men grew listless; they opened the pouch of dirt, undid each locked bin and let every creature loose to live on Venus, or anyhow hide under rocks.
Bees swarmed the air, letting a warm pollen slide from their wings and onto the grass. The fish flapped to a small pool and the rats untangled their hairs and humped over the vestibule of the cramped balloon. Old and withered, two Ph. But the two men, that last morning of death, before the first of light, watched the land of Venus, its sweetless shore, and thought, "This is the end.
This is the last of a man like me.
And from the planet park they heard the new fruit drop. HER KIND I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind. A woman like that is misunderstood. I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die. For all these present, before that wandering ghost, that yellow moth of my summer bed, I say: this small event is not. So I prepare, am dosed in ether and will not cry what stays unsaid. I was brown with August, the clapping waves at my thighs and a storm riding into the cove.
Black arms of thunder strapped upon us; squalled out, we breathed in rain and stroked past the boat. W e thrashed for shore as if we were trapped in green and that suddenly inadequate stain of lightning belling around our skin. Bodies in air we raced for the empty lobsterman-shack.
a lovers anthem 60 elegiac love poems Manual
It was yellow inside, the sound of the underwing of the sun. I swear, I most solemnly swear, on all the bric-a-brac of summer loves, I know you not. Too late to wish I had not run from you, Apollo, blood moves still in my bark bound veins. I, who ran nymph foot to root in flight, have only this late desire to arm the trees I lie within. The measure that I have lost silks my pulse. Each century the trickeries of need pain me everywhere. Frost taps my skin and I stay glossed in honor for you are gone in time. The air rings for you, for that astonishing rite of my breathing tent undone within your light.
I only know how this untimely lust has tossed flesh at the wind forever and moved my fears toward the intimate Rome of the myth we crossed.
Poems of Love and War
I build the air with the crown of honor; it keys my out of time and luckless appetite. You gave me honor too soon, Apollo. There is no one left who understands how I wait here in my wooden legs and O my green green hands. Did you hear what it said? I only said how there is a pewter urn pinned to the tavern wall, as old as old is able to be and be there still. I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
Across the room is a wreath made of a corpse's hair, framed in glass on the wall, as old as old is able to be and be remembered still. I only said how I want to be there and I would sing my songs with the liars and my lies with all the singers.
Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie?
Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said? I only said how I want to be there, Oh, down at the tavern where the prophets are singing around their round table until they are still. FUNNEL The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died. The children honored their separate arts; two became moderately famous, three married and fattened their delicate share of wealth and brilliance. The sixth one was a concert pianist.
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- The Travelers [K]Night.
- Dragon Ball Z, Vol. 8: Goku Vs. Ginyu.
She had a notable career and wore cropped hair and walked like a man, or so I heard when prying a childhood car into the hushed talk of the straight Maine clan. One died a pinafore child, she stays her five years forever. And here is one that wrote — I sort his odd books and wonder his once alive words and scratch out my short marginal notes and finger my accounts. Back from that great-grandfather I have come to tidy a country graveyard for his sake, to chat with the custodian under a yearly sun and touch a ghost sound where it lies awake.
It fit his plan of culture to do it big. On this same scale he built seven arking houses and they still stand. One, five stories up, straight up like a square box, still dominates its costal edge of land. It is rented cheap in the summer musted air to sneaker-footed families who pad through its rooms and sometimes finger the yellow keys of an old piano that wheezes bells of mildew. Like a shoe factory amid the spruce trees it squats; flat roof and rows of windows spying through the mist.
Related A Lovers Anthem: 60 Elegiac Love Poems
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