ladylinda
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July
Jul 13, 2014 17:07:22 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 13, 2014 17:07:22 GMT -5
Summer Holiday
Robinson Jeffers
When the sun shouts and people abound One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of bronze And the iron age; iron the unstable metal; Steel made of iron, unstable as his mother; the tow- ered-up cities Will be stains of rust on mounds of plaster. Roots will not pierce the heaps for a time, kind rains will cure them, Then nothing will remain of the iron age And all these people but a thigh-bone or so, a poem Stuck in the world's thought, splinters of glass In the rubbish dumps, a concrete dam far off in the mountain...
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 13, 2014 17:07:51 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 13, 2014 17:07:51 GMT -5
She Walks In Beauty
Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 14, 2014 15:58:46 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 14, 2014 15:58:46 GMT -5
Just as on 4 July I posted poems about American independence so today (14th July) I'm posting poems (a bit loosely in the case of the first one) about Bastille Day.
THE DAY LADY DIED
Frank O’Hara
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday three days after Bastille day, yes it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner and I don't know the people who will feed me
I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun and have a hamburger and a malted and buy an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets in Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bank and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard) doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine after practically going to sleep with quandariness
and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it
and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT while she whispered a song along the keyboard to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 14, 2014 15:59:25 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 14, 2014 15:59:25 GMT -5
14th July: Dance the Carmagnole Dance the Carmagnole (Anon, trans. Marie Marshall) Young Missus Veto said to me She’d slit the throat of all Paree. Young Missus Veto said to me She’d slit the throat of all Paree. But see the plan she laid Spoilt by our cannonade! Let’s dance the Carmagnole - hear ‘em roar, hear ‘em roar! All dance the Carmagnole - hear how loud the cannons roar!
Old Mister Veto said to me He’d give his realm fidelity. Old Mister Veto said to me He’d give his realm fidelity. But this he failed to do, We’ll give no quarter too! Let’s dance the Carmagnole - hear ‘em roar, hear ‘em roar! All dance the Carmagnole - hear how loud the cannons roar! Antoinette said “Let it pass The common crowd falls on its arse.” Antoinette said “Let it pass The common crowd falls on its arse.” But in the market-place She fell flat on her face! Let’s dance the Carmagnole - hear ‘em roar, hear ‘em roar! All dance the Carmagnole - hear how loud the cannons roar! Louis the King thought he had won But we’re the champions, every one. Louis the King thought he had won But we’re the champions, every one. Cry-baby Louis – weep From your palace to the keep! Let’s dance the Carmagnole - hear ‘em roar, hear ‘em roar! All dance the Carmagnole - hear how loud the cannons roar! When Antoinette was shown her cell She began to weep as well. When Antoinette was shown her cell She began to weep as well. She fainted and fell down, All because she’d lost her crown! Let’s dance the Carmagnole - hear ‘em roar, hear ‘em roar! All dance the Carmagnole - hear how loud the cannons roar! The bloody Switzers made a vow They’d gun down our comrades now. The bloody Switzers made a vow They’d gun down our comrades now. But look at how they prance, Our bullets make ‘em dance! Let’s dance the Carmagnole - hear ‘em roar, hear ‘em roar! All dance the Carmagnole - hear how loud the cannons roar!
Comrades, forever we’ll unite No matter who comes here to fight. Comrades, forever we’ll unite No matter who comes here to fight. Attack us if they dare, We’ll give ‘em such a scare! Let’s dance the Carmagnole - hear ‘em roar, hear ‘em roar! All dance the Carmagnole - hear how loud the cannons roar! Comrades, remember their renown, The volunteers from our town. Comrades, remember their renown, The volunteers from our town. We’ll raise a glass and sing, The bells of freedom ring! Let’s dance the Carmagnole - hear ‘em roar, hear ‘em roar! All dance the Carmagnole - hear how loud the cannons roar!
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 14, 2014 16:00:14 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 14, 2014 16:00:14 GMT -5
Bastille
PIERRE MARTORY
TRANSLATED BY JOHN ASHBERY
You let your shirt hang down putting on airs of cuffs at the edge of ending night like the end of a java with double ritournelles or the way the canaries in the cage of still-closed mornings were singing that it mattered little to them that their windows were open the stones the paving stones the door-frames the armatures the window-frames the sheets of the bed clothes in their colors were beating the dawn along with us better drums than your belly better drumsticks than my fingers and the trees and the roofs the river and its bridges the clear distances of the city the factories without smoke bathed as at their birth stammered a trial hello that only ended however in this word round as a doubloon placed on the edge of that day by a considerate friend the sun on your arms naked against my cheeks hello I said to you the day of quatorz’juillet
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 15, 2014 14:29:42 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 15, 2014 14:29:42 GMT -5
How still how happy!
Emily Bronte
How still, how happy! Those are words That once would scarce agree together; I loved the plashing of the surge - The changing heaven the breezy weather,
More than smooth seas and cloudless skies And solemn, soothing, softened airs That in the forest woke no sighs And from the green spray shook no tears.
How still, how happy! now I feel Where silence dwells is sweeter far Than laughing mirth's most joyous swell However pure its raptures are.
Come, sit down on this sunny stone: 'Tis wintry light o'er flowerless moors - But sit - for we are all alone And clear expand heaven's breathless shores.
I could think in the withered grass Spring's budding wreaths we might discern; The violet's eye might shyly flash And young leaves shoot among the fern.
It is but thought - full many a night The snow shall clothe those hills afar And storms shall add a drearier blight And winds shall wage a wilder war,
Before the lark may herald in Fresh foliage twined with blossoms fair And summer days again begin Their glory - haloed crown to wear.
Yet my heart loves December's smile As much as July's golden beam; Then let us sit and watch the while The blue ice curdling on the stream -
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 15, 2014 14:30:06 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 15, 2014 14:30:06 GMT -5
Exhortation: Summer 1919
Claude McKay
Through the pregnant universe rumbles life's terrific thunder, And Earth's bowels quake with terror; strange and terrible storms break, Lightning-torches flame the heavens, kindling souls of men, thereunder: Africa! long ages sleeping, O my motherland, awake!
In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking, And its golden glory fills the western skies. O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise! For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking, Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave's disguise, And the foolish, even children, are made wise; For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making-- O my brothers, dreaming for dim centuries, Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes!
Oh the night is sweet for sleeping, but the shining day's for working; Sons of the seductive night, for your children's children's sake, From the deep primeval forests where the crouching leopard's lurking, Lift your heavy-lidded eyes, Ethiopia! awake!
In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking, And its golden glory fills the western skies. O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise! For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking, Ghosts have turned flesh, throwing off the grave's disguise, And the foolish, even children, are made wise; For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making-- O my brothers, dreaming for long centuries, Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes!
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 15, 2014 14:30:22 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 15, 2014 14:30:22 GMT -5
The Definition Of Love
Andrew Marvell
My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis for object strange and high: It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone Could show me so divine a thing, Where feeble Hope could ne'er have flown But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixed But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see Two perfect loves, nor lets them close: Their union would her ruin be, And her tyrranic power depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel Us as the distant Poles have placed (Though Love's whole world on us doth wheel) Not by themselves to be embraced,
Unless the giddy heaven fall, And earth some new convulsion tear; And, us to join, the world should all Be cramped into a planisphere.
As lines (so loves) oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet: But ours so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.
Therefore the love which us doth bind, But Fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 16, 2014 9:52:14 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 16, 2014 9:52:14 GMT -5
Camomile Tea
Katherine Mansfield
Outside the sky is light with stars; There's a hollow roaring from the sea. And, alas! for the little almond flowers, The wind is shaking the almond tree.
How little I thought, a year ago, In the horrible cottage upon the Lee That he and I should be sitting so And sipping a cup of camomile tea.
Light as feathers the witches fly, The horn of the moon is plain to see; By a firefly under a jonquil flower A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.
We might be fifty, we might be five, So snug, so compact, so wise are we! Under the kitchen-table leg My knee is pressing against his knee.
Our shutters are shut, the fire is low, The tap is dripping peacefully; The saucepan shadows on the wall Are black and round and plain to see.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 16, 2014 9:52:46 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 16, 2014 9:52:46 GMT -5
Invocation
Marilyn Hacker
This is for Elsa, also known as Liz, an ample-bosomed gospel singer: five discrete malignancies in one full breast. This is for auburn Jacqueline, who is celebrating fifty years alive, one since she finished chemotherapy. with fireworks on the fifteenth of July. This is for June, whose words are lean and mean as she is, elucidating our protest. This is for Lucille, who shines a wide beam for us with her dark cadences. This is for long-limbed Maxine, astride a horse like conscience. This is for Aline who taught her lover how to caress the scar. This is for Eve, who thought of AZT while hopeful poisons pumped into a vein. This is for Nanette in the Midwest. This is for Alicia, shaking back dark hair, dancing one-breasted with the Sabbath bride. This is for Judy on a mountainside, plunging her gloved hands in a glistening hive. Hilda, Patricia, Gaylord, Emilienne, Tania, Eunice: this is for everyone who marks the distance on a calendar from what's less likely each year to "recur." Our saved-for-now lives are life sentences -- which we prefer to the alternative.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 16, 2014 9:53:18 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 16, 2014 9:53:18 GMT -5
Midsummer, Tobago
Derek Walcott
Broad sun-stoned beaches.
White heat. A green river.
A bridge, scorched yellow palms
from the summer-sleeping house drowsing through August.
Days I have held, days I have lost,
days that outgrow, like daughters, my harbouring arms.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 17, 2014 14:24:03 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 17, 2014 14:24:03 GMT -5
A Boat beneath a Sunny Sky
Lewis Carroll
A boat beneath a sunny sky, Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July -- Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear, Pleased a simple tale to hear -- Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die: Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes. Children yet, the tale to hear, Eager eye and willing ear, Lovingly shall nestle near. In a Wonderland they lie, Dreaming as the days go by, Dreaming as the summers die: Ever drifting down the stream -- Lingering in the golden dream -- Life, what is it but a dream?
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 17, 2014 14:24:43 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 17, 2014 14:24:43 GMT -5
Honey Harvest
Martin Armstrong
Late in March, when the days are growing longer And sight of early green Tells of the coming spring and suns grow stronger, Round the pale willow-catkins there are seen The year's first honey-bees Stealing the nectar: and bee-masters know This for the first sign of the honey-flow.
Then in the dark hillsides the Cherry-trees Gleam white with loads of blossom where the gleams Of piled snow lately hung, and richer streams The honey. Now, if chilly April days Delay the Apple-blossom, and the May's First week come in with sudden summer weather, The Apple and the Hawthorn bloom together, And all day long the plundering hordes go round And every overweighted blossom nods. But from that gathered essence they compound Honey more sweet than nectar of the gods.
Those blossoms fall ere June, warm June that brings The small white Clover. Field by scented field, Round farms like islands in the rolling weald, It spreads thick-flowering or in wildness springs Short-stemmed upon the naked downs, to yield A richer store of honey than the Rose, The Pink, the Honeysuckle. Thence there flows Nectar of clearest amber, redolent Of every flowery scent That the warm wind upgathers as he goes.
In mid-July be ready for the noise Of million bees in old Lime-avenues, As though hot noon had found a droning voice To ease her soul. Here for those busy crews Green leaves and pale-stemmed clusters of green strong flowers Build heavy-perfumed, cool, green-twilight bowers Whence, load by load, through the long summer days They fill their glassy cells With dark green honey, clear as chrysoprase, Which housewives shun; but the bee-master tells This brand is more delicious than all else.
In August-time, if moors are near at hand, Be wise and in the evening-twilight load Your hives upon a cart, and take the road By night: that, ere the early dawn shall spring And all the hills turn rosy with the Ling, Each waking hive may stand Established in its new-appointed land Without harm taken, and the earliest flights Set out at once to loot the heathery heights.
That vintage of the Heather yields so dense And glutinous a syrup that it foils Him who would spare the comb and drain from thence Its dark, full-flavoured spoils: For he must squeeze to wreck the beautiful Frail edifice. Not otherwise he sacks Those many-chambered palaces of wax.
Then let a choice of every kind be made, And, labelled, set upon your storehouse racks — Of Hawthorn-honey that of almond smacks: The luscious Lime-tree-honey, green as jade: Pale Willow-honey, hived by the first rover: That delicate honey culled From Apple-blossom, that of sunlight tastes: And sunlight-coloured honey of the Clover. Then, when the late year wastes, When night falls early and the noon is dulled And the last warm days are over, Unlock the store and to your table bring Essence of every blossom of the spring. And if, when wind has never ceased to blow All night, you wake to roofs and trees becalmed In level wastes of snow, Bring out the Lime-tree-honey, the embalmed Soul of a lost July, or Heather-spiced Brown-gleaming comb wherein sleeps crystallised All the hot perfume of the heathery slope. And, tasting and remembering, live in hope.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 17, 2014 14:27:45 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 17, 2014 14:27:45 GMT -5
When A Woman Loves A Man
David Lehman
When she says Margarita she means Daiquiri. When she says quixotic she means mercurial. And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again," she means, "Put your arms around me from behind as I stand disconsolate at the window."
He's supposed to know that.
When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading, or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he is raking leaves in Ithaca or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate at the window overlooking the bay where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.
When a woman loves a man it is one-ten in the morning, she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels drinking lemonade and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed where she remains asleep and very warm.
When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks. When she says, "We're talking about me now," he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says, "Did somebody die?"
When a woman loves a man, they have gone to swim naked in the stream on a glorious July day with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle of water ruching over smooth rocks, and there is nothing alien in the universe.
Ripe apples fall about them. What else can they do but eat?
When he says, "Ours is a transitional era." "That's very original of you," she replies, dry as the Martini he is sipping.
They fight all the time It's fun What do I owe you? Let's start with an apology Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead. A sign is held up saying "Laughter." It's a silent picture. "I've been fucked without a kiss," she says, "and you can quote me on that," which sounds great in an English accent.
One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it another nine times.
When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the airport in a foreign country with a jeep. When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that she's two hours late and there's nothing in the refrigerator.
When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake. She's like a child crying at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.
When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking: as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved. A thousand fireflies wink at him. The frogs sound like the string section of the orchestra warming up. The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.
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July
Jul 17, 2014 15:46:54 GMT -5
Post by beth on Jul 17, 2014 15:46:54 GMT -5
Thanks, Lin. Great selections.
The David Lehman is delightful.
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