EWolfe Posted March 28, 2004 Share Posted March 28, 2004 By Gary Snyder: As for Poets The Earth Poet who writes small poems, need help from no man. *** The Air Poets play out the swiftest gales And sometimes loll in the eddies. Poem after poem, Curling back on the same thrust. *** At fifty below Fuel won't flow And propane stays in the tank. Fire Poets Burn at absolute zero Fossil love pumped back up. *** The first Water Poet Stayed down six years. He was covered with seaweed. The life in his poem Left millions of tiny Different tracks Criscrossing through the mud. *** With the sun and moon In his belly, The Space Poet Sleeps. No end to the sky- But his poems, Like wild geese, Fly off the edge. *** A Mind Poet Stays in the house. The house is empty And it has no walls. The poem Is seen from all sides, Everywhere, At once. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fejas Posted March 28, 2004 Share Posted March 28, 2004 Forgotten The forgotten moon brings me into the frivlless mind A discussion that has already been discussed A fearless charge into the void of my existence Trying every possible tactic Using every possible spell Losing the battle Failing you in every way Where did the mistrust come from? Where did it spawn? And like the salmon, I strive to over come the mighty river I give all my strength to make it up stream But none the less I am ready to die There are no misfortunes for I give myself back to the whole Breaking me and taking my spirit, I ask you this Why must one live wile the other dies? Why should I choose to live this way? And why should I be fed upon, You like a wolf, you have hunted me down and devoured my heart. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Alpinfox Posted March 29, 2004 Share Posted March 29, 2004 On Top All this new stuff goes on top turn it over turn it over wait and water down. From the dark bottom turn it inside out let it spread through, sift down, even. Watch it sprout. A mind like compost -Gary Snyder I dreamed I was a god last night. Melting the winter snows with my warm breath. Bending low over snowy mountains with the black sharp scattered fir and pine, breathing, "Haaaaaah" -Gary Snyder Both of the above poems are from a book called "Axe Handles". For those of you who don't know, Gary Snyder is a pacifc northwest native (though he currently lives in California) who did a lot of climbing and tromping around in the woods around here. He is the inspiration for the main character "Joffe" in Kerouac's "Dharma Bums". Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
EWolfe Posted March 29, 2004 Author Share Posted March 29, 2004 Was the second one from "Cold Mountain Poems"? I seem to recall he was paying tribute to Han Shan withthat book, who sent poems written on leaves down the river to Chinese villagers from Cold Mountain... Hmmm... Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Alpinfox Posted March 29, 2004 Share Posted March 29, 2004 Nope second one is also from the book "Axe Handles". That poem is actually part of a larger "poem medley" called "Little Songs for Gaia". Here is the eponymous poem from the book: Axe Handles One afternoon the last week in April Showing Kai how to throw a hatchet One-half turn and it sticks in a stump. He revalls the hatchet-head Without a handle, in the shop And go gets it, and wants it for his own. A broken-off axe handle behind the door Is long enough for a hatchet, We cut it to length and take it With the hatchet head And working hatchet, to the wood block. There I begin to shape the old handle With the hatchet, and the phrase First learned from Ezra Pound Rings in my ears! "When making an axe handle the pattern is not far off." And I say this to Kai "Look: We'll shape the handle By checking the handle Of the axe we cut with-" And he sees. And I hear it again: It's in Lu Ji's "Wen Fu", fourth centure A.D. "Essay on Literature" -in the Preface: "In making the handle Of an axe By cutting wood with an axe The model is indeed near at hand." My teacher Shih-hsiang Chen Translated that and taught it years ago And I see: Pound was an axe, Chen was an axe, I am an axe Any my son a handle, soon To be shaping again, model And tool, craft and culture, How we go on. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
EWolfe Posted March 29, 2004 Author Share Posted March 29, 2004 The Stolen Child by William Butler Yeats. Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water-rats; There we've hid our faery vats, Full of berries And of reddest stolen chetries. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's morefully of weeping than you can understand. Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim grey sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's morefully of weeping than you can understand. Where the wandering water gushes From the hills above Glen-Car,. In pools among the rushes That scarce could bathe a star, We seek for slumbering trout And whispering in their ears Give them unquiet dreams; Leaning softly out From ferns that drop their tears Over the young streams. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's morefully of weeping than you can understand. Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed: He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal-chest. For be comes, the human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's morefully of weeping than you can understand. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
foraker Posted March 29, 2004 Share Posted March 29, 2004 Marriage : Gregory Corso Should I get married? Should I be Good? Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustaus hood? Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries and she going just so far and I understanding why not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel! Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-- When she introduces me to her parents back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie, should I sit knees together on their 3rd degree sofa and not ask Where's the bathroom? How else to feel other than I am, often thinking Flash Gordon soap-- O how terrible it must be for a young man seated before a family and the family thinking We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou! After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living? Should I tell them? Would they like me then? Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter but we're gaining a son-- And should I then ask Where's the bathroom? O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded just waiting to get at the drinks and food-- And the priest! He looking at me if I masturbated asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife? And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue! I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha! And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-- then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates! All streaming into cozy hotels All going to do the same thing tonight The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen The lobby zombies they knowing what The whistling elevator man he knowing The winking bellboy knowing Everybody knowing! I'd be almost inclined not to do anything! Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye! Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon! running rampant into those almost climatic suites yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel! O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy a saint of divorce-- But I should get married I should be good How nice it'd be to come home to her and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen aproned young and lovely wanting by baby and so happy about me she burns the roast beef and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf! God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married! So much to do! like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky! And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him When are you going to stop people killing whales! And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-- Yet if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn, up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me, finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear not Roman coin soup-- O what would that be like! Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus For a rattle bag of broken Bach records Tack Della Francesca all over its crib Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father not rural not snow no quiet window but hot smelly New York City seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job! And five nose running brats in love with Batman And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired like those hag masses of the 18th century all wanting to come in and watch TV The landlord wants his rent Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus Impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-- No! I should not get married and I should never get married! But--imagine if I were to marry a beautiful sophisticated woman tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves holding a cigarette holder in one hand and highball in the other and we lived high up a penthouse with a huge window from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days No I can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-- O but what about love? I forget love not that I am incapable of love it's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-- I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible And there maybe a girl now but she's already married And I don't like men and-- but there's got to be somebody! Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married, all alone in furnished room with pee stains on my underwear and everybody else is married! All in the universe married but me! Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible then marriage would be possible-- Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover so I wait--bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
j_b Posted March 29, 2004 Share Posted March 29, 2004 Canción de jinete Federico Garcia-Lorca Córdoba. Lejana y sola. Jaca negra, luna grande, y aceitunas en mi alforja. Aunque sepa los caminos yo nunca llegaré a Córdoba. Por el llano, por el viento, jaca negra, luna roja. La muerte me está mirando desde las torres de Córdoba. ¡Ay que camino tan largo! ¡Ay mi jaca valerosa! ¡Ay que la muerte me espera, antes de llegar a Córdoba! Córdoba. Lejana y sola. quick translation: The rider's song Cordova Far and lonely. Black little horse, large moon, and olives in my saddlebag. Although I know the way, I'll never reach Cordova. Across the plain, through the wind, little black horse, red moon. Death watches me, from the towers of Cordova. The journey is so long! My brave little horse! Death awaits me, Before I'll reach Cordova. Cordova Far and lonely. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Dru Posted March 29, 2004 Share Posted March 29, 2004 When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights;- When the angry breakers roar As they beat on the rocky shore;- When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights Of the hills of the Chankly Bore:- Then, through the vast and gloomy dark, There moves what seems a fiery spark, A lonely spark with silvery rays Piercing the coal-black night,- Hither and thither the vision strays, A single lurid light. Slowly it wanders, - pauses, - creeps, - Anon it sparkles, - flashes and leaps; And ever as onward it gleaming goes A light on the Bong-tree stems it throws. And those who watch at that midnight hour From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower, Cry, as the wild light passes along, - "The Dong! - the Dong! "The wandering Dong through the forest goes! "The Dong! the Dong! "The Dong with a luminous Nose!" Long years ago The Dong was happy and gay, Till he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl Who came to those shores one day. For the Jumblies came in a Sieve, they did, - Landing at Eve near the Zemmery Fidd Where the Oblong Oysters grow, And the rocks are smooth and gray. And all the woods and the valleys rang With the chorus they daily and nightly sang, - "Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a sieve." Happily, happily passed those days! While the cheerful Jumblies staid; They danced in circlets all night long, To the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong, In moonlight, shine or shade. For day and night he was always there By the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair, With her sky-blue hands, and her sea-green hair. Till the morning came of that hateful day When the Jumblies sailed in their sieve away, And the Dong was left on the cruel shore Gazing - gazing for evermore,- Ever keeping his weary eyes on That pea-green sail on the far horizon, - Singing the Jumbly Chorus still As he sate all day on the grassy hill, - "Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a sieve." But when the sun was low in the West, The Dong arose and said, - "What little sense I once possessed Has quite gone out of my head!" And since that day he wanders still By lake and forest, marsh and hill, Singing - "O somewhere, in valley or plain "Might I find my Jumbly Girl again! "For ever I'll seek by lake and shore "Till I find my Jumbly Girl once more!" Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks, Since then his Jumbly Girl he seeks, And because by night he could not see, He gathered the bark of Twangum Tree On the flowery plain that grows. And he wove him a wondrous Nose, - A Nose as strange as a Nose could be! Of vast proportions and painted red, And tied with cords to the back of his head. - In a hollow rounded space it ended With a luminous lamp within suspended, All fenced about With a bandage stout To prevent the wind from blowing it out; - And with holes all round to send the light, In gleaming rays on the dismal night. And now each night, and all night long, Over those plains still roams the Dong; And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe You may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain To meet with his Jumbly Girl again; Lonely and wild - all night he goes, - The Dong with a luminous Nose! And all who watch at the midnight hour, From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower, Cry, as they trace the Meteor bright, Moving along through the dreary night, - "This is the hour when forth he goes, "The Dong with a luminous Nose! "Yonder - over the plain he goes; "He goes! "He goes; "The Dong with a luminous Nose!" Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Dru Posted March 29, 2004 Share Posted March 29, 2004 BEER from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell I don't know how many bottles of beer I have consumed while waiting for things to get better I dont know how much wine and whisky and beer mostly beer I have consumed after splits with women- waiting for the phone to ring waiting for the sound of footsteps, and the phone to ring waiting for the sounds of footsteps, and the phone never rings until much later and the footsteps never arrive until much later when my stomach is coming up out of my mouth they arrive as fresh as spring flowers: "what the hell have you done to yourself? it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!" the female is durable she lives seven and one half years longer than the male, and she drinks very little beer because she knows its bad for the figure. while we are going mad they are out dancing and laughing with horney cowboys. well, there's beer sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles and when you pick one up the bottle fall through the wet bottom of the paper sack rolling clanking spilling gray wet ash and stale beer, or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m. in the morning making the only sound in your life. beer rivers and seas of beer the radio singing love songs as the phone remains silent and the walls stand straight up and down and beer is all there is Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
jjd Posted March 29, 2004 Share Posted March 29, 2004 Gary Snyder is still a professor of English here at UC Davis. The link below will take you to a brief biography and a list of his works. If you want to read a great piece of prose, I would recommend "The Practice of the Wild." http://wwwenglish.ucdavis.edu/faculty/snyder/snyder.htm Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
EWolfe Posted June 30, 2004 Author Share Posted June 30, 2004 FAR-OFF, most secret, and inviolate Rose, Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre, Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes Saw the pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise In Druid vapour and make the torches dim; Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him Who met Fand walking among flaming dew By a grey shore where the wind never blew, And lost the world and Emer for a kiss; And him who drove the gods out of their liss, And till a hundred moms had flowered red Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead; And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods: And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods, And sought through lands and islands numberless years, Until he found, with laughter and with tears, A woman of so shining loveliness That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress, A little stolen tress. I, too, await The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die? Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows, Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?[i/] -William Butler Yeats Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
rbw1966 Posted June 30, 2004 Share Posted June 30, 2004 When I was young, I had no sense I stuck my dick in an electric fence. It curled my hair and tickled my balls And made me shit in my overalls. --Hustler Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Skeezix Posted July 1, 2004 Share Posted July 1, 2004 He is the inspiration for the main character "Joffe" in Kerouac's "Dharma Bums". Japhy Ryder Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Dru Posted July 1, 2004 Share Posted July 1, 2004 Ode To Wine Pablo Neruda Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth, wine, smooth as a golden sword, soft as lascivious velvet, wine, spiral-seashelled and full of wonder, amorous, marine; never has one goblet contained you, one song, one man, you are choral, gregarious, at the least, you must be shared. At times you feed on mortal memories; your wave carries us from tomb to tomb, stonecutter of icy sepulchers, and we weep transitory tears; your glorious spring dress is different, blood rises through the shoots, wind incites the day, nothing is left of your immutable soul. Wine stirs the spring, happiness bursts through the earth like a plant, walls crumble, and rocky cliffs, chasms close, as song is born. A jug of wine, and thou beside me in the wilderness, sang the ancient poet. Let the wine pitcher add to the kiss of love its own. My darling, suddenly the line of your hip becomes the brimming curve of the wine goblet, your breast is the grape cluster, your nipples are the grapes, the gleam of spirits lights your hair, and your navel is a chaste seal stamped on the vessel of your belly, your love an inexhaustible cascade of wine, light that illuminates my senses, the earthly splendor of life. But you are more than love, the fiery kiss, the heat of fire, more than the wine of life; you are the community of man, translucency, chorus of discipline, abundance of flowers. I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine. Drink it, and remember in every drop of gold, in every topaz glass, in every purple ladle, that autumn labored to fill the vessel with wine; and in the ritual of his office, let the simple man remember to think of the soil and of his duty, to propagate the canticle of the wine. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ashw_justin Posted July 1, 2004 Share Posted July 1, 2004 Gary Snider Speaking of Reedies... ‘Work of Mourning' Because a fishing-boat washed up– empty– to a shore crowded in fog and the bodies of the hopeful and still- waiting– I lift my axe today to this pile of slash, for kindling. The body makes its own memories in muscle, in skin, in all it contacts. The axe's flight catches a skiff of gray sky in its down stroke, and my back muscles burn through the hard task of re-learning. Because the boat was empty– the hull washed over in foam– and because the survival suits drifted ashore… Red rubber collars gripped around absent necks, and the long, flat limbs collapsed over skeletons of air. I think we must take comfort in our elements, be heartened by the thunk thunk of axe-work, as we sweat towards this vigil of fire, though the dry land blinks its thousand wet eyes, and the axe skids over the surface of rain-softened wood. ~Elyse Fenton 'Elegy' In the buzz of downtown bars, in the perfume of expensive cigars, in the delicate necks of cocktail glasses held half cocked, in the conversations in the beautiful faces, in the well tailored dresses, in the perfectly manicured phrases (sample sized for later consumption) in the de-commissioned shields used as cocktail trays there is a Rome in its last days; in the citizenry of foreigners in the service of industry, in the roads that stretch to every corner of the empire, in the military having been allowed back inside the city, in the college education that is considered crucial to success. in the martini list stretching the length of the page, in the Pomegranate stained lips of the laughing woman, who could be a movie star or a secretary; in the ginger smoldering in the vodka, in the crushed white peaches dropped in the champagne flutes trailing faceless bubbles; in the hair she lifts from her face to sip; in the candles guttering in the wreckage of half-eaten entrées, in the constant rattle of ice in the shakers that is constant, in the glasses that are re-loaded, in the orders coming in, in the fully automatic laughter that riddles him with smoke, in the servers crouch and weave, in the fresh linen flopped over the guests table, in the bodies dressed to kill, in the olive run through with a plastic sword, in the wobbly signature of the company accountant too drunk to fuck the blonde groping his pockets there is the enactment of a new era; there is the signing of a new bill there is a Rome in its last days. -Nathan Wilson ps. don't steal these or I get my ass kicked. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
tread_tramp Posted January 13, 2005 Share Posted January 13, 2005 -Gary Snyder ELK TRAILS Ancient, world-old elk paths Narrow, dusty Elk paths Wide-trampled, muddy, Aimless...wandering... Everchanging Elk paths. I have walked you, ancient trails, Along the narrow rocky ridges High above the mountains that Make up your world: Looking down on giant trees, silent In the purple shadows of the ravines-- Above the spire-like alpine fir Above the high, steep-slanting meadows Where sun-softened snowfield share the earth With flowers. I have followed narrow twisting ridges, Sharp-topped and jagged as a crosscut saw Across the roof of all the Elk-world On one ancient wandering trail, Cutting crazily over rocks and dust and snow-- Gently slanting through high meadows, Rich with scent of Lupine, Rich with smell of Elk-dung, Rich with scent of short-lived Dainty alpine flowers. And from the ridgetops I have followed you Down through the heather fields, through timber, Downward winding to the hoof-churned shore of One tiny blue-green mountain lake Untouched by lips of man. Ancient, wandering trails Cut and edged by centuries of cloven hooves Passing from one pasture to another-- Route and destination seeming aimless, but Charted by the sharp-tempered guardian of creatures, Instinct. A God coarse-haired, steel-muscled, Thin-flanked and musky. Used to sleeping lonely In the snow, or napping in the mountain grasses On warm summer afternoons, high in the meadows. And their God laughs low and often At the man-made trails, Precise-cut babies of the mountains Ignorant of the fine, high-soaring ridges And the slanting grassy meadows Hanging over space-- Trails that follow streams and valleys In well-marked switchbacks through the trees, Newcomers to the Elk world. (High above, the Elk walk in the evening From one pasture to another Scrambling on the rock and snow While their ancient, wandering, Aimless trails And their ancient, coarse-haired, Thin-flanked God Laugh in silent wind-like chuckles At man, and all his trails.) Mt. St. Helens, Spirit Lake, 1947 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
EWolfe Posted January 13, 2005 Author Share Posted January 13, 2005 Man, I love Gary Snyders stuff! Riprap Lay down these words Before your mind like rocks. placed solid, by hands In choice of place, set Before the body of the mind in space and time: Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall riprap of things: Cobble of milky way. straying planets, These poems, people, lost ponies with Dragging saddles -- and rocky sure-foot trails. The worlds like an endless four-dimensional Game of Go. ants and pebbles In the thin loam, each rock a word a creek-washed stone Granite: ingrained with torment of fire and weight Crystal and sediment linked hot all change, in thoughts, As well as things. --Gary Snyder Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
glacier Posted January 13, 2005 Share Posted January 13, 2005 From Songs of Innocence and Experience, William Blake Chimney-Sweeper When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!' So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep. There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said, 'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.' And so he was quiet, and that very night, As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight! - That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, Were all of them locked up in coffins of black. And by came an angel, who had a bright key, And he opened the coffins, and set them all free; Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run And wash in a river, and shine in the sun. Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind: And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy, He'd have God for his father, and never want joy. And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark, And got with our bags and our brushes to work. Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm: So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. The Tiger Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
olyclimber Posted January 13, 2005 Share Posted January 13, 2005 When Gary was here for his latest book reading and signing, I waited from nearly the end of the line, and when it was my turn to get my books signed I threw the books at him and then bum rushed him and gave him a giant nugey. OK, not really. Just got a couple books signed. That was it. And told him to stop hitting on my wife. He is a nice wizened old man. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Dru Posted January 13, 2005 Share Posted January 13, 2005 To make a Dadaist poem Take a newspaper. Take a pair of scissors. Choose an article as long as you are planning to make your poem. Cut out the article. Then cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them in a bag. Shake it gently. Then take out the scraps one after the other in the order in which they left the bag. Copy conscientiously. The poem will be like you. And here you are a writer, infinitely original and endowed with a sensibility that is charming though beyond the understanding of the vulgar. --Tristan Tzara Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Skeezix Posted January 14, 2005 Share Posted January 14, 2005 Snyder is the rockin poet zen master. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Roger Posted January 14, 2005 Share Posted January 14, 2005 Snyder will be speaking in Portland on the 25th anniversary of the St. Helens eruption as part of this year's Illahee lecture series. Here's the link (scroll most of the way down). Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Harry_Pi Posted January 15, 2005 Share Posted January 15, 2005 Hello capitalist! Which one of you guys did I see carrying your wife's purse today? Thank you for allow me to post. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Dru Posted January 15, 2005 Share Posted January 15, 2005 a violent prson is marreed 2 a changling th changling can adapt can sumtimez radikalee b on her his gud side evreethings going swimminglee sumtimez get shit whn he she runs out uv prsonas masks goez 2 th closet n thers nothing hanging ther can b myself he she thinks thn thats th feer that th punishment will cum fr sure if he she cant leev her him self fast enuff breeth b call her him n start packing him her self is alredee enuff is alredee fine is alredee all ther can go now can b now she he is sew flexibul now who 2 trust or 2 find discovr a mountin sliding in2 th sand sumwun who wud stay yu cud with hold n they cud find yu they wudint leev n yu wud bcum all ther with them not that thers anee all ther th changling writes lettrs 2 her him selvs in th ambr waves n touchinglee with love keeps th nite Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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