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Post by rosabelbelieve on Mar 8, 2008 2:34:14 GMT
The Mysteries Remain The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed-time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass, I multiply, renew and bless Bacchus in the vine; I hold the law, I keep the mysteries true, the first of these to name the living, dead; I am the wine and bread. I keep the law, I hold the mysteries true, I am the vine, the branches, you and you.
Hilda Doolittle
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Post by tannis on Mar 8, 2008 2:37:08 GMT
Yes, THE BLACK ART is especially good! ... You can hear Anne recite HER KIND at:Her Kind by Anne sexton (her voice) www.youtube.com/watch?v=0P7ypQ2MBAsYou will love the richness of her voice...
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Post by rosabelbelieve on Mar 8, 2008 2:39:05 GMT
Ooh, and this-
The Idea of Order at Key West
Wallace Stevens
She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean. The sea was not a mask. No more was she. The song and water were not medleyed sound Even if what she sang was what she heard, Since what she sang was uttered word by word. It may be that in all her phrases stirred The grinding water and the gasping wind; But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang. The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew It was the spirit that we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang. If it was only the dark voice of the sea That rose, or even colored by many waves; If it was only the outer voice of sky And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled, However clear, it would have been deep air, The heaving speech of air, a summer sound Repeated in a summer without end And sound alone. But it was more than that, More even than her voice, and ours, among The meaningless plungings of water and the wind, Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone, Knew that there never was a world for her Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know, Why, when the singing ended and we turned Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights, The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, As the night descended, tilting in the air, Mastered the night and portioned out the sea, Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles, Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon, The maker's rage to order words of the sea, Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred, And of ourselves and of our origins, In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
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Post by rosabelbelieve on Mar 8, 2008 2:41:57 GMT
Thank you for the link. It's wonderful to hear poetry read aloud, isn't it- very different from just reading it, I think.
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Post by rosabelbelieve on Mar 8, 2008 2:50:32 GMT
Off topic, but wow, 4 members online- we're really busy tonight! Hi everyone!
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Post by tannis on Mar 8, 2008 2:53:16 GMT
Yes, I love hearing the poet speak... and that link you posted a while back is a great library of poets and their work... Thank you, I enjoyed 'The Mysteries Remain' ...
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Post by tannis on Mar 9, 2008 21:09:51 GMT
Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath, 1965I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it----- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?----- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot ----- The big strip tease. Gentleman , ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart----- It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair on my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash--- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. [blue]see more:[/blue]www.sylviaplathforum.com/ll.html
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Post by rosabelbelieve on Mar 9, 2008 21:14:28 GMT
^Wonderful poem. Thank you for posting it.
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Post by tannis on Mar 10, 2008 1:21:01 GMT
The Witch's Life by Anne Sexton, 1975
When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second story window from behind the wrinkled curtains and sometimes she would open the window and yell: Get out of my life! She had hair like kelp and a voice like a boulder.
I think of her sometimes now and wonder if I am becoming her. My shoes turn up like a jester's. Clumps of my hair, as I write this, curl up individually like toes. I am shoveling the children out, scoop after scoop. Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins. Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup? Maybe I have plugged up my sockets to keep the gods in? Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin. Yes. It is the witch's life, climbing the primordial climb, a dream within a dream, then sitting here holding a basket of fire.
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Post by rosabelbelieve on Mar 11, 2008 2:12:48 GMT
Bjork "Sun In My Mouth" www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lgww82X7aOkI Will Wade Out
(E. E. Cummings)
i will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness in the sleeping curves of my body Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery with chasteness of sea-girls Will i complete the mystery of my flesh I will rise After a thousand years lipping flowers And set my teeth in the silver of the moonA musical interpretation of a lovely poem.
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Post by rosabelbelieve on Mar 11, 2008 14:05:18 GMT
Loreena McKennitt "The Lady of Shalott" www.youtube.com/watch?v=MU_Tn-HxULMThe Lady of Shalott
On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road run by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early, In among the bearded barley Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly; Down to tower'd Camelot; And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy The Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two. She hath no loyal Knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot; Or when the Moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed. "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, burning bright, Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining. Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And around about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance -- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right -- The leaves upon her falling light -- Thro' the noises of the night, She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame, And around the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot; But Lancelot mused a little space He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."
(Alfred, Lord Tennyson)
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Post by tannis on Mar 14, 2008 5:10:59 GMT
Riding the Elevator into the Sky by Anne Sexton, 1975
As the fireman said: Don't book a room over the fifth floor in any hotel in New York. They have ladders that will reach further but no one will climb them. As the New York Times said: The elevator always seeks out the floor of the fire and automatically opens and won't shut. These are the warnings that you must forget if you're climbing out of yourself. If you're going to smash into the sky.
Many times I've gone past the fifth floor, cranking upwards, but only once have I gone all the way up. Sixtieth floor: small plants and swans bending into their grave. Floor two hundred: mountains with the patience of a cat, silence wearing its sneakers. Floor five hundred: messages and letters centuries old, birds to drink, a kitchen of clouds. Floor six thousand: the stars, skeletons on fire, their arms singing. And a key, a very large key, that opens something - some useful door - somewhere - up there.
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Post by rosabelbelieve on Mar 14, 2008 18:08:35 GMT
^ The part about the key reminds me of Constellation of the Heart, Houdini, or GOoMH.
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Post by rosabelbelieve on Mar 18, 2008 14:01:55 GMT
This isn't a poem, it's a song, but I thought the lyrics were worthy of inclusion here. They express, I think, a lot I what I was tyring to say in the 'What we should know' thread, though much more eloquently. Emily
Joanna Newsom
The meadowlark and the chim-choo-ree and the sparrow Set to the sky in a flying spree, for the sport over the pharaoh A little while later the Pharisees dragged comb through the meadow Do you remember what they called up to you and me, in our window?
There is a rusty light on the pines tonight Sun pouring wine, lord, or marrow Down into the bones of the birches And the spires of the churches Jutting out from the shadows The yoke, and the axe, and the old smokestacks and the bale and the barrow And everything sloped like it was dragged from a rope In the mouth of the south below
We've seen those mountains kneeling, felten and grey We thought our very hearts would up and melt away From that snow in the night time Just going And going And the stirring of wind chimes In the morning In the morning Helps me find my way back in From the place where I have been
And, Emily - I saw you last night by the river I dreamed you were skipping little stones across the surface of the water Frowning at the angle where they were lost, and slipped under forever, In a mud-cloud, mica-spangled, like the sky'd been breathing on a mirror
Anyhow - I sat by your side, by the water You taught me the names of the stars overhead that I wrote down in my ledger Though all I knew of the rote universe were those pleiades loosed in december I promised you I‘d set them to verse so I'd always remember
That the meteorite is a source of the light And the meteor's just what we see And the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee
And the meteorite's just what causes the light And the meteor's how it's perceived And the meteoroid's a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee
You came and lay a cold compress upon the mess I'm in Threw the window wide and cried; Amen! Amen! Amen! The whole world - stopped - to hear you hollering You looked down and saw now what was happening
The lines are fadin' in my kingdom Though I have never known the way to border 'em in So the muddy mouths of baboons and sows and the grouse and the horse and the hen Grope at the gate of the looming lake that was once a tidy pen And the mail is late and the great estates are not lit from within The talk in town's becoming downright sickening
In due time we will see the far butte lit by a flare I've seen your bravery, and I will follow you there And row through the night time Gone healthy Gone healthy all of a sudden In search of the midwife Who could help me Who could help me Help me find my way back in There are worries where I’ve been
Say, say, say in the lee of the bay; don't be bothered Leave your troubles here where the tugboats shear the water from the water Flanked by furrows, curling back, like a match held up to a newspaper Emily, they'll follow your lead by the letter And I make this claim, and I'm not ashamed to say I know you better What they've seen is just a beam of your sun that banishes winter
Let us go! Though we know it's a hopeless endeavor The ties that bind, they are barbed and spined and hold us close forever Though there is nothing would help me come to grips with a sky that is gaping and yawning There is a song I woke with on my lips as you sailed your great ship towards the morning
Come on home, the poppies are all grown knee-deep by now Blossoms all have fallen, and the pollen ruins the plow Peonies nod in the breeze and while they wetly bow, with Hydrocephalitic listlessness ants mop up-a their brow
And everything with wings is restless, aimless, drunk and dour The butterflies and birds collide at hot, ungodly hours And my clay-colored motherlessness rangily reclines Come on home, now! All my bones are dolorous with vines
Pa pointed out to me, for the hundredth time tonight The way the ladle leads to a dirt-red bullet of light Squint skyward and listen - Loving him, we move within his borders: Just asterisms in the stars' set order
We could stand for a century Starin' With our heads cocked In the broad daylight at this thing Joy Landlocked In bodies that don't keep Dumbstruck with the sweetness of being Till we don't be Told; take this Eat this
Told, the meteorite is the source of the light And the meteor's just what we see And the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee
And the meteorite's just what causes the light And the meteor's how it's perceived And the meteoroid's a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee(Bold and italicised parts most related to what I was trying to say. My understanding of "the meteorite is the the source of the light.." and the ensuing part is that the meteor is the source of all life, the wellspring of all existence, or god, that the meteor is the personal soul expressing itself in the world, and the meteoroid is the body, cast out unfathomably from the void and devoid eventually of the "the fire that propelled it to thee". )
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Post by rosabelbelieve on Mar 18, 2008 14:05:16 GMT
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