Square Rung Poems : written for posterity, enjoyment and recovery.

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The authors and the powers of confusion; We are the promise of unborn occasions; Our presence is required by all the spaces. The flora of our lives could guide occasions Without confusion on their frisking way Through all the silences and all the spaces. With all his honours on, he sighed for one Who, say astonished critics, lived at home; Did little jobs about the house with skill And nothing else; could whistle; would sit still Or potter round the garden; answered some Of his long marvellous letters but kept none.

And the wife devoted: To this as it is. To the work and the banks Let his thinning hair And his hauteur Give thanks, give thanks.

All that was thought As like as not is not; 17 When nothing was enough But love, but love. And the rough future Of an intransigeant nature. And the betraying smile, Betraying, but a smile: That that is not, is not; Forget, forget. Let him not cease to praise. Then, his spacious days; Yes, and the success Let him bless, let him bless: Let him see in this The profit larger And the sin venial Lest he see as it is The loss as major And final, final.

'For He Was One Of Us': Friedrich Schiller, Poet of America

Macao A weed from Catholic Europe, it took root Between the yellow mountains and the sea, And bore these gay stone houses like a fruit, And grew on China imperceptibly. Rococo images of Saint and Saviour Promise her gamblers fortunes when they die; Churches beside the brothels testify That faith can pardon natural behaviour. This city of indulgence need not fear The major sins by which the heart is killed, And governments and men are tom to pieces: i8 Religious clocks will strike; the childish vices Will safeguard the low virtues of the child; And nothing serious can happen here.

Before this last one Was much to be done, Frontiers to cross As clothes grew worse And coins to pass In a cheaper house Before this last one Before this loved one. Athntis Being set on the idea Of getting to Atlantis, You have discovered of course Only the Ship of Fools is Making the voyage this year, As gales of abnormal force Are predicted, and that you Must therefore be ready to Behave absurdly enough To pass for one of The Boys, At least appearing to love Hard liquor, horseplay and noise. Should storms, as may well happen, Drive you to anchor a week In some old harbour-city Of Ionia, then speak With her witty scholars, men Who have proved there cannot be Such a place as Atlantis: Learn their logic, but notice How its subtlety betrays Their enormous simple grief; Thus they shall teach you the ways To doubt that you may believe.

** C H R Y S O M E L A **

If, later, you run aground Among the headlands of Thrace, Where with torches all night long 20 A naked barbaric race Leaps frenziedly to the sound Of conch and dissonant gong; On that stony savage shore Strip off your clothes and dance, for Unless you are capable Of forgetting completely About Atlantis, you will Never finish your journey.

Assuming you beach at last Near Atlantis, and begin The terrible trek inland Through squalid woods and frozen Tundras where all are soon lost; If, forsaken then, you stand. Dismissal everywhere. Stone and snow, silence and air, O remember the great dead And honour the fate you are, 21 Travelling and tormented, Dialectic and bizarre.

All the little household gods Have started crying, but say Good-bye now, and put to sea. Farewell, my dear, farewell: may Hermes, master of the roads, And the four dwarf Kabiri, Protect and serve you always; And may the Ancient of Days Provide for all you must do His invisible guidance. Lifting up, dear, upon you The light of His countenance. The vague wants Of days and nights, And personal error; And the fatigued face, Taking the strain Of the horizontal force And the vertical thrust.

Online Library of Liberty

Makes random answer To the crucial test; The uncertain flesh Scraping back chair For the wrong train. Falling in slush. Before a friend s friends Or shaking hands With a snub-nosed winner. The opening vsdndow, closing door, Open, close, but not To finish or restore; These wishes get No further than The edges of the town, And leaning asking from the car Cannot tell us where we are; While the divided face Has no grace.

No discretion. No occupation But registering Acreage, mileage. The easy knowledge Of the virtuous thing. Is ready to argue, he smiles, with any stranger. And yet this prophet, homing the day is ended. Though heart fears all heart cries for, rebuffs with mortal beat Skyfall, the legs sucked under, adder's bite.

That prize held out of reach Guides the unwilling tread, The asking breath. Till on attended bed Or in untracked dishonour comes to each His natural death. They smile no more when we smile back: Eyes, ears, tongue, nostrils bring News of revolt, inadequate counsel to An infirm king. O watcher in the dark, you wake Our dream of waking, we feel Your finger on the flesh that has been skinned. By your bright day See clear what we were doing, that we were vile. Your sudden hand Shall humble great Pride, break it, wear down to stumps old systems which await The last transgression of the sea.

As We Like It Certainly our city with its byres of poverty dovsm to The river's edge, its cathedral, its engines, its dogs; Here is the cosmopolitan cooking And the light alloys and the glass.

When will my book be dispatched from your warehouse?

Built by the conscience-stricken, the weapon-making, By us. Wild rumours woo and terrify the crowd, Woo us. Betrayers thunder at, blackmail Us.

TENNYSON TO CHAUCER

But where now are They Who without reproaches showed us what our vanity has chosen, 25 Who pursued understanding with patience like a sex, had unlearnt Our hatred and towards the really better World had turned their face? Who knows? The peaked and violent faces are exalted, The feverish prejudiced lives do not care, and lost Their voice in the flutter of bunting, the glittering Brass of our great retreat.

And the malice of death.

MAC DUFF'S CROSS.

For the wicked card is dealt and The sinister tall-hatted botanist stoops at the spring With his insignificant phial and looses The plague on the ignorant town. Can Hate so securely bind? Are they dead here?


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And the wish to wound has the power. And tomorrow Comes. What happens to the living when we die? Death is not understood by Death; nor You, nor L Consider Consider this and in our time As the hawk sees it or the helmeted airman: The clouds rift suddenly — look there At cigarette-end smouldering on a border At the first garden party of the year.

Pass on, admire the view of the massif Through plate-glass windows of the Sport Hotel; Join there the insufficient units Dangerous, easy, in furs, in uniform And constellated at reserved tables Supplied with feelings by an efficient band Relayed elsewhere to farmers and their dogs Sitting in kitchens in the stormy fens. In Cornwall, Mendip, or the Pennine moor Your comments on the highborn mining-captains. Found they no answer, made them wish to die — Lie since in barrows out of harm. You talk to your admirers every day By silted harbours, derelict works, 27 In strangled orchards, and the silent comb Where dogs have worried or a bird was shot.

Order the ill that they attack at once: Visit the ports and, interrupting The leisurely conversation in the bar Within a stone s throw of the sunlit water. Beckon your chosen out. Summon Those handsome and diseased youngsters, those women Your solitary agents in the country parishes; And mobilize the powerful forces latent In soils that make the farmer brutal In the infected sinus, and the eyes of stoats.

Then, ready, start your rumour, soft But horrifying in its capacity to disgust Which, spreading magnified, shall come to be A polar peril, a prodigious alarm. Scattering the people, as torn-up paper Rags and utensils in a sudden gust, Seized with immeasurable neurotic dread.

Seekers after happiness, all who follow The convolutions of your simple wish. You cannot be away, then, no Not though you pack to leave within an hour. Escaping humming down arterial roads: The date was yours; the prey to fugues. Irregular breathing and alternate ascendancies After some haunted migratory years To disintegrate on an instant in the explosion of mania Or lapse for ever into a classic fatigue.

He, the trained spy, had walked into the trap For a bogus guide, seduced with the old tricks. At Greenhearth was a fine site for a dam And easy power, had they pushed the rail Some stations nearer. They ignored his wires. The bridges were unbuilt and trouble coming. The street music seemed gracious now to one For weeks up in the desert. Woken by water Running away in the dark, he often had Reproached the night for a companion Dreamed of already.

They would shoot, of course, Parting easily who were never joined. Whose sable genius understands too well What code of famine can administrate Those inarticulate wastes where dwell 29 Our howling appetites: dear heart, do not Think lightly to contrive his overthrow; O promise nothing, nothing, till you know The kingdom offered by the love-lorn eyes A land of condors, sick cattle, and dead flies. And how contagious is its desolation, What figures of destruction unawares Jump out on Lovers imagination And chase away the castles and the bears; How warped the mirrors where our worlds are made; What armies burn up honour, and degrade Our will-to-order into thermal waste; How much lies smashed that cannot be replaced.

O let none say I Love until aware What huge resources it will take to nurse One ruining speck, one tiny hair That casts a shadow through the universe : We are the deaf immured within a loud And foreign language of revolt, a crowd Of poaching hands and mouths who out of fear Have learned a safer life than we can bear. Nature by nature in unnature ends: Echoing each other like two waterfalls, Tristan, Isolde, the great friends. Make passion out of passion s obstacles; Deliciously postponing their delight. Prolong frustration till it lasts all night, Then perish lest Brangaene s worldly cry Should sober their cerebral ecstasy.

But, dying, conjure up their opposite, Don Juan, so terrified of death he hears 30 Each moment recommending it, And knows no argument to counter theirs; Trapped in their vile affections, he must find Angels to keep him chaste; a helpless, blind.

"a letter to my therapist explaining my relapse" - spoken word/slam poetry

Unhappy spook, he haunts the urinals. Existing solely by their miracles. That syllogistic nightmare must reject The disobedient phallus for the sword; The lovers of themselves collect. And Eros is politically adored: New Machiavellis flying through the air Express a metaphysical despair.

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