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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
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
— BY THEODORE ROETHKE
The scientists are in terror
and the European mind stops
Wyndham Lewis chose blindness
rather than have his mind stop.
Night under wind mid garofani,
the petals are almost still
Mozart, Linnaeus, Sulmona,
When one’s friends hate each other
how can there be peace in the world?
Their asperities diverted me in my green time.
A blown husk that is finished
but the light sings eternal
a pale flare over marshes
where the salt hay whispers to tide’s change
Time, space,
neither life nor death is the answer.
And of man seeking good,
doing evil.
In meiner Heimat
where the dead walked
and the living were made of cardboard.
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
— Eliot
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this
air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
— Walt Whitman
Gerard Van der Leun
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Well, that was interesting.
I have an old girlfriend who lives in Lubbock. She’s a nurse that works as a patient care coordinator. They have a connected organization in McAllen, along the border with Mexico. She’s told me that yeah, the hospitals down there *are* overrun. Ambulances circle the block, waiting for a bed to open up. There ain’t no care at all on the south side, so people come north to cough on you.
She’s told me that there are some significant differences in the workforce in McAllen versus Lubbock. Quality of work and ethics are quite a bit lesser on the border. She and I have a shorthand phrase when talking about such subjects: McAllen culture.
Not a bad riff for this day and age. I got me thinking that’
There are the times to try men’s soles not little naughty Nike girly walks.
Give me liberty and give me Def Leppard with a healthy helping of both Dylons.
Fire at Will, and Phil as well as the house atop the hill where they write that Marxist swill.
Oh say, can you see, nothing but graffiti?
This land is their land, unless we take a stand.
The herd is rot around the world.
Gory gory hell’s for you,
All for one and
One for the money.
Two for the bow
Three to hold
Fire ‘till you hear
The fright of their cries.
And.
Always.
Today.
Speak softly
but carry.
That was awesome!!
Fire ‘till you hear
The fright of their cries.
most excellent!
Lost me at “Listen Bitchez”…part of our cultural decay has been the assimilation of hip-hop banter into everyday speech. Patrick Henry’s original version is just fine, thank you.
I, too, had to search for the original version. It’s a shame that we were only taught the last line in school, when there’s so much more to it. Well worth a read.