Next post: Sunday Meditation: The Try Works by Herman Melville
Previous post: Boomer Anthems: White Bird
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
— Robinson Jeffers
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
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.
Gerard Van der Leun
Comments on this entry are closed.
The world gov’t should just go ahead and declare everybody a hero and get it over with.
What’s that old saying?, “When everybody’s a hero nobody’s a hero.”
I think the last hero on this planet was back about 1954 and everyone else since has been a flatdik poser.
–yawn–
I need either a nap or a mud on this cold assed rainy day.
Haha hahaah haha.
fukncelebrities. Less relevant every day.
To hell with these sanctimonious satraps who have become ‘famous for being famous’.
Oh, man, how am I going to clean all of the sarcasm that is splattered all over the inside of my monitor?
Thanks for the smiles.
The Germans have a word for it.
Backfeifengesicht: A face searching for a fist.
we get the “hero” thing here in nyc pretty heavy. it was worn out before this virus thing- it’s like porn, it’s just not special anymore…
Get back to work, you f*cking c*nt!! — hehehe.
Why I often think fondly of some celebrities, when I toss a faggot in the wood stove.
You had me at “dogshit, broke ass hearts”