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Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
– – WH Auden
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
FSA/8d22000/8d224008d22491a.tif
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.
BY GARY SNYDER
Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
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That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
– – W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939
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
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
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I lived on the island of Mauritius for about 9 months. On the street outside my apartment complex were Mango trees that created a canopy like the elm trees used to in the midwest.
You had to be careful walking under those trees. Mangos would just fall and hit the street with a thud. If they hit your head, they would’ve knocked you unconscious.
I likes me sum mango’s.
The perfect fruit if I say so myself.
Guess I was just lucky, some people – not so much.
My sister in law for example.
She’s from Hoosiervile and when visiting Florida she ate a slice of fresh mango and swole up bigger’n Stuttgart, had to get ambulanced to the hospital – was critical for a few hours. Took weeks to get back to normal.
But not me. I could eat mangoes everyday and have, in the past. When I was a kid living on Lagg Av in Fort Myers we had mango trees in the yard. So many mango’s that never got ate, landed in the yard. Hit em with the mower and the giant nut would go flying. Would take out the neighbors windshield, if you were lucky. If it went backwards it would blow a foot off. Careful there hoss. Russian roulette with a mower. Same sister in law hit a rock and it burned a 3″ hole all the way through her calf. That left a mark. Diff hospital.
Buy a mango and just hold it and stare at it. A perfectly ripe mango is a treasure to the eye. Try it. Study the coloration, up close. Amazing. Nature is the original Rembrandt, on steroids. red-orange-yellow-green. WoW!
Peeling a mango is an art. Like filleting a catfish in midair. The farther you go the harder it gets, til your done, or the whole thing hits the floor. Hold both over the sink, damage control. I’ve wondered if a mango is a hybrid. Peach, cantelope, and something else. Can’t figure out what the something else is. And the cantelope part is specious. Don’t like cantelope. The very thought makes me heave. A shame too, cause the best cantelope farm in the world is about a mile from here, right next to the Bean Blossom covered bridge. Bud Smith’s place. They sell em for $3 along the road. As big as basketballs. My wife gnaws on one for a week as half the fridge is rented out to it the whole time. Maybe I ought to try a cantelope again since I haven’t tasted one since I was a kid half a century ago. Maybe I will, this year, when I see Bud out by the road. If I like em, and eat enough of them, maybe I’ll start to look like Trump. Nah. That wouldn’t be good. Who needs the bullshit? So I’ll alternate. Cantelope 1 week, Mango the next. All summer long. And orange juice all down my front, all the time. Where da honey bees iz?
That…was actually kind of fun. Kudos to them.
The mango is a lie.
Okay, you can only see the picture if you have your tablet in portrait mode. Otherwise, the full picture never loads, and you cannot scroll down to see it.
Weird.
Mangos make the fart grow stronger
The. Silliest. Thing. that I’ve seen in a long time…
Re: mango allergies, mango skins that are unripe contain urushiol, just like poison ivy and (ripe) alligator pear skins. Also mango stem sap has it.
So if you pick mangos, wear gloves, and if you eat mangos, make sure they are totally ripe. And don’t eat the skins.
Of course, some people do not have any problems, ever, just like some people never get poison ivy.
Despite the date, I’m assuming suburbanbanshee is not pulling our legs (stems?) about the poisonous mango skins.
Loved the Mango Tango!
Yup, the mango skin thing is true. But although I did once manage to get itchy fingers from peeling a produce sticker off an alligator pear, I have gnawed mango off the inner side of a mango skin before, with no ill effects. Apparently the ill effects can get impressive with unripe mango, so I was lucky.
Anyway, that is why you see tv chefs chopping off the skins or even using frozen mango. They do not want to be That Guy.