Saturday, April 30, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
By Philip Larkin
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
Source: Collected poems (London ; Marvell and Faber and Faber, 1990., 2001)
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
I am the People, the Mob
by Carl Sandburg
I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world's food and
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me
and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing.
Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out
and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes
me work and give up what I have. And I forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history
to remember. Then—I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the
lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year,
who played me for a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the
world say the name: "The People," with any fleck of a sneer in his
voice or any far-off smile of derision.
The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Ghostland's beat reminds me of the iambic push of Shakespeare's charged lines. (And the subject of love). What do you think?
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
- You must upload a video of yourself reading a poem. The poem should be sonnet length (at least 14 lines).
- To enter, either post the video link in the comment section of this post, or as a response of the youtube clip I uploaded.
- At the end of April, I will randomly select one person as the winner. I will contact the winner through email.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.
One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.
I armed myself against justice.
I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure's been turned over to you!
I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.
I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.
And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.
So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.
Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!
"You'll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who'd crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!"
Ah! I've been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.
Trans: Bertrand Mathieu
I do enjoy Louis Varese translation better. I have to at least give my favorite line from above:
"One evening I seated Beauty on my knees. And I found her bitter. I cursed her."
Taken from poets.org: