Saturday, June 30, 2007

۞ Orpheus ۞


By Sir Osbert Sitwell
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

WHEN Orpheus with his wind-swift fingers
Ripples the strings that gleam like rain,
The wheeling birds fly up and sing,
Hither, thither echoing;
There is a crackling of dry twigs,
A sweeping of leaves along the ground,
Fawny faces and dumb eyes
Peer through the fluttering screens
That mask ferocious teeth and claws
Now tranquil.
As the music sighs up the hill-side,
The young ones hear,
Come skipping, ambling, rolling down,
Their soft ears flapping as they run,
Their fleecy coats catching in the thickets,
Till they lie, listening, round his feet.
Unseen for centuries,
Fabulous creatures creep out of their caves,
The unicorn
Prances down from his bed of leaves,
His milk-white muzzle still stained green
With the munching, crunching of mountain-herbs.
The griffin, usually so fierce,
Now tame and amiable again,
Has covered the white bones in his secret cavern
With a rustling pall of dank dead leaves,
While the salamander, true lover of art,
Flickers, and creeps out of the flame;
Gently now, and away he goes,
Kindles his proud and blazing track
Across the forest,
Lies listening,
Cools his fever in the flowing waters of the lute.

But when the housewife returns,
Carrying her basket,
She will not understand.
She misses nothing,
Hears nothing.
She will only see
That the fire is dead,
The grate cold.
But the child upstairs,
Alone, in the empty cottage,
Heard a strange wind, like music,
In the forest,
Saw something creep out of the fire.


Friday, June 15, 2007

The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain

The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain
By Wallace Stevens

There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.

He breathed its oxygen,
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.

It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction,

How he had recomposed the pines,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,

For the outlook that would be right,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:

The exact rock where his inexactness
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged,

Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea,
Recognize his unique and solitary home.


Saturday, June 09, 2007


By George William Russell

THOSE delicate wanderers,
The wind, the star, the cloud,
Ever before mine eyes,
As to an altar bowed,
Light and dew-laden airs
Offer in sacrifice.

The offerings arise:
Hazes of rainbow light,
Pure crystal, blue, and gold,
Through dreamland take their flight;
And ’mid the sacrifice
God moveth as of old.

In miracles of fire
He symbols forth his days;
In gleams of crystal light
Reveals what pure pathways
Lead to the soul’s desire,
The silence of the height.

© AE (George William Russell)


By George William Russell

DARK head by the fireside brooding,
Where upon your ears
Whirlwinds of the earth intruding
Sound in wrath and tears:

Tender-hearted, in your lonely
Sorrow I would fain
Comfort you, and say that only
Gods could feel such pain.

Only spirits know such longing
For the far away;
And the fiery fancies thronging
Rise not out of clay.

Keep the secret sense celestial
Of the starry birth;
Though about you call the bestial
Voices of the earth.

If a thousand ages since
Hurled us from the throne:
Then a thousand ages wins
Back again our own.

Sad one, dry away your tears:
Mount again anew:
In the great ancestral spheres
Waits the throne for you.

© AE (George William Russell)

Friday, June 01, 2007

~:~ Poetry Rare Please ~:~

In the stye of my previous Tuesday's Redux, For Iris-2 and the others who used to dine here with me and Marianne Moore, guest of honor.

A Last Homage For Marianne Moore
..On the demise of her Roast Cafe 6/4/2007-

We await Monday's special du jour..
Per usual this rhymes with Marianne Moore..
In honor of She who must be obeyed..
I render her one last accolade.
Never again will she tender a seat
Or lamb or mutton on Pinsky's beat..
Marianne never tendered a boar..
Faux poetry she'd put out the door.

Marianne told me this restaurant will close
For lack of poems and well chilled prose..
The tables will move to seat her upstairs
With Lear and Pope and Milne's odd bears..
No more will she deign to check her hat
And join us on Tuesday's to chew the fat..
Since this became a Fast Food place..
Pinsky's Hack-Shack will live on in disgrace.

In this time of reform and corporate go-getters
We would be conundrums to serve our betters..
Free speech will be served in media's fetters
To adorn the hot plates of Editor's letters..
When Socrates died it was almost too late..
For again here speech must serve the State..
Alas Poor Yorick.. this graveyard's Slate.

So once again Marianne, I bid you 'Adieu.'
You came, you saw, you laughed and knew
The die was cast when Pinsky threw
The Muses out and brought in his crew;
He papered these walls with rabbit skin glue
To dine with Al Fresca on saccharine lite..
This kitchen is closed, no Moore delights.

Artemesia ©5/31/2007

(permission granted in comments of post below)

Request...Poetry Rare Please.


Yesterday as I was lurking in The Land of Fray, following the Yellow Slate Road I came across a very intriguing post…a poem written by Artemesia, in the tradition of her old Poetry Rare Redux pieces, which I would await for patiently, always knowing they would follow those Pitiful Tuesday Pinsky Picks and be way more tasty!

After getting lost in various Threads, as timing would have it poof it went up in ethers! The Fray closed it's doors! I wonder if it will be there to read when the archives are up in a few weeks. I only had a chance to give it a quick read and would love to read it again.

If you are reading this, Artemesia, I would be ever so grateful if you would post it as a comment and extra grateful if you would allow me to post it here in my blog. …Please.

I await your comment and permission I call for,
“Yes, I know that rhymes with Marianne Moore.”