The World Is Too Much With Us By William Wordsworth The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. A Thing of Beauty – John Keats A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its lovliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. Ozymandias By Percey Shelley I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.” The Listeners By Walter de la Mare ‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest’s ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller’s head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller’s call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, ’Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:— ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,’ he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven By William Butler Yeats HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. Jabberwocky By Lewis Carroll ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!” He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy. ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. Funeral Blues
by W. H. Auden Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with the juicy bone. Silence the pianos and, with muffled drum, Bring out the coffin. Let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling in the sky the message: “He is dead!” Put crepe bows around the white necks of the public doves. Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my north, my south, my east and west, My working week and Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song. I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one. Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can come to any good. 'No Man is an Island' By John Donne No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand By Walt Whitman Whoever you are holding me now in hand, Without one thing all will be useless, I give you fair warning before you attempt me further, I am not what you supposed, but far different. Who is he that would become my follower? Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections? The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive, You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard, Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting, The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon’d, Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders, Put me down and depart on your way. Or else by stealth in some wood for trial, Or back of a rock in the open air, (For in any roof’d room of a house I emerge not, nor in company, And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,) But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any person for miles around approach unawares, Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or some quiet island, Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you, With the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss or the new husband’s kiss, For I am the new husband and I am the comrade. Or if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing, Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip, Carry me when you go forth over land or sea; For thus merely touching you is enough, is best, And thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried eternally. But these leaves conning you con at peril, For these leaves and me you will not understand, They will elude you at first and still more afterward, I will certainly elude you, Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold! Already you see I have escaped from you. For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book, Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it, Nor do those know me best who admire me and vauntingly praise me, Nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few) prove victorious, Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil, perhaps more, For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit, that which I hinted at; Therefore release me and depart on your way. The Second Coming By WB Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? I feel a poem By Don Mattera Thumping deep, deep I feel a poem inside wriggling within the membrane of my soul; tiny fists beating, beating against my being trying to break the navel cord, crying, crying out to be born on paper Thumping deep, so deeply I feel a poem, inside No Fences at Night By ME! The disappearance of the sun and exposure to the moon Forces me to abandon my eyes in favour of my ears. So I wait for it to begin. First a gentle ovature of insects. Their flute-atious voices become the founding night's choir. An invisible conductor creates the ebb and flow Of shrill repetitions that energize my sightless vista. A blind following of nightjars is next. Their soprano voices trill and swirl in the darkness Like a plume of well-versed feathers Each note is a deliberate melody. An intrusion of wailing Discords the perfectly placed symphony Like a baby crying in the back row A jackal bates the evening air and then is gone. Her howl is replaced by an excited whoop As a teenager's encoure lolls off the tongue Of a loping hyena Confidently hidden by the still night air. The crescendo comes much later After the rhythm and ecstasy of animal voices And unplaced instruments Grow tired by the dawn. The searching drawl begins deep In the bowels of a lioness. Her breathe forced between incisored jaws A laboured density of semiquavers Seem to penetrate the earth itself But achieve no response. Without a roof or enclosure, The concert in blackness Makes me feel less vulnerable My wilderness displacement Replaced by an elemental joy. Love Preparing To Fly by Gerard Manley Hopkins He play'd his wings as tho' for flight; They webb'd the sky with glassy light. His body sway'd upon tiptoes, Like a wind-perplexed rose; In eddies of the wind he went At last up the blue element. Pied Beauty By Hopkins Glory be to God for dappled things – For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings; Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough; And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him Wilderness By Carl Sandburg THERE is a wolf in me ... fangs pointed for tearing gashes ... a red tongue for raw meat ... and the hot lapping of blood-I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fox in me ... a silver-gray fox ... I sniff and guess ... I pick things out of the wind and air ... I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers ... I circle and loop and double-cross. There is a hog in me ... a snout and a belly ... a machinery for eating and grunting ... a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun-I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fish in me ... I know I came from saltblue water-gates ... I scurried with shoals of herring ... I blew waterspouts with porpoises ... before land was ... before the water went down ... before Noah ... before the first chapter of Genesis. There is a baboon in me ... clambering-clawed ... dog-faced ... yawping a galoot's hunger ... hairy under the armpits ... here are the hawk-eyed hankering men ... here are the blond and blue-eyed women ... here they hide curled asleep waiting ... ready to snarl and kill ... ready to sing and give milk ... waiting-I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so. There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird ... and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want ... and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes-And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness. O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart-and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where-For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness. THE THOUGHT-FOX By Ted Hughes I imagine this midnight moment’s forest: Something else is alive Beside the clock’s loneliness And this blank page where my fingers move. Through the window I see no star: Something more near Though deeper within darkness Is entering the loneliness: Cold, delicately as the dark snow, A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf; Two eyes serve a movement, that now And again now, and now, and now Sets neat prints into the snow Between trees, and warily a lame Shadow lags by stump and in hollow Of a body that is bold to come Across clearings, an eye, A widening deepening greenness, Brilliantly, concentratedly, Coming about its own business Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox It enters the dark hole of the head. The window is starless still; the clock ticks, The page is printed. Walking By Ruth Everson Anyone who has journeyed Knows what it is to be lost: For hours, the paths looking the same yet strange, Travelled and untraveled memory-muddled. Then meeting that evening Walker, the Moon, Dragging a sack of darkness, Empty of the stars too heavy to bear. Behind you, the old dog, Panting at your heels, Believing as always, that you will find the way – If only for him and his rough, old fur. There are thorns ahead, And a riverbank that will ask you To use your small strength to lift the dog, Heavier now than you ever remembered. You may stop, longing for that other, Final Walker, But the old gold eyes are watching. Anyone who has travelled Knows what it is to find home: The old dog, fed and asleep, Skin twitching as you smooth his side To feel the thud of heart under hand. He dreams of another walk, You know, it was the golden eyes That lit the path back home. Silence By Thomas Hood There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be, In the cold grave—under the deep deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found, Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently, But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, That never spoke, over the idle ground: But in green ruins, in the desolate walls Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls, And owls, that flit continually between, Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone. somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond By ee cumming somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands The Naming of Cats By T S Eliot The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter, It isn’t just one of your holiday games; You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES. First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily, Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo, or James, Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey -- All of them sensible everyday names. There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames: Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter -- But all of them sensible everyday names. But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular, A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified, Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular, Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride? Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum, Such as Munkstrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat, Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum -- Names that never belong to more than one cat. But above and beyond there’s still one name left over, And that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human research can discover -- But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess. When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name. Talk to you tonight, By Nate Klug I wrote this morning, knowing it would only be the afternoon where you are, will be, whole neighborhood still wrapped in a tule fog that won’t let up—so you reported before supper while I slept. I almost wrote this afternoon instead, taking your point of view, dissolving into it-- but then imagined you half-awake, and irked, into my future/current noon texting for clarification. A Love poem for Prime Numbers 59 wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. Realizes all his hair is on one side of his head. Takes just under a minute to work out that it’s because of the way that he slept. He finds some clothes and gets dressed. He can’t help but look in the mirror and be subtly impressed How he looks rough around the edges and yet casually messed. And as he glances out the window, he sees the sight that he gets blessed withof 60 from across the street. Now 60 was beautiful. With perfectly trimmed cuticles, dressed in something suitable. Never rude or crude at all. Unimprovable, right on time as usual, more on cue than a snooker ball but liked to play it super cool. 59 wanted to tell her that he knew her favorite flower. He thought of her every second, every minute, every hour. But he knew it wouldn’t work, he’d never get the girl. Because although she lived across the street they came from different worlds. While 59 admired 60’s perfectly round figure, 60 thought 59 was odd. One of his favorite films was “101 Dalmatians.” She preferred the sequel. He romanticized the idea they were star-crossed lovers. They could overcome the odds and evens because they had each other. While she maintained the strict views imposed on her by her mother That separate could not be equal. And though at the time he felt stupid and dumb For trying to love a girl controlled by her stupid mum, He should have been comforted by the simple sum. Take 59 away from 60, and you’re left with the one. Sure enough after two months of moping around, 61 days later, 61 was who he found, He had lost his keys and his parents were out. So one day after school he went into a house As he noticed the slightly wonky numbers on the door, He wondered why he’d never introduced himself before, As she let him in, his jaw dropped in awe. 61 was like 60, but a little bit more. She had prettier eyes, and an approachable smile, And like him, rough around the edges, casual style, And like him, everything was in disorganized piles, And like him, her mum didn’t mind if friends stayed a while. Because she was like him, and he liked her. He reckoned she would like him if she knew he was like her, And it was different this time. I mean, this girl was wicked, So he plucked up the courage and asked for her digits. She said, “I’m 61.” He grinned, said, “I’m 59.” Today I’ve had a really nice time, So tomorrow if you wanted you could come over to mine? She said, “Sure.” She loved talking to someone just as quirky, She agreed to this unofficial first date. In the end he was only ready one minute early, But it didn’t matter because she arrived one minute late. And from that moment on there was nonstop chatter, How they loved “X Factor,” how they had two factors, How that did not matter, distinctiveness made them better, By the end of the night they knew they were meant together. And one day she was talking about stuck-up 60, She noticed that 59 looked a bit shifty. He blushed, told her of his crush: “The best thing that never happened because it led to us.” 61 was clever, see, not prone to jealousy, She looked him in the eyes and told him quite tenderly, “You’re 59, I’m 61, together we combine to become twice what 60 could ever be.” At this point 59 had tears in his eyes, Was so glad to have this one-of-a-kind girl in his life. He told her the very definition of being prime Was that with only one and himself could his heart divide, And she was the one he wanted to give his heart to, She said she felt the same and now she knew the films were half true. Because that wasn’t real love, that love was just a sample, When it came to real love, they were a prime example.’ – Harry Baker
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ContentSome thoughts about things, sometimes philosophical, sometimes just musings. The world through my eyes... Archives
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