(Untitled)
If I could define everything I wanted on paper, it would somehow end up to be miles long. Then each item would be crossed off, summed up in one word to be studied, examined and torn apart into each letter and what each letter means
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Oh, I absolutely adore that. Sylvia Plath?:
O throw it away, throw it all away on the wind:
first let the heavenly foliage go,
and page by pride the good books blow;
scatter smug angels with your hand.
Undo the doings of the fathering age:
chuck the broken acropolis out,
fling the seven wonders after that
with struts and props of the holy stage.
Disrupt the calendars next; send the duteous
packing without a compass or scale
to chart the measure of fortune's wheel;
let nothing be left to swaddle us.
Unravel antique samplers, unwind the clocks,
till unruly children stream down the sky
and old maids on impromptu petticoats fly
with begonia and building blocks.
Now empty boxes of the hoodwinked dead
upon the pouring air until
god hears from his great sunstruck hell
the chittering crackpots that he made.
Then hurl the bare world like a bluegreen ball
back into the holocaust
to burn away the humbug rust
and again together begin it all.
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Joyce Kilmer:
Monsignore,
Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,
Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,
Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,
I respectfully salute you,
I genuflect
And I kiss your episcopal ring.
It is not, Monsignore,
The fragrant memory of your holy life,
Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,
Which causes me now to address you.
But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,
It seems appropriate to me to state
According to a venerable and agreeable custom,
That I love a beautiful lady.
Her eyes, Monsignore,
Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections
On everything that she looks at,
Such as a wall
Or the moon
Or my heart.
It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,
Yet not quite like it,
For the blueness is not transparent,
Only translucent.
Her soul's light shines through,
But her soul cannot be seen.
It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise
And noble.
She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment,
Made in the manner of the Japanese.
It is very blue-
I think that her eyes have made it more blue,
Sweetly staining it
As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form.
Loving her, Monsignore,
I love all her attributes;
But I believe
That even if I did not love her
I would love the blueness of her eyes,
And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.
Monsignore,
I have never before troubled you with a request.
The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas
are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid,
Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,
And your brother bishop, my patron,
The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari.
But, of your courtesy, Monsignore,
Do me this favour:
When you this morning make your way
To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses
because of her who sits upon it,
When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,
I beg you, say to her:
"Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth,
Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you
For wearing a blue gown".
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ee cummings:
may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she
(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she
(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)
may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she
may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she
but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she
(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she
(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)
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