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03/9/17

The Second Coming (Diastext)

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03/9/17

The Second Coming (Travesty Generator)

<OOV> 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, & 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. 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 ; & 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? Poets : The Collected Source of Poems W. B. ( 1989 ) back to top Yeats RELATED CONTENT this Discover’s poem

03/9/17

The Second Coming (random reorder)

19th Century Poets
Marie Ponsot
Sandra Maria Esteves
Michael Fried
Horace Gregory
Kathleen Graber
Christina Rossetti
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Robert Louis Stevenson
Thomas Morris
Alfred Islay Walden
Babette Deutsch
Gordon Bottomley
Timothy Thomas Fortune
Jessie Pope
Romantic Moment
They shut me up in Prose – (445)
They shut me up in Prose –
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet –
Because they liked me “still”   –

Still! Could themself have peeped –
and seen my Brain – go round –
They…

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03/2/17

A Half-Hearted Half Nelson

I think that Hollywood
may be playing an unsupportive role;
dialectics,
a particular way of
understanding historical change, is well-received
from a heartthrob who crunches on gf avocado toast
between takes, unlike us, untouched-up teachers who
Just want to pee at the bell.

That Gosling arrogance.

03/2/17

A White Devil Travestied

THE SCENE – – ITALY

ACT I SCENE I

Enter Count Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo

Lodo. Banish’d!

Ant. It griev’d me much to hear the sentence.

Lodo. Ha, ha, O Democritus, thy gods
That govern the whole world! courtly reward
And punishment. Fortune’s a right whore:
If she give aught, she deals it in small parcels,
That she may take away all at one swoop.
This ’tis to have great enemies! God’s quite them.
Your wolf no longer seems to be a wolf
Than when she’s hungry.

Gas. You term those enemies, Are men of princely rank.

Lodo. Oh, you slave! You that were held the famous politician,
Whose art was poison.

Gas. And whose conscience, murder.

Lodo. That would have broke your wife’s neck down the stairs,
Ere she was poison’d.

Gas. That had your villainous sallets.

Lodo. And fine embroider’d bottles, and perfumes,
Equally mortal with a winter plague.

Gas. Now there’s mercury —-

Lodo. How! how! I hope you will not got to’t here.

Fran. Nay, you must hear my dream out.

Zan. Well, sir, forth

Fran. When I threw the mantle o’er thee, thou didst laugh
Exceedingly, methought.

Zan. Laugh!

Fran. And criedst out, the hair did tickle thee.

Zan. There was a dream indeed!

Lodo. Mark her, I pray thee, she simpers like the suds
A collier hath been wash’d in.

Zan. Come, sir; good fortune tends you.
I did tell you I would reveal a secret :
Isabella, The Duke of Florence’s sister, was empoisone’d.
By a fum’d picture; and Camillo’s neck
Was broke by damn’d Flamineo, the mischance
Laid on a vaulting-horse.

Fran. Most strange!

Zan. Most true.

Lodo. The bed of snakes is broke.

Zan. I sadly do confess, I had a hand In the black deed.

Fran. Thou kept’st their counsel.

Zan. Right;
For which, urg’d with contrition, I intend
This night to rob Vittoria.

Lodo. Excellent penitence!
Usurers dream on’t while they sleep out sermons.

Zan. To further our escape, I have entreated
Leave to retire me, till the funeral,
Unto a friend i’th’country: that excuse
Will further our escape. In coin and jewels
I shall at least make good unto your use
An hundred thousand crowns.

Fran. Oh, ’twas well!
We shall not want his absence past six days:
I fain would have the Duke Brachiano run
Into notorious scandal; for there’s naught
In such cursed dotage, to repair his name,
Only the deep sense of some deathless shame.

Mont. It may be objected, I am dishonourable
To play thus with my kinsman; but I answer,
For my revenge I’d stake a brother’s life,
That being wrong’d, durst not avenge himself.

Fran. Come, to observe this strumpet.

Mont. Curse of greatness! Sure he’ll die.