03/23/17

Sky Stink-Eye

The sky grimaces because

I always stare, causing discomfort. He

twists his clouds up into funnels,

trying to create a portal of

escape.

 

But he can’t leave here; he’s stuck.

Uncrossing his legs, he spreads them wide- like

the men on the bus who heat up my knees by

forcing them together to rub until

I’m dumped off at Main- he sighs a

scorched wind and slouches into the sunset.

 

I look away, satisfied, and a little lower now,

seeing even from here that someone’s fallen

on the mountain; a thick vein of packed snow

marks where they slid, likely headfirst, down the

north side.

 

A couple of white birches were hit- their skins

rolling tightly into themselves like little fists, ready

to strike. It’s nothing critical-

but some leaves are still vibrating.

They didn’t see it coming and

that scared them.

 

Now, the crocuses are poking out in the valley,

spilling purple everywhere,

reminding me of when I buried

costume jewelry in the garden.

I thought I could grow more bangles and broaches,

that they needed extra

sunshine for that sparkle.

 

Now I know that’s all overrated;

it’s much better to look out and churn

the grey.

03/9/17

The Second Coming (Diastext)

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Esteves
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Slouches
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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.