Ode to my own

____________

             20 OCT poem              

I'm in every leaf of grass

and every fleck of dust

I'm each inch of this ground

worm or ant

calm or loud

I'm those million tears of sky

breaking down

a starry night

I'm the moth around each flame

and the outrageous of her blame

I'm the sister of Great Oak

filled with berries, roots and cold

Flume or river

  flash or thunder 

there's no force that brings me under

I'm in wind

that wilder blows

out of memories

and words   

                                       .F

______________

October: be mine

The Autumn Skies are flush'd with Gold

And fair and bright the Rivers run;

These are but streams of Winter Cold,

And painted mists that quench the Sun.

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,

In secret boughs no bird can shroud;

These are but Leaves that take to wing,

And Wintry Winds that pipe so loud.

'Tis not trees shade, but cloudy glooms

That on the Cheerless Vallies fall,

The Flowers are in their grassy tombs,

And Tears of Dew are on them all.

- Thomas Hood -

Piled deep below the screening apple-branch 
They lie with bitter apples in their hands: 
And some are only ancient bones that blanch, 
And some had ships that last year's wind did launch, 
And some were yesterday the lords of lands.

In the soft dell, among the apple-trees, 
High up above the hidden pit she stands, 
And there for ever sings, who gave to these, 
That lie below, her magic hour of ease, 
And those her apples holden in their hands.

This in my dreams is shown me; and her hair 
Crosses my lips and draws my burning breath; 
Her song spreads golden wings upon the air, 
Life's eyes are gleaming from her forehead fair, 
And from her breasts the ravishing eyes of Death.

Men say to me that sleep hath many dreams, 
Yet I knew never but this dream alone: 
There, from a dried-up channel, once the stream's, 
The glen slopes up; even such in sleep it seems 
As to my waking sight the place well known.

My love I call her, and she loves me well: 
But I love her as in the maelstrom's cup 
The whirled stone loves the leaf inseparable 
That clings to it round all the circling swell, 
And that the same last eddy swallows up.

 - Dante G. Rossetti

After gloom

Beginners 

How they are provided for upon the Earth, (appearing at intervals)
How dear and dreadful they are to the Earth,
How they inure to themselves as much as to any-what
a paradox appears their age,
How people respond to them, yet know them not,
How there is something relentless in their fate all times,
How all times mischoose the objects of their adulation and reward,

And how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same great purchase.

W.W.   — Leaves of Grass 

| 26 · 01 · 13 |

M for migrations

Camelia japonica

As flower's mute -

The endless sea

Rebirth in you -

The evil seed.

W. A. Bouguereau  -Spring Breeze-

— particular —

CXXXIV - Francesco Petrarca

Alda Merini

corpi

disumanamente dilaniati

da

meraviglie cosmiche

 OSCAR WILDE -REQUIESCAT

Tread lightly, she is near

   Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

   The daises grow.

All her bright golden hair

   Tarnished with rust

She that was young and fair

   Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

   She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

   Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

   Lie on her breast;

I vex my heart alone,

   She is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear

   Lyre or sonnet;

All my life's buried here,

   Heap earth upon it.

On a Dream - John Keats

"  L'inverno d'un mattino

il Sole rigido tendeva

tentacoli di luce 

tra vapori e fumi bianchi

nell'angolo d'un sogno

vidi occhi infondo a un pianto

balenare d'un azzurro

cui il ricordo 

che m'assale

lascia lacrime cadere

sul fondale di una notte

infestata di follie  "
                                        F

Divorata dal brivido            
 nel chiarore della notte

su una barca abbandonata

la palude dei suoi sibili

la mente le riempiva.

Quando il Fiume la raggiunse

Ella il sole già temeva

-Bruma era il suo manto,
di rana occhi aveva-.

Corrotta dalla notte,
 Berenice senza posa,
 l'Anima sua ora trema
nelle pozze della sera.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                             05.05.07  
                      

     

    
             To the Northern 
             Fire,       

                     for a winter                     
              Guest.



Can you see the End,
Walking towards the glaring light?
And before you start,
your way is lost
upon your hands.



Dreamed the thong of my sandal broke.
Nothing to hold it to my foot.
How shall I walk?
            Barefoot?
The sharp stones, the dirt.  I would hobble...
And-
Where was I going?
Where was I going I can't go to now,
unless hurting?
Where am I standing,
if I'm to stand still now?


(The Broken Sandal, Denis Levertov 1968-1972)