Robert LowellICaged in fiction’s iron bars,I give this voice to youwith tragic diction to rebuke the stars —it isn’t you, and yet it’s you.“Will you, like Goethe, fallto oblivion in my arms;then talk about the stars?Say they light militant campfires,storm heaven while I sleep?Not now —my spine is hurting me,I can only lie face down,a gross weight innocent —if you will let me sleep —of seduction, speech, or pain.I’m too drugged to do anything,or help you watch the sky.I am indifferent to the stars —their ranks are too docile and mathematicalto regroup if once scatteredlike comatose sheep . . .I am indifferent —what woman has the measure of a man,who only h as to care about himselfand follow the stars’extravagant, useless journey across the sky,to divert me from the absence of the sun?Because they cannot love, they need no love.”
IIIf you heard God is dead,the old monopolist,who made us to take us apart —would you stand upright in spite of your spine?“I sleep,an old walnut soaked in rum,too slippery for the stars to crackin their rigid, identical glass wheels . . .If God is dead,how can I be certain another old manwill drop again from the stars,from sixty thousand fathoms away,and halt by the post of my bed —motionless with ill-omened power?A new old lovermight hurt a thousand times worse . . .But my belovedis godlike, tantalizing,made in the image of a mantoo young to be frightened of women.He can only appear in all my dreams.”I<3u
Claudia Emerson
Most of the things you made for me -- blanket-chest, lapdesk, the armless rocker -- I gaveaway to friends who could use them and notbe reminded of the hours lost there,not having been witness to those designs,the tedious finishes. But I did keepthe mirror, perhaps because like all mirrors,most of these years it has been invisible,part of the wall, or defined by reflection --safe -- because reflection, after all, does change.I hung it here in the front, dark hallwayof this house you will never see, so thatit might magnify the meager light,become a lesser, backward window. No onepauses long before it. But this morning,as I put on my overcoat, then straightenedmy hair, I saw outside my face its frameyou made for me, admiring for the firsttime the way the cherry you cut and planedyourself had darkened, just as you said it would.
I<3u
Robert Penn Warren
The sky has murder in the eye, and IHave murder in the heart, for IAm only human.We look at each other, the sky and I.We understand each other, forThe solstice of summer has sagged, I standAnd wait. Virtue is rewarded, thatIs the nightmare, and I must tell youThat soon now, even beforeThe change from Daylight Saving Time, the sun,Beyond the western ridge of black-burnt pine stubs likeA snaggery of rotten shark teeth, sinksLower, larger, more blank, and redder thanA mother’s rage, as thoughF.D.R. had never run for office even, or the first vaginaHad not had the texture of dream. TimeIs the mirror into which you stare.I<3u
For the benefit of Mr. KiteThere will be a show tonight on trampolineThe Hendersons will al be thereLate of Pablo Fanques Fair - what a scene!Over man and horses hoops and gartersLastly through a hogshead of real fire!In this way Mr. K. will challenge the world!The celebrated Mr. K.performs his feat on Saturday at BishopsgateThe Hendersons will dance and singAs Mr. Kite flies through the ring - don't be late!Messrs. K. and H. assure the publicTheir production will be second to noneAnd of course Henry The Horse dances the waltz!The band begins at ten to sixWhen Mr. K. performs his tricks without a soundAnd Mr. H. will demonstrateTen summersets he'll undertake on solid groundWe've been some days in preparationA splendid time is guaranteed for allAnd tonight Mr. Kite is topping the bill
I<3u
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Now the years are rolling by me, they are rockin even meI am older than I once was, and younger than Ill be, thats not unusualNo it isnt strange, after changes upon changes, we are more or less the sameAfter changes we are more or less the same...
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Sáša Pleska
Ivan Galovič
Pavel Fišar
