Live PoetryRobert Kelly reads Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge [link]
Anthony Hecht reads a translation of Chorus from Oedipus at Colonos by Sophocles [link]
Robert Lowell reads The Public Garden [link]
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Paris, 1966Marcel somersaults down a grassy mound over and over in the autumn sun, bathed in the scent of sod and soil, the very breath of heaven. Riding in the car, Papa and Élodie (in front) talk quietly of things being different now, while Marcel with window down shapes the crisp air like a potter and Tiki sucks his thumb on the seat beside.Paris, 1966
by *SitkaReign
PilgrimA father’s love and safety reappear in dreams and deep rest as Pilgrim, dressed in black polishes his saintly buckle for the long ocean journey.Pilgrim
What comfort does he trade for the hope of this unseen river whose torrents rip and tear and fight like mighty Gabriel for the soul of Greater Persia?
The allure of home dissuades, the safety of heaven compels, and both seem abstract now as he totes his few possessions down the misty quay in Leiden.
by *SitkaReign
Lost in your downy napeBe pitiful to my great woe.--KeatsLost in your downy nape
The unframed photograph on my nightstand and the many pictures I view when I close my eyes are poor substitutes for the visions I see when I run my finger across your shoulder and gather the mass of your locks in my palm. Damn all photos! Pressed to the nose they make no hint of that something something shimmering your downy nape, nor do they hold me like a life ring, nor quake inwardly when language fails to grasp just what is happening here. A picture is worth (only) a thousand words, my dear, so many worthless thing
by *SitkaReign
I think of you where you sleepI think of you where you sleep, tonight reposed in bedding half so warm for its lack of desire. Hurry to your goal and come home quickly! I cannot read my book or fall asleep without the brush of your toes across my leg, without your quiet breathing against the sound of night-time gales howling in the spruce.I think of you where you sleep
by *SitkaReign
Favourites
the damp and screaming earthpreserved under glass like a butterfly or a dead body this girl is vapid; she knows nothing of joy, nothing of pain. she exists lazily as pitch gurgles forth from neighborhood birches and so many red ants pile on forgotten litter in a massive diabetic orgy, as great clouds scroll by unmolested.the damp and screaming earth
by some, these comas are upheld with great piety and regarded as dreams, which they are-- surreal, dissociative, and miles away from the damp and screaming earth.
by ~StormCloudMao
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What a beautiful writing....
What if you were the father of the young woman in the poem? The father of a child that was stolen from him A father who longs for the innocense of his child that was lost. A child whose love of a father has been suppressed in fear of the consequences. What if that father endlessly holds on to a faint flicker of hope that truth and justice will one day prevail. The assasination of a childs love is a crime beyond any moral comprehension. A father whose childs love has been taken from him dies in the heart and soul, lost in deppression and dispair, sometimes for years as he is beat into a corner of hopelessness. That is until he returns from the dead.
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* /\*/ .!. !\* Marc
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The world is deep--and more profound than day would have thought.
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* * * */\ * *
* * * /. !\* *
* /\*/ .!. !\* Marc
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The world is deep--and more profound than day would have thought.
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