Friday, April 23, 2010

So I could spin you a tale of great computer misfortune...

But in reality it was a mismatched firewire cable that has kept the old computer from moving its guts to the new one, which means that I've not got a lot of older or newer poems to choose from right now & no way to post them here (I'd hoped to post a poem every few days for all of April).

But being this is the 23rd of the cruelest month (did Eliot have allergies?) I wanted to share the bit of Shakespeare which gave title to the "Black Vespers Pageants" section of the book. It is from Antony & Cleopatra. Go forth in good prosody:


ACT_4|SC_14
SCENE XIV.
CLEOPATRA'S palace

Enter ANTONY and EROS

ANTONY. Eros, thou yet behold'st me?
EROS. Ay, noble lord.
ANTONY. Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish;
A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,
A tower'd citadel, a pendent rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory
With trees upon't that nod unto the world
And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs;
They are black vesper's pageants.
EROS. Ay, my lord.
ANTONY. That which is now a horse, even with a thought
The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,
As water is in water.
EROS. It does, my lord.
ANTONY. My good knave Eros, now thy captain is
Even such a body. Here I am Antony;
Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave.
I made these wars for Egypt; and the Queen-
Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine,
Which, whilst it was mine, had annex'd unto't
A million moe, now lost- she, Eros, has
Pack'd cards with Caesar, and false-play'd my glory
Unto an enemy's triumph.
Nay, weep not, gentle Eros; there is left us
Ourselves to end ourselves.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

A new poem and a promise of something to come...

Just a brief one this morning: a new poem, a plug for poetryspeaks.com (still the featured poet last I looked) and a promise to post something soon, which I've been writing, to do with the music of language, melos that is is Aristotle speak. But for now, instead of a poem from the book, here's a new poem or actually a bit from a new long poem:


from Virbius

--Unadorned,

crinkled by the bristled wave

they called, --Hippoplytus

and I turned

and received a blow to back of head,

horse hooves of wave break edge

knockt me under

into the bottom currents

twisted and writhing with every separate

compass point targeted by their pull.