Will, thanks for posting this poem, Linda Scheimann
Will Dockery wrote:
> "Your Sugir" wrote:
> > > cythera wrote
> > >> Scat wrote (not copied):
> >
> > >> > At the Curb - (Revision 1)
> > >>
> > >> > by Scat
> > >>
> > >> > The wind blows quick and low
> > >> > beneath the trees and ****ts.
> > >> > I watch the stolen petals
> > >> > roll tight across the ground
> > >> > and listen to the bad clouds
> > >> > boil their rumble sound.
> > >> > The air smells of ions
> > >> > and feels of bone-cold wet.
> > >> > I watch the thumping rain fall
> > >> > on leaf boats hunting home,
> > >> > and see the wet road mirror
> > >> > a man standing alone.
> > >>
> > >
>
http://groups.google.com/group/alt.arts.poetry.comments/msg/4331d3352c4d4068?dmode=source
> > >>
> > >
> > > Poor Barbie's only "intellectual property" turns out to be a cat
turd.
> >
> > Incarnate devil in a talking s****,
> > The central plains of Asia in his garden,
> > In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
> > In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
> > And God walked there who was a fiddling warden
> > And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.
> >
> > When we were strangers to the guided seas,
> > A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
> > The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
> > Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
> > And when the moon rose windily it was
> > Black as the beast and paler than the cross.
> >
> > We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
> > In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
> > And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
> > Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
> > All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
> > A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.
> > -DT
>
> One Thomas poem I always come back to and always find something snazzy
is:
>
> Altarwise by Owl-Light (Stanzas I - IV)
>
> Altarwise by owl-light in the half-way house
> The gentleman lay graveward with his furies;
> Abaddon in the hangnail cracked from Adam,
> And, from his fork, a dog among the fairies,
> The atlas-eater with a jaw for news,
> Bit out the mandrake with to-morrows scream.
> Then, penny-eyed, that gentlemen of wounds,
> Old cock from nowheres and the heaven's egg,
> With bones unbuttoned to the half-way winds,
> Hatched from the windy salvage on one leg,
> Scraped at my cradle in a walking word
> That night of time under the Christward shelter:
> I am the long world's gentlemen, he said,
> And share my bed with Capricorn and Cancer.
>
> Death is all metaphors, shape in one history;
> The child that sucketh long is shooting up,
> The planet-ducted pelican of circles
> Weans on an artery the genders strip;
> Child of the short spark in a shapeless country
> Soon sets alight a long stick from the cradle;
> The horizontal cross-bones of Abaddon,
> You by the cavern over the black stairs,
> Rung bone and blade, the verticals of Adam,
> And, manned by midnight, Jacob to the stars.
> Hairs of your head, then said the hollow agent,
> Are but the roots of nettles and feathers
> Over the groundowrks thrusting through a pavement
> And hemlock-headed in the wood of weathers.
>
> First there was the lamb on knocking knees
> And three dead seasons on a climbing grave
> That Adam's wether in the flock of horns,
> Butt of the tree-tailed worm that mounted Eve,
> Horned down with skullfoot and the skull of toes
> On thunderous pavements in the garden of time;
> Rip of the vaults, I took my marrow-ladle
> Out of the wrinkled undertaker's van,
> And, Rip Van Winkle from a timeless cradle,
> Dipped me breast-deep in the descending bone;
> The black ram, shuffling of the year, old winter,
> Alone alive among his mutton fold,
> We rung our weathering changes on the ladder,
> Said the antipodes, and twice spring chimed.
>
> What is the metre of the dictionary?
> The size of genesis? the short spark's gender?
> Shade without shape? the shape of the Pharaohs echo?
> (My shape of age nagging the wounded whisper.)
> Which sixth of wind blew out the burning gentry?
> (Questions are hunchbacks to the poker marrow.)
> What of a bamboo man amomg your acres?
> Corset the boneyards for a crooked boy?
> Button your bodice on a hump of splinters,
> My camel's eyes will needle through the shroud.
> Loves reflection of the mushroom features,
> Still snapped by night in the bread-sided field,
> Once close-up smiling in the wall of pictures,
> Arc-lamped thrown back upon the cutting flood.
>
> -- Dylan Thomas
>
> --
> "Ozone Stigmata" by Will Dockery & Henry Conley
> http://www.myspace.com/willdockery
>
> Will Dockery videos:
> http://tinyurl.com/yfmzeq
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