The day was seized!
Salute!
+
The future of physics just got exciting.
Boom!
THE ONE THING THAT CAN SAVE AMERICA
John Ashbery
Is anything central?
Orchards flung out on the land,
Urban forests, rustic plantations, knee-high hills?
Are place names central?
Elm Grove, Adcock Corner, Story Book Farm?
As they concur with a rush at eye level
Beating themselves into eyes which have had enough
Thank you, no more thank you.
And they come on like scenery mingled with darkness
The damp plains, overgrown suburbs,
Places of known civic pride, of civil obscurity.
These are connected to my version of America
But the juice is elsewhere.
This morning as I walked out of your room
After breakfast crosshatched with
Backward and forward glances, backward into light,
Forward into unfamiliar light,
Was it our doing, and was it
The material, the lumber of life, or of lives
We were measuring, counting?
A mood soon to be forgotten
In crossed girders of light, cool downtown shadow
In this morning that has seized us again?
I know that I braid too much on my own
Snapped-off perceptions of things as they come to me.
They are private and always will be.
Where then are the private turns of event
Destined to bloom later like golden chimes
Released over a city from a highest tower?
The quirky things that happen to me, and I tell you,
And you know instantly what I mean?
What remote orchard reached by winding roads
Hides them? Where are these roots?
It is the lumps and trials
That tell us whether we shall be known
And whether our fate can be exemplary, like a star.
All the rest is waiting
For a letter that never arrives,
Day after day, the exasperation
Until finally you have ripped it open not knowing what it is,
The two envelope halves lying on a plate.
The message was wise, and seemingly
Dictated a long time ago, but its time has still
Not arrived, telling of danger, and the mostly limited
Steps that can be taken against danger
Now and in the future, in cool yards,
In quiet small houses in the country,
Our country, in fenced areas, in cool shady streets.
posted by John Gallaher @ 6:25 AM
13 comments
13 Comments:
The atheists are talking about God a lot.
Atheists do talk about God a lot, yes. Atheists are a necessary part of the God economy.
Point?
God is like money: those who have him don't talk about him.
I always thought of it more like God is a jar full of gumballs. If someone wants to make money they just have to put it on a shelf and make people pay to guess how many gumballs are in the jar. And then they buy themselves a big house and a boat.
God is weequashing: The spearing of eels or fish from a canoe by torchlight. / God is the inventing of words like weequashing. // She is not the fire darkening down. / She is the goldfinch singing the whisper song.
from Tina Kelley's "To Yahweh," qtd. in Anis Shivani's "David Lehman's Incestuous Coterie"
.
I Am
I was showing off my brand new
old unabridged dictionary, huge,
nearly two hands thick.
Over fifty years old. Paid two dollars
at a garage sale up in town.
We all agreed that a ‘51 UD was worth at least
a couple of bucks, but what the hell for?
Who needs that many useless obsolete words?
I said nothing is more important than words.
They teach us and nurture and lead.
They led us to civilization, right?
And what was it that God said
about words?
Copyright 2008 - Softwood-Seventy-eight Poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald
Gary,
I haven't done a good job sticking to my personal rule to keep reminding you that I'd rather you not post your poems in the comment section of my blog. I guess it's because I hate being the kind of person who makes rules and things. Anyway, not a lot of people read the comments sections of blogs anyway, but still I'd rather you didn't post your poems here. There are so many better, more appropriate places you could post them.
"There are so many better, more appropriate places you could post them."
For example?
GBF
John:
Thank you for having allowed me to post so many poems on your blog. I regret that you don’t care for my poetry (or the points I tried to make therewith). I won’t trouble you again.
Gary
Gary,
Oh, I hate making people feel bad. it's just that this blog, at least as I see it, isn't the right place for posting your poems. Facebook would be great alternative. A lot of people post their poems there. There are groups for it as well that you could join.
I mean no disrespect. I'm sorry that you feel I've said this because of the quality of your work. We're all in the summer doldrums. Many tapes are playing.
Thanks, John.
I don't do Facebook...or twitter. I'm still on dial-up, even. Shit, I don't even have a cell phone.
I just like sharing my poetry. I didn't intend to offend or impose on anyone.
Sorry.
But one could dial into facebook as easily as to a blog. And there ARE a lot of relly friendly places there.
It's really the end of blogs, I think. Blogs are over, and facebook is blazing.
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