September 10, 2004
A poem for tomorrow.
Since the anniversary is on the weekend, I post this today, hoping you will find others to go with it.
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The page cannot be displayed There is a problem with the page you are trying to reach and it cannot be displayed. Please try the following: Click the Refresh button, or try again later. That's... that's beautiful...
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Funny, works fine for me. Shall I c/p it here?
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Link works fine for me, too. Like the Ginsberg poem, with all the folk in the produce department.
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Well, now I can get to it fine. Sorry about that. To make up for it, here's a poem from last week's New Yorker: A POEM THAT I WROTE IN A HIGH FEVER You who are lengthening your lives with the best doctors and the best medicines remember those who are shortening their lives with the wars that you in your long lives are not preventing. You who are again screwing the younger generations and winking at each other the winking of your eyelids is like the chill of the swinging shutters in an empty house. --Yehuda Amichai
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as if a fool unwittingly called "Come here" to the white horses of the sea as if they heard up they reared and abruptly dashed away the nets of the fishermen whose boats and huts were broken by surge and tumult of the plunging ocean.
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O, did some fool unwittingly call Come here! to the white horses of the sea? As if they heard Up they reared and abruptly dashed away jetties of fishermen Boats and huts and hopes were broken shoreline hammered flat Sea-surge after sea-surge pounded along the rim of a plunging ocean
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Lo...a work in progress
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Rah, Bees. More horse images, please.
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Horse keepers may not be entirely well: we love the smell of horses and of hay and how they make a dreadful racket in drinking from a metal bucket. And some of them -- I think it's like a laugh -- our small bay mare, she with pink-splashed nose as soft as old velvet, plunges deep her slender muzzle for sheer delight of snorting forth a stream of bubbles and has been known to pick up a running hose to drench her owners when unsuspecting backs are turned
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John Carder Bush Control: A translation When God comes at me do I bow the stallion's legs or meet him with flared nostrils? When Man comes at me do I rein in the stallion, or let him meet the hooves? When Woman comes at me do I let her take the bridle, or turn away the head? When Animal comes at me the stallion stalls at simplicity: I cannot make him face attack. When I come at me the stallion bolts: I find him nuzzling the reflecting water. When I and stallion blend the grass gets cropped.