1269 Arts and sciences poems

1 He takes a book down from his shelf & scribbles across a page of text:I am the final one. This means the world will end when he does. 2 In the Inferno, Dante conceives a Paradise of Poets & calls it Limbo. Foolishly he thinks his place is elsewhere. 3 Now the time has come to write a poem about a Paradise of Poets.

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level. Look at it talking to you. You look out a window Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don’t have it. You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other. The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot. What’s a plain level? It is that and other things, Bringing a system of them into play. Play? Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern, As in the division of grace these long August days Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know know / It The line began and ended with the same word when first published in the Times Literary Supplement(October 24, 1980):   know it / It It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters. It has been played once more. I think you exist only To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren’t there Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem Has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you.

Record breaking Thriller dance attempt. * Wolfman Jack style dj in the video game says, “This is Wasteland Radio and we’re here for you” * You are here maintaining détente between the voices in your head. Immediacy is retro, says Lytle. * Nostalgic/futuristic scene in which we can read the code— green flowing algorithms. We can almost slip right in.

Parmi beaucoup de poèmes Il y en avait un Dont je ne parvenais pas à me souvenir Sinon que je l'avais composé Autrefois En descendant cette rue Du côté des numéros pairs de cette rue Baignée d'une matinée limpide Une rue de petites boutiques persistantes Entre la Seine sinistrée et l'hôpital Un poème écrit avec mes pieds Comme je compose toujours les poèmes En silence et dans ma tête et en marchant Mais je ne me souviens de rien Que de la rue de la lumière et du hasard Qui avait fait entrer dans ce poème Le mot "respect" Que je n'ai pas l'habitude de faire vibrer Dans les pages mentales de la poésie Au-delà de lui il n'y a rien Et ce mot ce mot qui ne bouge pas Atteste la cessation de la rue Comme un arbre oublié de l'espace Among Many Poems Among many poems There was one Which I couldn't remember Except having made it up Long ago While going down that street On the even-numbered side of that street Bathed in a limpid morning A street of little shops still lasting Between the hospital and the wounded Seine A poem written with my feet As I always make up my poems In silence and in my head while walking But I remember nothing Except the street the light and the chance That had caused the entry in the poem Of the word "respect" That I don't usually set resounding In poetry's mental pages Beyond it there is nothing And this word this unmoving word Awaits the ending of the street Like a tree space has forgotten

Hirto corde gigni quosdam homines proditur, neque alios fortioris esse industriae, sicut Aristomenen Messenium qui trecentos occidit Lacedaemonios ... —Plinii, Naturalis Historia XI. Ixx. The guards sleep they breathe uneven Conversation with the Trees the sharp cicadas And knots of pine the flames Have stirred to talk: their light Shows him rolling in his bonds As if he dragged his bones Again beyond a tall And ghosted mist of blood; He took three hundred lives And will not give his own for capture Even. The smell of searing Hemp and flesh startles As the scream of birds— Should wake the guards of men Or dead. The fire flares and frames A running giant his wrists Caught between his thighs; A burned and awkward god. Once he tried the foxes’ Paths out of the shattered quarry. No way now. One may Kill his hundreds; still No way. How can he live Without his heart. Throw him To the ground and prepare knives! Do they by their hate Or wonder break the breast He shut to fear? Mock Or pray as they cut flesh Crush ribs and lay all open To the alien chill of air? No scream tears From him; the tiny veins Along his eyelid swell And pools of sweat gather at its corners. But they do not see his Slowly swinging eyes. They watch his heart; its brown Hair is whorled and dry.

We could paint semi-darkness in semi-darkness. And the ‘right lighting’ of a picture could be semi-darkness. Wittgenstein from Remarks on Color These islands lie off the west coast of Ireland as if nothing matters. The people have lived here for centuries with only a thin covering of soil over the surface. Great use is made of the seaweed, the cattle swimming out. The women here are justly famous. They weave their own tweed and make a type of belt called criss. The heavy Atlantic seas, the slip stitch. The difficulty of the patterns are never written down. Most impressive and rich, the trellis pattern and the rope, the tribute to the hardworking bee. But sometimes their knitting shows mistakes, with a true Irish touch of nothing really matters, a careless nonchalance of the crossing of their cables. And note mistakes in the simple patterns: forked lightning or cliff paths, small fields fenced with stone, the ups and downs of married life, the mosses. The openwork has a religious significance or none. Sometimes the clarity of the pattern is lost through the use of very fine wool. Green from the mosses, brown from the seaweed, grey and cream color from the stones and pebbles: many are distinctly over-bobbled. No matter. They are too lovely to be lost. Wool and knitting leaflets can be obtained. In no case is the whole pattern given. There are certain gaps and yawns and part of the pattern is left out as if it doesn’t matter, or was too lovely, so was lost. Some of the simple patterns are charming for children’s jerseys. This one, for example, would be lovely on a child.

Nothing to tell why I cannot write in re Nobody; nobody to narrate this latter acknowledgement: the self that counts words to a line, accountable survivor pain-wedged, pinioned in the cleft trunk, less petty than a sprite, poisonous as Ariel to Prospero's own knowledge. In my room a vase of peacock feathers. I will attempt to describe them, as if for evidence on which a life depends. Except for the eyes they are threadbare, the threads hanging as from a luminate tough weed in February. But those eyes—like a Greek letter, omega, fossiled in an Indian shawl; like a shaved cross section of living tissue, the edge metallic blue, the core of jet, the white of the eye in fact closer to beige, the whole encircled with a black-fringed green. The peacock roosts alone on a Scots pine at the garden end, in blustery twilight his lambent cloak stark as a warlock's cape, the maharajah-bird that scavenges close by the stone-troughed, stone-terraced, stone-ensurfed Suffolk shoreline; at times displays his scream.

I read that in this famous person’s poems “she searches for signs of what lies beneath and beyond the self.” Which seemed to me pointless, as if you wouldn’t know whether to paint with egg tempera or eat it. At eighteen, I came across Tolstoy’s “What is Art?” where he said an artist is different from other people because instead of eating an apple he paints it. Even then I thought why can’t he paint it and then eat it, the way at eight, the war just over, I stood shoeless in line in the snowy playground where one of the kids was handing out something that turned out to be small pieces of orange peel, something exotic we’d never seen before which I smelled, nibbled, and finally ate for this poem.

My drawing teacher said:Look,think,make a mark. Look, I told myself. And waited to be marked. Clouds are white but they darken with rain. Even a child blurs them back to little woolies on a hillside, little bundles without legs. Look, my teacher would surely tell me, they’re nothing like that.Like that: the lie.Like that: the poem. She said: Respond to the heaviest part of the figure first. Density is form. That I keep hearing destiny is not a mark of character. Like pilgrimage once morphed to mirage in a noisy room, someone so earnest at my ear. Then marriage slid. Mir-aage,Mir-aage, I heard the famous poet let loose awry into her microphone, triumphant. The figure to be drawn — not even half my age. She’s completely emptied her face for this job of standing still an hour. Look. Okay. But the little dream in there, inside the think that comes next. A pencil in my hand, its secret life is charcoal, the wood already burnt, a sacrifice.

"In spite of everything I shall rise again: I will take up my pencil, which I have forsaken in my great discouragement, and I will go on with my drawing."— Vincent Van Gogh A missile is shaped like a pencil— its long, slender body and pointed end creates history. A girl walking down the street a few steps ahead of her sister and friend, two medics who were trying to help injured people, the parked ambulance— all were annihilated by the same weapon. Above, drones—silent, unmanned planes. A metal, predatory bird that shoots a missile with precision, identifying the colors of a shirt, the features on a face—the shape of a nose, the color and length of a mustache. In a room far away, in another country, a man sits at a desk and looks at a screen; he strokes his thick, dark mustache as he carefully contemplates, then pushes a button. There is a charred hole in the ground where the girl once stood. There are pencils that write and erase, write and erase, so that there is nothing to be read on the page. The page blank as the desert sky, blank as the smooth shell of a drone. There is a family drinking mint tea in a living room. The man holds a cup to his lips, the glass touches his mustache. A silent bird hovers above. In a split second, everyone is dead, the house is in rubbles—arms, legs, splattered organs among broken concrete. Soon, there will be no trace.