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Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch

After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.)

“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”

“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)

Originally published by Lucid Rhythms. This poem is based on an account of Edna St. Vincent Millay being confronted by a male Vassar authority about her rogue behavior. However, there is a some poetic license involved, for the sake of humor. It was actually Vassar President Henry Noble MacCracken who mentioned Shelley. Here is his account in a response to a question about Millay cutting classes: "She cut everything. I once called her in and told her, 'I want you to know that you couldn't break any rule that would make me vote for your expulsion. I don't want to have any dead Shelleys on my doorstep, and I don't care what you do.' She went to the window and looked out and she said, 'Well on those terms I think I can continue to live in this hellhole.'" The stuff about Enoch and Moloch is, of course, pure fabrication on my part.
Keywords/Tags: Millay, dead, Shelley, Vassar, dorm, hellhole, drinking, partying, ***, cutting classes
Outcast and outlaw and wild Romantic
May I rest my heart in thine gentle hands
Let it beat naked, open, and frantic
Will you pluck its strings, kiss these shiv’ring strands?

I pray, will thee guide my wandering pen
Across the page, through the spectral divide
Help find the words that evade me again
Trying to make sense of the mess inside

A desperate plea from a kindred soul
Seeking anyone who can understand
To find the words that make me feel whole
And sink teeth into the life I had planned

Find me, my lost flame and distant lover
Together, what worlds can we uncover?
Lily Oct 2019
At the end, my hand
Nor my fingers trembled as
I grasped her pale neck.
I recently entered this in a Halloween haiku contest and wanted to share it with you guys :)
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Keats swooned over a world that never was, except in dreams, and I've no use for that.


In lieu of aught we know:  blue skies t'avail
Sans blot of clouds 'til puddles mirror thence
Heavn's eye...take up the chalice to drink hence
That fragrant draught which yields as if to scale
More heady visions than we've drunk, t'exhale
Like sailors on the faerie seas, pretense
Our dainty meat; as lovers swoon for sense
Oer plighted troth, not as we know; sans bail.
Go into raptures likeas Keats would stir
And Byron knew to write, as Shelley drew
Up in his Ode, faint cuz ye know in tour
What minstrels sang in ballads, weaving to
Effect those silken strands to snare souls fer
The Devil's heights.  Cuz what we have won't do.

NOTE:  Who knows of L.E.L. ie Letitia Elizabeth Landon?  I prefer reality though it's far too shallow.
Jenny Gordon Aug 2016
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.



Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.


Lo, ******. Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.

*Does "he" call himself "Nateive Son" here?  Either way, chancing across his post I guess that night these were penned, his video clip of Bukowski intro'd me to the devil and inspired this.  Not the best sonnets, but whatever, it's Charles' fault, shall we say?
Jana Chehab Jul 2016
I have been seeking a moment when
My paean would see the light
A melody when your serrated laugh
Crescendoes and obviates all evils
But what I'm truly wishing for
Is to be a scabbard to your sword
The bell that wakes you up at noon
A hymn that you know by heart
And the rituals that you adhere to
Tell me how I could shield
The furtive rhythm of your chords
To venerate the echoes of your fingertips
And be completely absorbed in your silhouette
I am proclaiming my paean
That seems five months of age
But in fact it has been decades
Trapped amongst verses and rhymes
If Hemingway was exchanging breaths
You could be his martini glass
Or the obsession of Shelley with Keats
Or maybe a beer bottle on Hank's grave
But the golden lotus has been outdated
For you are my fierce flames
To sanctify and to revive
And unlike Plath I'm living to see
When my paean would come to life

Cheers to five months.
King of Kings, I am to man!
Set apart, in stone; a gentry,

With a tomb that sits but nearly empty?

A grave with few artifacts to witness bear,
Inscription of him, who was the great king,

Who was once and future, a beginning to everything,

Whose great father descended into those lands…
Where epitaph graces a lonely stone,

And Ozymandias rests, at peace, alone.
Percy Shelley and Horace Smith both wrote poems about a statue found in Egypt that contained an epithet with the name Ozymandias. Each successive king was the reincarnation of the first king so every statue was in fact the first king of Egypt; Menes.

His tomb was found to be empty but had several artifacts including one written in Sumerian cuneiform. This is further proof that Sumerians started the Egyptian cities and the name, "Ozymandias," translates by root words into, "God's Magic Mind."

So back to the epithet, who can create like the king? No one for his works come from God's Magic Mind. This is my version in tribute to the first king of Egypt and the statue. It is my contention that Menes is Minos and Manis and Ninus and therefore he is the son of ******. The first as told in the Bible to invade Africa and conquer it.
Graff1980 Jun 2015
Look at the lovely Lord Byron
Sweet John Keats
And Percy Shelley
What an awesome group
Of poets
Bet they were really romantic
Bryan Rogers May 2015
The Eturi
Part 1 - Genesis

I shall tell you of the first Eturi.
I shall tell you how the seas did not want them--
Coughing them up on the shore
Like water from the lungs of a drowning man.

They were unseemly things.
Arms stretched sinewy from their sockets
Fingers tipped with bulbs
And dripping a sticky mucus
Tearing flesh off prey caught in their hands
On teeth with edges like sawed-off metal.

Their stomachs--
A swollen gelatinous sack of a belly
Mottled with spots and partially translucent
Allowed for an uninhibited view onto the trophy of their latest meal
As it slowly digests.

The Eturi were humanoid only by their incipience
To foul the word--

The land was bare rock and mud then.
The Eturi were kings
Nothing lived that could challenge their predominance
For nothing lived,
There were yet no plants or other animals
Nothing to eat.

On all fours, they scrabbled the earth for food
Stiff-arming on knuckles
And the tippy toes of their feet
Lip-******* the dirt
Pumping their bellies full of mud and sand
Licking the rocks and chewing clay--
Always hungry
Scouring from beach--to desert--to canyon--to cracked earth--to volcano
Anything to eat.

Until starving, their belly made its final demand--
They must feed.

The first to fall to hunger was unexpected.
A look
From one Eturi upon another
A look that may have been casual or even sincere
Suddenly took on a thoughtful gaze
Then a deliberate stare.

Soon a second Eturi took up that gaze
Then a third,
No words passed between them
Their eyes were like the baying of hounds
Calling the others to them
Swelling into a pack
Drinking the scent of their gaze--
Hunger so close to the surface
The air was almost chewy.

When the other Eturi turned
And saw their eyes upon him
The eyes of his brothers and sisters
The look in their eyes,
He could barely register protest
Before they were on him--
Ripping flesh from muscle
Muscle from bone
Bones snapped to **** out the marrow.
The Eturi was eaten
Before he died.

Survival did not go to the biggest and strongest
For they had the most to eat.
No, survival went to the scrawniest
The smelliest
The most deformed
Those with unappealing prickles of hair
For they were the most unsavory.

And out of this interspecial gorging
Bred a trait
That would become their greatest and most lasting legacy--

For what mattered resourcefulness
Or strength of the will to live,
If you could predict the hunger in others
And twist them to your own?

It was said that the Land was so moved
Upon seeing the Eturi,
That taking the earth in her hands
She tore open her own breast
And drew forth life
In plants and grasses and fruit and trees and rich vegetation
And to lure other animals--
That anything
The Eturi may feed on anything
Anything but themselves.

But so the Eturi were
So when the Land gave up its last blossom
So would the Eturi always be.
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