#wyatt
Prove whether I do change, my dear,
Or if that I do still remain
Like as I went, or far or near,
And if ye find me not the same,
Declare 't is so that all may hear.
But if ye prove I change, my dear,
Not, but unchang'd I do remain
Constant and true whithersoe'er
I travel to, then, dearest, deign
T'admit it only in my ear.
Apr 9, 2025
Apr 9, 2025 at 7:45 AM UTC
The changing seasons are not more changefull
Then my mistresse; neither more vengefull
Is the wooing autumn wind that seduceth
A singing mood afore it blasteth
With bitter colde, angry and disdainfull.
Her scorne is lyke a scorpion sting painfull
In my sad heart wich bleedeth for banefull
Her who presently nowe observeth
The changing seasons.
Her cruell scorne capricious entiseth
My heart to dispaire; itt dispaireth
Dailye and dieth from disese most carefull.
Her scorne doth make my harte most woefull,
And so my smartyng heart despiseth
The changing seasons.
Oct 12, 2024
Oct 12, 2024 at 12:21 AM UTC
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.
(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)
I
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.
II
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.
24Dec15c,d
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC