"bluets" poems
suppose
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.
young death sits in a café
smiling,a piece of money held between
his thumb and first finger
(i say “will he buy flowers” to you
and “Death is young
life wears velour trousers
life totters,life has a beard” i
say to you who are silent.—”Do you see
Life?he is there and here,
or that, or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep,on his head
flowers,always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets
yes,
will He buy?
Les belles bottes—oh hear
,pas chères”)
and my love slowly answered I think so. But
I think I see someone else
there is a lady,whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death,is slender;
likes flowers.
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Pan came out of the woods one day,—
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they,—
And stood in the sun and looked his fill
At wooded valley and wooded hill.
He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
That was well! and he stamped a hoof.
His heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
Or homespun children with clicking pails
Who see so little they tell no tales.
He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For sylvan sign that the blue jay’s screech
And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
Were music enough for him, for one.
Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered there
Than the merest aimless breath of air.
They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
And raveled a flower and looked away—
Play? Play?—What should he play?
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Mister Mumble Plight in vain ironed his tie dry-cleaned his hankie several hundred times spent his life eating his three hundred dollar caviar from his three hundred dollar caviar jar
As he goes out on a world that expects nothing of him than expectations from him for as loong as he remembers opens his anti-UV umbrella on a fake sunny morning Mister Mumble Plight
Mister Mumble Plight on his quest to do everything right
All deeds done correct I just wish it follows the rest
Mister Mumble Plight
Mister Mumble Plight don't fail us now cuz the earth stood still as it gave us your frown please cover your stab wounds Mister Mumble Plight
Mister Mumble Plight homebound again his bag bound full of paper and knitted tie on a fake programed day lurks fake programed rain
On his bag hung the Awkward Arachnid with limbs shihivering cold evidently bearing a burden twelve years old
"But Miss Awkward my hands won't be of any help" Plight plead "but a trade-in is not what I acquire but it is to lead these feet into paradise, Mister Mumble Plight"
As the spider walk towards the end of the tunnel Mumble's steps involuntarily forward and as the blur clears out flowery patterns of bluets and daisies Mumble blabbered as his eyes never thought it sees to see the day.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
I came close to sight of a place once called Home.
I know in the crevices, our hearts beat together.
In the grass where we rolled,
in the trees where we climbed,
on the roads that we walked,
and, once, made art upon,
in the water we ran through,
and swam in,
and, once, dunked each other into, and, once, poured over each other,
on the coach where we laid,
whispering solacing words to keep ourselves refreshed,
In the kitchen where you worked hard to accomplish and I worked hard to distract,
on the floor where we rested at the edge of a day,
In the snow which we absorbed through cotton clothing and malleable minds,
Through the flowers where we ran, skipped, and took a few resplendent bluets or chaste anemones,
Yes - Even under the blankets where our love echoed
the sheets and reverberated back to
ourselves in a transient moment,
By the fire we would build before a cool summer night (which we then gazed at the heavens above)
but, under the clouds we watched and the stars we mapped.
In these crevices our hearts beat.
That is why, as you can see, our hearts beat poorly now:
They still beat in all of those crevices.
And as I got closer and closer to approaching your house, sitting next to a driver who looked upon me realizing (but probably not understanding why) that I was in a mental breakdown,
and I whispered love words to you through a foggy glass window,
A panic knocked the air from my lungs and a fear knocked me flat on my back,
-until, that is, we turned opposing roads and retreated back,
my tail beneath my leg.
And now that my chance is gone, I long to see home again.
So, and it is, so my heart can feel at ease and rest once more.
My dearest desire, my rambunctious "Fish"
(If you recall that story)
Does your heart still beat alongside mine?
Are the tears that stain your face, dripping onto the floor, forming just as quick as mine?
Are the hours passing as slowly for you as for me?
Do you miss home?
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 11:27 PM UTC
Fable V, Livre II.
Plus galant que sensé, Colin voulut jadis
Réunir dans son champ l'agréable à l'utile,
Et cultiver les fleurs au milieu des épis,
Rien n'était, à son gré, plus sage et plus facile.
Parmi les blés, dans la saison,
Il va donc semant à foison
Bluets, coquelicots, et mainte fleur pareille
Qu'on voit égayer nos guérets,
Quand Flore, en passant chez Cérès,
A laissé pencher sa corbeille.
Dans peu, se disait-il, que mon champ sera beau !
Avant l'ample récolte au moissonneur promise,
Que de bouquets pour Suzette, pour Lise,
Pour les fillettes du hameau !
Partant que de baisers ! oui, cadeau pour cadeau ;
Ou rien pour rien, c'est ma devise.
Le doux printemps paraît enfin :
Le bluet naît avec la rose.
En mai, le bonheur de Colin
Faisait envie à maint voisin ;
En août ce fut tout autre chose.
Tandis qu'il n'était pas d'endroits
Où la moisson ne fût certaine ;
Que les trésors de Beauce au **** doraient la plaine,
Et que le laboureur n'avait plus d'autre peine
Que celle de trouver ses greniers trop étroits ;
Trop **** désabusé de ses projets futiles,
D'un œil obscurci par les pleurs,
Colin, dans ses sillons stérilement fertiles,
Cherche en vain les épis étouffés sous les fleurs.
Vous qui dans ses travaux guidez la faible enfance,
Ceci vous regarde, je crois ;
Chez vous, on apprend à la fois
Le latin, la musique, et l'algèbre, et la danse.
C'est trop. Heureusement savons-nous, mes amis,
Que le Rollin du jour n'est pas de cet avis.
Enseigner moins, mais mieux, oui, tel est son système
Colin, vous dit-il sagement,
Ne cultivons que le froment,
Le bluet viendra de lui-même.
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I wrote about the pinstriped girls whose elbows make you feel alive.
but I have tree sap in my veins
filled to the brim with leaves,
eaves that drip holy water
charcoal in my hair and
bluets follow where I
step, I am komorebi
the sun will always
always, always
find
me.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
unruly, swarthy, dark and
full of Spaniard descent, I
never looked good on your
side, not that I was a mexican
trinket, but all your new girlfriends
are made of cotton with bluets in their
hair, slender fingers that slip through
your ribs where mine always got jam
med
I
am
falling
into the uncategorized, the
ethnic gap
unraveled at the end of the
stairs
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
And to think that even the otherworldly
Is made other by this world of ours.
And every fiction
is just some little reality
wrapped and tied in ribbon
or cloaked in elven wools
painted in one thousand colors
or masked in grime and muck.
And, so disguised,
Reality becomes truer.
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 2:11 AM UTC
I have been saying I've been writing a novel
for years without writing a word.
It is,
perhaps,
my way of making my life feel “in progress”
rather than a sleeve of ash
falling off a lit cigarette.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC