"breton" poems
Here's a few legitimate refugees:
political, poverty, drought, war, and religious.
They're right in the top drawer zone,
But who gives a flying Whoopi
That Miley will claim assylum in Bali Bali;
Or Rosie will fly over camps on her way to Switzerland.
I hope Cher,
Doesn't apply for residence on Cape Breton Island:
We don't want you, Babe.
These are the celebrity refugees,
Bailing out on the touted
Greatest Democracy on the planet.
**** if you don't like what you elect,
Look to history,
Stove pipe hats,
And the wonders to be achieved
Before the end of this decade.
They got enough cash for space,
For Mars!
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
Seven stars in the still water,
And seven in the sky;
Seven sins on the King’s daughter,
Deep in her soul to lie.
Red roses are at her feet,
(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)
And O where her ***** and girdle meet
Red roses are hidden there.
Fair is the knight who lieth slain
Amid the rush and reed,
See the lean fishes that are fain
Upon dead men to feed.
Sweet is the page that lieth there,
(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)
See the black ravens in the air,
Black, O black as the night are they.
What do they there so stark and dead?
(There is blood upon her hand)
Why are the lilies flecked with red?
(There is blood on the river sand.)
There are two that ride from the south and east,
And two from the north and west,
For the black raven a goodly feast,
For the King’s daughter rest.
There is one man who loves her true,
(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)
He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,
(One grave will do for four.)
No moon in the still heaven,
In the black water none,
The sins on her soul are seven,
The sin upon his is one.
2.7k
In your mother's apple-orchard,
Just a year ago, last spring:
Do you remember, Yvonne!
The dear trees lavishing
Rain of their starry blossoms
To make you a coronet?
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
As I remember yet?
In your mother's apple-orchard,
When the world was left behind:
You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!
But your eyes were calm and kind.
We spoke of the apple harvest,
When the cider press is set,
And such-like trifles, Yvonne,
That doubtless you forget.
In the still, soft Breton twilight,
We were silent; words were few,
Till your mother came out chiding,
For the grass was bright with dew:
But I know your heart was beating,
Like a fluttered, frightened dove.
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
That first faint flush of love?
In the fulness of midsummer,
When the apple-bloom was shed,
Oh, brave was your surrender,
Though shy the words you said.
I was glad, so glad, Yvonne!
To have led you home at last;
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
How swiftly the days passed?
In your mother's apple-orchard
It is grown too dark to stray,
There is none to chide you, Yvonne!
You are over far away.
There is dew on your grave grass, Yvonne!
But your feet it shall not wet:
No, you never remember, Yvonne!
And I shall soon forget.
2.7k
Matrilineality is the tracing of descent
through the female line corresponding
to a societal system in which each person
is identified with their matriline;
– their _mother's_ image –
and which can involve the inheritance
of property and/or titles. A matriline is
a line of descent from
a common female ancestor
to a descendant of either ***
in which the individuals in all intervening
generations are mothers –
in other words, a "mother line".
In matrilineal descent,
individuals belong to the same
group as their mother.
The matriline of historical nobility
was also called the _enatic_ or _Uterine_ ancestry;
From Middle English wombe, wambe,
from Old English womb, wamb
(“belly, stomach; bowels; heart; womb; hollow”),
from Proto-Germanic *wambō
(“belly, stomach, abdomen”),
from Proto-Indo-European *wamp- (“membrane (of bowels),
intestines, womb”). Cognate with Scots wam, wame (“womb”),
Dutch wam (“dewlap of beef; belly of a fish”),
German Wamme, Wampe (“paunch, belly”),
Danish vom (“belly, paunch, rumen”),
Swedish våmb (“belly, stomach, rumen”),
Norwegian vomb (“belly”), Icelandic vömb
(“belly, abdomen, stomach”), Old Welsh gumbelauc (“womb”),
Breton gwamm (“woman, wife”),
Sanskrit वपा (vapā́, “the skin or membrane
lining the intestines or parts of the viscera,
the caul or omentum”).
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:37 PM UTC
They sleep well here,
These fisher-folk who passed their anxious days
In fierce Atlantic ways;
And found not there,
Beneath the long curled wave,
So quiet a grave.
And they sleep well,
These peasant-folk, who told their lives away,
From day to market-day,
As one should tell,
With patient industry,
Some sad old rosary.
And now night falls,
Me, tempest-tost, and driven from pillar to post,
A poor worn ghost,
This quiet pasture calls;
And dear dead people with pale hands
Beckon me to their lands.
2.7k
I wish to go to Nova Scotia
And long to play in Breton fields,
Faraway and over the oceans,
For ever a bonnie soul shall lead.
I wish to row for Nova Scotia
And glide above the seas trembling,
Far beyond my earthly devotions,
Where ever a bonnie soul shall lead.
I see long oars in every tree,
In ocean swells, a boat for me,
A lull of melodies in seabirds call,
Beyond the wave is music and song.
I will follow a star to Nova Scotia
And suffer on seas of forgetfulness,
To play a fiddle with joyful Scotians,
For ever a bonnie soul has needs.
I see long oars in every tree,
In ocean swells, a boat for me,
A lull of melodies in seabirds call,
Beyond the wave is music and song.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 1:51 AM UTC
This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
*‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her*.’
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song sans pariel.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
Hands rough, from long days in the mines
Only one day to look forward to
That day in which true love be intertwined
Star crossed love, perceived taboo
A Dunmer and a Breton!
Her father would not condone
For his stature would it threaten
So this love must remain unknown
This night we steal away
To meet in the hills above Soljund's
Gather my belongings, make haste, no delay
With her love, all else can be foregone
*Dragonborn travels
happening upon a doleful scene
two dead lovers
in the hills above Soljund's*
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 2:25 PM UTC
- Air breton. -
Adieu, patrie !
L'onde est en furie.
Adieu, patrie !
Azur !
Adieu, maison, treille au fruit mûr,
Adieu, les fleurs d'or du vieux mur !
Adieu, patrie !
Ciel, forêt, prairie !
Adieu, patrie,
Azur !
Adieu, patrie !
L'onde est en furie.
Adieu, patrie,
Azur !
Adieu, fiancée au front pur,
Le ciel est noir, le vent est dur.
Adieu, patrie !
Lise, Anna, Marie !
Adieu, patrie,
Azur !
Adieu, patrie !
L'onde est cri furie.
Adieu, patrie,
Azur !
Notre œil, que voile un deuil futur,
Va du flot sombre au sort obscur !
Adieu, patrie !
Pour toi mon cœur prie.
Adieu, patrie,
Azur !
Jersey, le 31 juillet 1853.
1.9k
I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell
they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites
ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks
we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small
As storms build up I walk a coastal trail
where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered
an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge
and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems
Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete
ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle
gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us
I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car
clicking heels behind me in the parking lot
the castanets of other lives with their importance
arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach
hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm
But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings
all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this
thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!”
its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause
on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east
a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned
a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here
in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather
the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant
This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats
Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs
walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies
none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC
Chance Operations are methods of generating poetry independent of the author’s will. A chance operation can be almost anything from throwing darts and rolling dice, to the ancient Chinese divination method, I-Ching, and even sophisticated computer programs. Most poems created by chance operations use some original text as their source, be it the newspaper, an encyclopedia, or a famous work of literature. The purpose of such a practice is to play against the poet’s intentions and ego, while creating unusual syntax and images. The resulting poems allow the reader to take part in producing meaning from the work.
The roots of using chance operations to generate poetry are generally traced to the Dada movement in Western Europe in the early and mid-twentieth-century, involving writers such as André Breton, Louis Aragon, Tristan Tzara, Philippe Soupault, and Paul Éluard. The Dadaists were deeply interested in the subconscious, and they believed that the mind would create associations and meaning from any text, including those generated through random selections. In one section of Tzara’s “Dada Manifesto on Feeble & Bitter Love," he offers the following instructions to make a Dadaist poem, here translated from the original French by Barbara Wright:
“Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are--an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the ****** herd.”
The use of chance operations in contemporary poetry has been used most famously by the international avant-garde group Fluxus, poet Jackson Mac Low, and the poet and composer John Cage. A good example of a poem that was written using chance operations is Jackson Mac Low’s “Stein 100: A Feather Likeness of the Justice Chair," which also includes Mac Low’s explanation of the methods he used to compose the poem.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
after one last summer of cottages, palm-beers floating on the lake,
faceplanting into the waves while trying to kneeboard,
badly-planned but perfectly-timed trips to toronto for shows
(getting kurt viled)
the family casa (host of
many ragers and teenage kicks) was sold and georgian bay was no longer home.
my parents bought a new truck and moved what was
once 15 quesnelle drive
down to cape breton island, three quarter million in pocket
and i,
i had a resurgence of old feelings towards a girl i won't name
brought on by our rekindled friendship after the death
of my best friend, (nothin' helped me get thru those months
quite like that smile)
and after an embarrassing night spent having various altercations
(fisticuffs)
with a young birch tree behind my pal's place
i hopped in my '03 volvo and sped west like that old man once told
dean to do.
dust flying thru the open windows and my split knuckles
smilin' at the fat old sun.
that summer the bookstore,
where i bought so many weathered novels, died and
the man who was its overseer, with whom i spent so many evenings philosophizing over cups of joe in the closed-up shop ,
sort of faded away; i'd see him thursdays at the study sipping whatever he drank there in the corner and always felt too bad
about the closing of cottage books, ashamed in a word, to
ever go over and buy the guy a beer.
still don't know why.
guess i'm a bit of a *****
that drive out west was good. made 10 mixes in addition to CDs
i already had and slept on the highway side and stopped
where ever the hell i wanted to stop. smoked cigars while blazing over the pavement with my life in the backseat at 120 km/h
not knowing how to feel,
but doing alright.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
The spirited light; the solar-like wind;
breath with its passion; the sun’s copious
****** venom.
I speak of everything and all things
without caution: this noise inside my head;
layers of high pitched harmonics;
the compressed hours between
birth and death; the heart’s heat
ascending and descending;
the end always beginning and again
your Gothic eyes. I have been here
and there, a prodigal hawk
with the flavor of blood-kisses hovering
like steam or mist or a weapon stirring
the body’s carbonic magnetic motion;
never the sky always the silence disclosing
the stillness in death’s fantasy—life and death;
love and loss; a fatalistic dream-reel
as if two mirrors facing each other reflecting
the same vacant image. I remember the faint
trail of finger prints; my impatient pulse
raced into yours. Deserted passions
like roses each one dies the same way
—our emotions mumbled
through love and into the glazed elixir
of a French kiss: In my arms you had fallen asleep
not knowing I had left.
——————————————————————————
From my second book: 'The Second Coming'
©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012
all rights reserved
"never the sky always the silence"—from Andre' Breton
Search Amazon: "the second coming/dah" and "in forbidden language/dah"
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
I was on a ship, a ship on the high seas;
With nobody on the deck,
Sailing through heavy, stormy waters.
Who's at the helm?
I don't know - swaying from side to side
the vessel tottered on, metal
oar-rests clanging to wheezing winds
and boisterous, surging waves.
I suddenly get a call on my mobile - how
on earth did I have network?
'I can see her', says the voice, 'an austere
lady leading the ship'. Is she
the same helmswoman who charters
universes before they come alive?
I walked downstairs, finding the parlour.
And decided I should paint,
to **** time: time, the enduring mystery.
Is this a dream? I consulted
Varo and dipped my brush in black
and splattered oil over canvas.
Dots, like sparkling stars, I see threes and
twos, and fives. Looking eerily
like loaded dice. Am I cruising through
skies? Is this my destiny loaded?
This is an allegory, says Martel. Agrees
Jung; Breton seems pleased.
Freud, though, says I'm just paranoid,
and this, my willful imagination.
I wake up, and find myself on a ship.
There's no one on the deck.
I have a mobile phone in my hand.
Miracle: there's network,
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
1.
His soft neck.
Put wires
all the way around it
and pull.
2.
I see glass in the road next to trash,
take a piece
and
make it hot over a running engine,
look for the sky in André's
stomach,
wear gloves
and hold the glass
and dig.
3.
André has
so many bones
under his skin,
make all of them come outside.
4.
See how much water he can breathe and don't stop.
5.
Put him on a sidewalk in the Pearl District,
paint him black or ******** or crack-addict
and leave him there,
watch the crowds watch him
away.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 7:24 PM UTC
In the middle was Evelyn
Shyly peeping out
In front was James
And behind Rose.
She hang up her coat
On a red metal peg
Put her snoopy box
In the wire basket.
Then Breton cried
For her Mummy
And was comforted
By Miss Petershore.
All the children
Played outside
On the grassy slopes
It was fun.
Evelyn liked her day
Did a picture
Of her family
It was put on the wall.
At three-thirty
Parents collected
She pushed into daddy
With a big smile.
Love Grandma xxxx
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:25 PM UTC
I wish to go to Nova Scotia
And long to play in Breton fields,
Faraway and over the oceans,
For ever a bonnie soul shall lead.
I wish to row for Nova Scotia
And glide above the seas trembling,
Far beyond my earthly devotions,
Where ever a bonnie soul shall lead.
I see long oars in every tree,
In ocean swells, a boat for me,
A lull of melodies in seabirds call,
Beyond the wave is music and song.
I will follow a star to Nova Scotia
And suffer on seas of forgetfulness,
To play a fiddle with joyful Scotians,
For ever a bonnie soul has needs.
I see long oars in every tree,
In ocean swells, a boat for me,
A lull of melodies in seabirds call,
Beyond the wave is music and song.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 3:29 AM UTC
of which
is humor
and of
which is
life
that our
dry mouths
gape
at the beauty
of death?
old princesses
and young
hobgoblins
will
laugh at
our
naiveté
that imitates
picnic blankets
and checker boards.
"Many perished
precisely
because
they were young
and beautiful."
Andre Breton
laughs
with our age
and our age
laughs
at time
and time laughs
at half
played grand pianos
and full moons
and they laugh
at our fingers
which fumble
at life
and life
fumbles through
humor.
of which is humor
and of
which is life
we wonder
as water clogged
ears strain to
hear.
or listen?
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
Brighton is the closest
to Brexit than anywhere
in Britain so why not
Bring a Breton sample
and stop Brainwashing
to Brake the Brackets
that Braggarts Brag in
Brainless Bravado of
Bribery that is Brewing
by Bricking the tunnel
thus Bridling Brittle Brows,
with Brutal Brush-offs
Bruising Brotherly love.
ps.
EXIT via the backstop.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 8:54 AM UTC
84:
i have discovered i am i have been attached somebody attached strings to me and often wrenches violently upon them,
***Breton has strings too, and sometimes
he likes to twitch.***
85:
dead space.
i ca
n ’t, i can't think,
everything is a mirror,
ym deah sdeen ot ehteabr,
my head needs to breathe,
ehtaebr ot sdeen daeh ym,
im going to make holes with breton to breathe so i can think,
i only need a nail
or some thorns and wire. Breton is probably hiding some wire. I am good at finding things.
86:
when my kneecaps turn blue,
i know my health’s shot to ****
Breton ran into Old Mathers
in the basement
and Mathers says Breton’s not coming up (for [quite!] a long time).
Kat told me **** little Breton for his marrow,*
never enough marrow,
Mathers says.
I listen to Kat, always go by Kat,
always by Kat, always:
*Death came too close to me,
Almost seeing the eternal light.
Harder to feel when you’ve almost died,
Hopes and dreams never almost tried.
In His eyes, your time to go:
Having this purpose for me in life,
Having this purpose for now,
I do not know.*
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
THE PRECIOUS terror is realizing
most adults are dead children
or like a day that folds itself into
a basket of reborn night. That long-
necked geese and stiff necks are
either pretending giraffes or self
consumed souls; ignoring the mirror's
reflecting thoughts introspection
devours it's own mouth.
Surrealism is hickey upon my heart
that bests freezer burn sunlight any
now. Kiss me you brilliant stupid
fool.
:: 08-30-2018 ::
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:57 PM UTC
Summer plays witness
to our salty footprints
the towers we crashed into
leaving only fragile things
to be collected or consumed
all the lives we created
exist shimmering
far below our reach
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
Réveillez-vous, assez de honte !
Bravez boulets et biscayens.
Il est temps qu'enfin le flot monte.
Assez de honte, citoyens !
Troussez les manches de la blouse.
Les hommes de quatre-vingt-douze
Affrontaient vingt rois combattants.
Brisez vos fers, forcez vos geôles !
Quoi ! vous avez peur de ces drôles !
Vos pères bravaient les titans !
Levez-vous ! foudroyez et la horde et le maître !
Vous avez Dieu pour vous et contre vous le prêtre
Dieu seul est souverain.
Devant lui nul n'est fort et tous sont périssables.
Il chasse comme un chien le grand tigre des sables
Et le dragon marin ;
Rien qu'en soufflant dessus, comme un oiseau d'un arbre,
Il peut faire envoler de leur temple de marbre
Les idoles d'airain.
Vous n'êtes pas armés ? qu'importe !
Prends ta fourche, prends ton marteau !
Arrache le gond de ta porte,
Emplis de pierres ton manteau !
Et poussez le cri d'espérance !
Redevenez la grande France !
Redevenez le grand Paris !
Délivrez, frémissants de rage,
Votre pays de l'esclavage,
Votre mémoire du mépris !
Quoi ! faut-il vous citer les royalistes même ?
On était grand aux jours de la lutte suprême.
Alors, que voyait-on ?
La bravoure, ajoutant à l'homme une coudée,
Etait dans les deux camps. N'est-il pas vrai, Vendée,
Ô dur pays breton ?
Pour vaincre un bastion, pour rompre une muraille,
Pour prendre cent canons vomissant la mitraille.
Il suffit d'un bâton !
Si dans ce cloaque ou demeure,
Si cela dure encore un jour,
Si cela dure encore une heure,
Je brise clairon et tambour,
Je flétris ces pusillanimes,
Ô vieux peuple des jours sublimes,
Géants à qui nous les mêlions,
Je les laisse trembler leurs fièvres,
Et je déclare que ces lièvres
Ne sont pas vos fils, ô lions !
Jersey, le 15 janvier 1853.
811
Did you know
the average person
spends only five seconds at a piece of art?
A mere glimpse of Albright’s Dorian Gray
his phantasmal and grotesque visage
silently screaming horror
Only a look at Litchenstein’s pulp women
straw-yellow hair and ivory word bubbles abound
their comic book stories told within one panel
A sighting of Breton’s Lark
a dying sun sinking into the horizon behind her
her tired, shadowy eyes awaiting the next one’s arrival
All these fleeting moments betray art
for they do not deserve seconds
they have earned centuries
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 9:04 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~
***Unblemished sand of a far away land
Unearthing bubbles of weary clams
Sky grows tired as Flame burns low
The simple serenity of the afterglow***
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC