"burgess" poems
1.
Before I knew he had.
His flight trailed off into a Utah
Sunrise. He left behind a little strand
Of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw
Long talks of topics that soon thinned grey,
A set of dog-eared books has been put down.
Books that brought nearer to my thought his own,
While Interstate-5 grated the ground.
2.
He must have, as the plane touched the runway,
Felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones,
His thoughts turning to those dog-eared days;
The seemingly endless months full of groans,
As they should have been, being spent alone;
And that set of books, at least it would seem,
Ignited the wick on which our passions gleam.
3.
These six years past since they took him away
Held minutes like a needle in plied dust.
There’s something in the spring that brings decay:
The outward beauty of the world just
Clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust
That all the blooming flowers usher in.
Then the rain comes...
4.
As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth,
I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess:
Men who’d not anticipated births
Inside my brother and I like cypress
Trees, evergreen and coniferous, we
Drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun,
Barely audible, gasps in the copse.
He’s with me now. What’s done is done.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
before I knew he had.
His flight trailed off into a Utah
sunrise. He left behind a little strand
of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw
long talks of topics that soon thinned grey,
a set of dog-eared books has been put down.
Books that brought nearer to my thought his own,
while somewhere Interstate-5 grates ‘cross the ground.
I sleep there still, although I left for good.
That house to this day asks me where he was.
Their smiles, the little comfort that they could
give, were emptier than their words. Often
I feel the vague pulse of their ragged stares –
torn, threadbare they unravel in the air
to mask their faces: that inner decree
which shades the truth. Where and how’d they ever grow wrong?
He must have, as the plane touched the runway,
felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones,
his thoughts turning to those dog-earing days.
The seemingly endless months full of groans,
as they should have been, being spent alone.
And that set of books, at least it would seem,
ignited the wick on which our passions gleam –
slate-grey regards.
These six years past since they took him away
held minutes like a needle in plied dust.
There’s something in the spring that brings decay
here. The outward beauty of the world just
clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust
that all the blooming flowers usher in.
Then the rain comes –
in spitters and spats it spins the spire.
When gone the white-wick’s still on fire.
As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth,
I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess.
Famed men who’d not anticipated births
inside my brother and I like cypress
trees, evergreen and coniferous we
drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun,
barely audible, gasps in the copse.
He’s with me now. What’s done is done.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
Pamela, I suppose,
Has taken one too many lines
And has given birth to a child
With a few extra mental arms and legs.
Green trees and
Vietnamese agent orange
Fell into her lungs a bit early
As she painted her portraits
And found her ideal of love in mine.
Women, I’ve found,
Have quite the strange way
Of making change.
We can’t all be Elizabeth Stantons
And Sylvia Plaths.
We can’t all be the bra-burners,
The Vietnam-Veteran spitters
That this generation of tetosterone-enticers
Has emerged from.
Pamela, like so many other long-haired,
Nail-painted beauties before her,
Lost herself in an opus of *******
And promiscuity
That brought her down
To a level terribly under
Those of substantial criminals.
As Burgess wrote, “You were not
Put on this Earth just
To get in touch
With God.”
Pamela, I suppose,
Failed at just the same,
Became a Russian spy
And illuminated a flame of displeasing energy
In the heart of my breathless being.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
That climbing ratitude
In nightly interlude
And moral turpitude
Eats all the birdy-food
(I haven’t thought up an appropriate amphimacer [yes, I had to look that up] “ude” rhyme for the destruction of a bird feeder, but if I do it will go here)
Thus shows his gratitude
Oh! What an attitude!
I speak with acritude
Thus ends this platitude
For the true adventures of Billy Possum, see Thornton W. Burgess’ wonderful Mother West Wind stories.
Thanks to L.B. for a correction - Mr. B's possum is Billy, not Johnny. No wonder Billy sometimes hisses!
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
Is there no understanding of history today
Are we going into a real Clockwork Orange
Why do we as people, have to repeat and believe
We repeat the worst historical times; blaming them on cycles
Cycles that we create in the name of anything, but the truth
We believe whatever feels right to our own personal thoughts
Beliefs, that are created out of misunderstood words and actions
Why, oh why, can't we ever learn
Why can't we do the right and truthful thing...?
Nobody was injured during this BRAIN RANT!!!
Agree or not... I don't give a sh}¥
Not really true because this made me cry
Well not cry. I just laughed so hard I cried
Just can't take the craziness without a little BRAIN RANT!
Sorry.... No, I'm not. Felt good!
“It's funny how the colors of the real world only seem really real when you watch them on a screen.”
― anthony burgess, A Clockwork Orange
Brian Hill - 2019 # 200
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
Years ago before one of my friends was married or had children we hung out a lot and were best friends. I visited her at her apartment one evening to socialize. She had her other best friend there too and the three of us ordered a pizza.
When they delivered the pizza they brought the wrong kind of pizza so we ended up getting an additional free pizza because they delivered another pizza free of charge. Now that is a good pizza place.
After eating lots of pizza we had some drinks and our conversation at one point shifted to the subject of Batman. Someone asked, "What is the name of the actor that played the Penguin in the original version of Batman?"
For some reason no one could remember the name. All three of us took turns trying to remember the actor's name but no one could remember the name . Several different names were suggested but none of the names were correct.
All three of us were laughing our butts off because we were blurting out all tbese different names of actors but none of them were the correct name. The name escaped all three of us and it seemed to be on the tip of my tongue but I couldn't get to it.
I remember at one point in desperation to spit it out and come to a conclusion I blurted out, "Cloris Leachman!?" which is actually a female actress.
We had fun that night and our conversation was on many different topics but several times during the evening it shifted back to the guessing of the actor's name that played the penguin in the original Batman. The night ended without anyone figuring out or remembering the actor's name.
I went home that night and went to bed. I woke up at 3 a.m. in the morning and sat up in bed for a moment and whispered "Burgess Meredith." Then I promptly went back to sleep.
It seems that even while sleeping , in the back of my mind I was working on the missing information that was causing such a dilemma.
Over the years I have done this type of thing again and again quietly to myself when trying to find an answer or solution to a problem often much weightier and more significant than the remembering of an actor's name.
Pizza Night
By Lynn Guevrekian
Jan 23, 2024
Jan 23, 2024 at 1:52 PM UTC
The only light on is the bug zapper.
It's ultra violet
Is ultra violent
As Burgess might say.
You're here with me
Quivering, we lay
between a ***** sheet
Until our eyes meet
Then I know you're leaving
Me for the ultra violet light
I didn't really fight
I just watched you flutter
Clumsily charmed you mutter,
"Why can't I stay away from death?"
Then I stabbed the bug zapper
All vengeful and full of tears.
Now, there are no lights on.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:19 PM UTC
I once fell upward into the Sun,
...the warmth that it supplied.
Skin-tanned and tingling a triumphant feeling,
...pores of my form they cried.
I felt the heat and heard the roaring as the orange punched through my lids...
It sapped my will, took it out of me, took away all that I could give,
I opened my eyes and she smiled at me and pointed at our kids.
I joined in laughter from taunting thoughts while Panis cried along in jest,
...we fructifying day of love effusive halls burgess.
The titmouse, finch and chickadee and a lonely swallow,
then butterflies, the moon and bees came to our hidden hollow,
...along with the nightly grotto.
We found ourselves part of the stars placed in the magic show.
Then round the tree love as we go,
...for as in life; you never know.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
". . .THE WONDROUS ARCHITECTURE OF THE WORLDE. . . ."
I laugh
the road over the Hog's Back
closed because....it melted
was the sun ever so
back in your day
eh Kit?
and what do I read
Mr. Marlowe?
why words, Kit, words
that word magician
Dr. Burgess he presumes
to bring you back
to life again
and so it seems
I see your blood Kit
streaming in the firmament
nay only a Deptford sunset
dragged screaming from memory
your blood upon the page Kit...
mere cherry juice it
stains the words
and so to Deptford I
do go
thanks to Madame Remembrance
I a poor
purveyor of poetry
clutching at words
and here
a great reckoning
not in a little room
but on a lost street
staining the scene
a sickly yellow
and so enough
of Prologue...
Act 1 begins
a smiling ruffian
see his knife smiles too
the blade eager for blood
alas I
in so much pain I
have no fear of death
indeed would welcome
the flicked knife
if it would release me
from my life
a man prepared
to die if it be so
"Come live with me and be
my love..." I doth quote
in my best Passionate Shepard
"Wot?" he wots
scared of my insouciance
the ghost of Marlowe by my side
ahhh he the very villian
a scar from eye to smile
he aims to do the same to me
"Where, rogue... did
they get thee?" I mock
"VILLIANS 'R' US?"
Marlowe's ghost laughs
"Aye lad...aye lad
to him!"
"Only one of us..."
I warn my hellhound
"....will come out of this alive!"
I pause for effect
"And I'm afraid
it won't be( hee hee ) thee!"
I take a determined step
towards my would-be
now trembling killer
who all this wordage
being too much for him
he flees
ahhh the glint of words
defeats the glint of steel
he my would-be-not-to-be-death
"What God or Feend, or spirit of the earth,
Or Monster turned to manly shape
Or of what mould or mettle he be made...?"
I declaim to an audience
of cats and cans and
other streetly filth
I...I. . .unable to
find the next line
and so I etc., etc., etc.
and once more
I am of Guildford yet again
30 years or more away
and there melts a road
upon the Hog's Back
and I laugh to be alive
"Doth teach vs all to have aspyring mindes:
Our soules, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the worlde.."
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 5:04 AM UTC
Collaborate with Society, By Chris.
In the world of our benefactors or such, others calling
Others collaborators. As if such a term were,
Shameful.
I ask you, what greater endeavor exists than
That of collaboration?
For example in our current unparalleled enterprise
Refusal to collaborate is simply a refusal to grow
Which some insistence on suicide if you will.
Did the lungfish refuse to breathe air?
It did not,
It crept forth boldly while its brethren
remained in the
Blackest ocean abyss.
With lidless eye forever staring at the dark.
Ignorant, is it not? Doomed despite their
internal vigilance.
Would we model ourselves on the
trilobite?
Would that mean all accomplishments of
humanity
Could fade, nothing more than a layer of
broken,
Plastic shards, thinly strewn across a fossil
Bed, sandwiched between a burgess shell, and
Eons worth of mud? In order to
Be true to our nature and our destiny, we must aspire
to
Greater things we have outgrown our cradle.
It is feudal to cry for mother’s milk when our true
sustenance
Await us, Among the stars! Therefore I say yes! I am
a collaborator! We all must collaborate, willingly, eagerly, if we
expect to
Reap the benefits of unification. And reap we shall! Civic
deeds do not go unrewarded, and contrary wise complicity
with people's cause will
Not go unpunished. So please, be wise… Be safe, be aware.
We have plunged humanity into free-fall...
Now, is the moment to redeem ourselves.
© Chris .B 2017
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
Well, okay, it’s out there in the back yard
Where on display you’ll see: old boonie hats
Uncool, but good when working in the heat
And cotton khakis from the discount store
Just washed, and drying in the summer sun
Admired by every Merry Little Breeze 1
Skivvies and socks sewn in Cambodia
And work shirts stitched together in Viet-Nam
Nothing by Versace or Calvin Klein
Just old clothes drying on the old clothes line
1 Thornton W. Burgess’ Mother West Wind stories
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
". . .THE WONDROUS ARCHITECTURE OF THE WORLDE. . "
I laugh
the road over the Hog's Back
closed because....it melted
was the sun ever so
back in your day
eh Kit?
and what do I read
Mr. Marlowe?
why words, Kit, words
that word magician
Dr. Burgess he presumes
to bring you back
to life again
and so it seems
I see your blood Kit
streaming in the firmament
nay only a Deptford sunset
dragged screaming from memory
your blood upon the page Kit...
mere cherry juice it
stains the words
and so to Deptford I
do go
thanks to Madame Remembrance
I a poor
purveyor of poetry
clutching at words
and here
a great reckoning
not in a little room
but on a lost street
staining the scene
a sickly yellow
and so enough
of Prologue...
Act 1 begins
a smiling ruffian
see his knife smiles too
the blade eager for blood
alas I
in so much pain I
have no fear of death
indeed would welcome
the flicked knife
if it would release me
from my life
a man prepared
to die if it be so
"Come live with me and be
my love..." I doth quote
in my best Passionate Shepard
"Wot?" he wots
scared of my insouciance
the ghost of Marlowe by my side
ahhh he the very villian
a scar from eye to smile
he aims to do the same to me
"Where, rogue... did
they get thee?" I mock
"VILLIANS 'R' US?"
Marlowe's ghost laughs
"Aye lad...aye lad
to him!"
"Only one of us..."
I warn my hellhound
"....will come out of this alive!"
I pause for effect
"And I'm afraid
it won't be( hee hee ) thee!"
I take a determined step
towards my would-be
now trembling killer
who all this wordage
being too much for him
he flees
ahhh the glint of words
defeats the glint of steel
he my would-be-not-to-be-death
"What God or Feend, or spirit of the earth,
Or Monster turned to manly shape
Or of what mould or mettle he be made...?"
I declaim to an audience
of cats and cans and
other streetly filth
I...I. . .unable to
find the next line
and so I etc., etc., etc.
and once more
I am of Guildford yet again
30 years or more away
and there melts a road
upon the Hog's Back
and I laugh to be alive
"Doth teach vs all to have aspyring mindes:
Our soules, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the worlde.."
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 2:52 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Springtime’s Laughing Rhymes
A Merry Little Breeze, an allergen sneeze
Happy little children among the bees
The always fresh challenge to rhyme with moon
Perhaps noon? Spoon? Croon? Loon? Swoon? Bare feet?
Bare feet?
Bare feet! How neat! A grassy-tickly treat!
And Mama calls out, “Now where are your shoes?”
“Oh, we left them in church on the back-row pews!”
“Just wait ‘til I tell your father that news!”
(Giggling)
“And where are your socks?”
“Inside with the clocks!”
“That makes no sense!”
“Gimme three pence!”
A Merry Little Breeze, an allergen sneeze
And beneath the trees a little world at ease
[Merry Little Breezes – cf. Thornton W. Burgess’ Mother West Wind stories]
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 10:16 AM UTC