"commonest" poems
ALTHOUGH I can see him still.
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, "Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'
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Your Riches—taught me—Poverty.
Myself—a Millionaire
In little Wealths, as Girls could boast
Till broad as Buenos Ayre—
You drifted your Dominions—
A Different Peru—
And I esteemed All Poverty
For Life’s Estate with you—
Of Mines, I little know—myself—
But just the names, of Gems—
The Colors of the Commonest—
And scarce of Diadems—
So much, that did I meet the Queen—
Her Glory I should know—
But this, must be a different Wealth—
To miss it—beggars so—
I’m sure ’tis India—all Day—
To those who look on You—
Without a stint—without a blame,
Might I—but be the Jew—
I’m sure it is Golconda—
Beyond my power to deem—
To have a smile for Mine—each Day,
How better, than a Gem!
At least, it solaces to know
That there exists—a Gold—
Altho’ I prove it, just in time
Its distance—to behold—
Its far—far Treasure to surmise—
And estimate the Pearl—
That slipped my simple fingers through—
While just a Girl at School.
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Whose women these are I think I know.
His housefly’s dead on the vignette though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his women pick snowdrops.
My little hornpipe is quite queer
He stops without a farce or sneer
Between the women with their frozen ‘la’s
The commonest everyman of the yawl.
He gives his harlot beldams his shaft
To assure they are his mistresses.
The only other soundtrack's the sweat
Of easy win from downing flagons.
The women are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promenades to keep,
And migraines to go before I sleep,
And migraines to go before I sleep.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
Life’s all getting and giving,
I’ve only myself to give.
What shall I do for a living?
I’ve only one life to live.
End it? I’ll not find another.
Spend it? But how shall I best?
Sure the wise plan is to live like a man
And Luck may look after the rest!
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
Give or hold at your will.
If I’ve no care for Fortune,
Fortune must follow me still.
Bad Luck, she is never a lady
But the commonest ***** on the street,
Shuffling, shabby and shady,
Shameless to pass or meet.
Walk with her once—it’s a weakness!
Talk to her twice. It’s a crime!
****** her away when she gives you “good day”
And the besom won’t board you next time.
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
What is Your Ladyship’s mood?
If I have no care for Fortune,
My Fortune is bound to be good!
Good Luck she is never a lady
But the cursedest quean alive!
Tricksy, wincing and jady,
Kittle to lead or drive.
Greet her—she’s hailing a stranger!
Meet her—she’s busking to leave.
Let her alone for a shrew to the bone,
And the ***** comes plucking your sleeve!
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
I’ll neither follow nor flee.
If I don’t run after Fortune,
Fortune must run after me!
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The birches are mad with green points
the wood’s edge is burning with their green,
burning, seething—No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leaves one
by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold
and separate, one by one. Slender tassels
hang swaying from the delicate branch tips—
Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.
Black is split at once into flowers. In
every bog and ditch, flares of
small fire, white flowers!—Agh,
the birches are mad, mad with their green.
The world is gone, torn into shreds
with this blessing. What have I left undone
that I should have undertaken?
O my brother, you redfaced, living man
ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon
this same dirt that I touch—and eat.
We are alone in this terror, alone,
face to face on this road, you and I,
wrapped by this flame!
Let the polished plows stay idle,
their gloss already on the black soil.
But that face of yours—!
Answer me. I will clutch you. I
will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face
into your face and force you to see me.
Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest
thing that is in your mind to say,
say anything. I will understand you—!
It is the madness of the birch leaves opening
cold, one by one.
My rooms will receive me. But my rooms
are no longer sweet spaces where comfort
is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.
A darkness has brushed them. The mass
of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.
Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.
I am shaken, broken against a might
that splits comfort, blows apart
my careful partitions, crushes my house
and leaves me—with shrinking heart
and startled, empty eyes—peering out
into a cold world.
In the spring I would be drunk! In the spring
I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.
Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!
your hands, your lips to drink!
Give me your wrists to drink—
I drag you, I am drowned in you, you
overwhelm me! Drink!
Save me! The shad bush is in the edge
of the clearing. The yards in a fury
of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.
Drink and lie forgetting the world.
And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.
Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.
And it ends.
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The birches are mad with green points
the wood’s edge is burning with their green,
burning, seething—No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leaves one
by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold
and separate, one by one. Slender tassels
hang swaying from the delicate branch tips—
Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.
Black is split at once into flowers. In
every bog and ditch, flares of
small fire, white flowers!—Agh,
the birches are mad, mad with their green.
The world is gone, torn into shreds
with this blessing. What have I left undone
that I should have undertaken?
O my brother, you redfaced, living man
ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon
this same dirt that I touch—and eat.
We are alone in this terror, alone,
face to face on this road, you and I,
wrapped by this flame!
Let the polished plows stay idle,
their gloss already on the black soil.
But that face of yours—!
Answer me. I will clutch you. I
will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face
into your face and force you to see me.
Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest
thing that is in your mind to say,
say anything. I will understand you—!
It is the madness of the birch leaves opening
cold, one by one.
My rooms will receive me. But my rooms
are no longer sweet spaces where comfort
is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.
A darkness has brushed them. The mass
of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.
Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.
I am shaken, broken against a might
that splits comfort, blows apart
my careful partitions, crushes my house
and leaves me—with shrinking heart
and startled, empty eyes—peering out
into a cold world.
In the spring I would be drunk! In the spring
I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.
Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!
your hands, your lips to drink!
Give me your wrists to drink—
I drag you, I am drowned in you, you
overwhelm me! Drink!
Save me! The shad bush is in the edge
of the clearing. The yards in a fury
of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.
Drink and lie forgetting the world.
And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.
Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.
And it ends.
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The poem requires a mind
that finds meaning, even divination,
in language. Non-fiction,
up to academic standards, demands
evidence. Nothing less will do.
Most of us read fiction and this
needs a taste for action, motivation.
Lately, as have you, I have
thought about our war and its purpose,
motivation. But I have also closely
listened to the wood thrush, analyzed
its song like a tune by T.S. Monk
or J.S. Bach concerto. One belongs
to the loved ones who ostracize us, too.
A robin looks, hops, pecks, is never calm.
It is the flute-like tones, yes, but mostly
the patient, meditative clarity
of the thrush that enchants. One wants
to be that bird. How will we attain
calm clarity for the species **** sapiens?
Through the discipline of asking questions.
Mimics, woodpeckers, sing-songers, hawks,
chippers and trillers, whistlers, name-sayers,
loons, owls and a dove, high pitchers,
wood warblers and a word-warbling wren.
Unusual vocalizations.
What did the wood thrush sing
teaching its young thrush meanings?
Too much emotion is the commonest of mortals’ sins.
Peace has many faces,
the wood thrush in the canopy is one.
A word of praise here, an encouraging word there.
A wraith, a ghost against an impatient man,
verbose, unsure of the path, always longing.
Nothing satisfies like the thrush's song.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
Two thoughts come to mind this morning. The deficiencies in
our systems of governance -
local, global -
and the first two pages of The End of Faith in which he
mistakes political (acts of war) for
religious acts,
but recognizes understanding the workings of the world is not
the same as knowing
the unknowable.
Every new twinge provokes fear but what is there to fear?
That one won't
live forever?
The year of a man is the day of an inchworm and 267 years
on a reverse-
rotating Venus.
A billion of anything is a lot unless it's the distance one must
traverse to look
at God.
How much silence, or tinnitus, can you handle? A chipmunk
cannot for long
stand still.
Once the twinge passes I'm off to the next task: building a
constituency for this compassion,
that solution.
The dialogue starts with a question. To know the question is
almost certainly to find
an answer.
Conflating questions is the commonest of logic errors. No
negotiation unless the
violence ends.
Why not talk while we fight? We can always **** torture or
assassinate
between conversations.
Justice, or retribution if you want, can remain on the table
even after we
achieve understanding.
Nature is my religion, I know no other, and community is my
church.
The sacrament
is policy debate. I attend church everyday. Our jobs are
hymns (the classifieds
a hymnal)
and payment for services rendered is sung praise and
gratitude. Walking and talking
is prayer.
Strategies to limit or subvert discussion are the only evil.
Violence
is one
but not by far the only one. What's the hurry to build a
highway or free
a people?
The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time and time is
the mercy
of eternity.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
Love,romance
The commonest emotion
I've seen ,heard and felt
Pitiful if you ask me
It's beginning blinds us so
That the middle and end is a blur
Just another page we've torn of our lives
The greatest of them fall
So why bother then
It's simple
It's hope when there's non
Even the most eloquent or the majority
Do promises such pleasure
But I haven't seen one
That met such expectations
Just like our fingers
We can't be loved the same
One could be broken person
who is promised a good stitching
Other needs a sense of completion
The purpose of it is still a mystery
That its not worth holding my breath for.
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 12:22 AM UTC
He smokes cigarettes
But he doesn't even like them.
Knows they're awful
And likely will one day **** him.
Buts that's why he does it
In this world we never know
He takes a puff to feel
Some semblance of control.
He walks alone at night,
And as shadows pass,
Secretly hopes for a fight.
In truth, he wouldn't know
How to throw the first punch
And he'd be easy prey
For even the commonest ****
But part of him secretly hopes
That if he took just the right hit
It might be the perfect thing
To make him forget.
He sends letters to her,
With the wrong address.
She's moved by now,
To escape this city and it's mess.
But the letters never return.
So someone reads them, he thinks.
Maybe it's that he only yearns
To be heard.
So he writes as if she reads,
And it helps him live on.
Still, a letter opened
Does not replace a heart, once gone.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
marks and bruises
job descriptions confused,
understanding
with the commonest of senses,
no boundaries
no fences
no one in sight,
PLANES!
Fly overhead,
jet stream, feather light,
is the vapor trail visible at night?,
none can see our vessel
our oars, our trail, ... of gas on the wake forms a rainbow on the waves,
even when we are on land,
standing water to our knees, thick soft moss hides sharp rock edges
under our feet,
HEY!
we get a three day break,
no where to go,
to spend nothing,
to actually sleep,
to catch our breath,
to take another shower,
the job, has power.
work is the master,
the *******
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
It is a bet against the world-the
Authority of its reality; and all of
Life leads to a final confrontation.
Standing up with the soul's last
Breath; standing up to pain and
Declaimed with hell heaped upon
Your grave for not repenting and
Yet you stand because you must
Saying in your being that : Do what
You will I will rise again from this
Earth and in it be. Oh death be
Not proud. My wager stands.
I was before and after will be.
Nor shall I brag of this for I am
The commonest of men and shall
Not speak more of it when I return.
I will not forget that I am always
When I come again my Father's
Child I will not remember death
Nor believe the world that it is so
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
To all my cat loving friends: (I’m sure I’ve left some out - in which case, SORRY!)
Albert Cat, Eleven! 🐈
Albert Cat will celebrate
Eleven feline years to date:
Eleven years on this good planet,
His food planet,
Perfect for a house cat!
We, his owners, cat food donors
See to it that he is cat-isfied;
Yellow/red, a golden brown,
He cannot smile and cannot frown.
A ****** calm in place the whole day’s time.
Commonest of purry furries,
Albert Cat is still, to us
Unique, well-dressed, e’en glamorous.
Though his purry, furry self is modest
He is famous in our house.
He never, ever kills a mouse.
He simply watches, sits and stares;
Leaves the birds to eat their seeds.
While they see him. They know his needs,
They know he’s there.
It is his lovely golden hair!
Happy Birthday, Albert Cat!
We’re glad you honour us
With your existence.
Flattered that our residence
Suits you.
Albert Cat, Eleven 5.6.2021 Cat book II; Arlene Nover Corwin
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC