"francois" poems
THE HAGGARD woman with a hacking cough and a deathless love whispers of white
flowers ... in your poem you pour like a cup of coffee, Gabriel.
The slim girl whose voice was lost in the waves of flesh piled on her bones ... and
the woman who sold to many men and saw her ******* shrivel ... in two poems you
pour these like a cup of coffee, Francois.
The woman whose lips are a thread of scarlet, the woman whose feet take hold on
hell, the woman who turned to a memorial of salt looking at the lights of a
forgotten city ... in your affidavits, ancient Jews, you pour these like cups of
coffee.
The woman who took men as snakes take rabbits, a rag and a bone and a hank of
hair, she whose eyes called men to sea dreams and shark's teeth ... in a poem you
pour this like a cup of coffee, Kip.
Marching to the footlights in night robes with spots of blood, marching in white
sheets muffling the faces, marching with heads in the air they come back and
cough and cry and sneer:... in your poems, men, you pour these like cups of coffee.
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No man hath dared to write this thing as yet,
And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great
At times pass athrough us,
And we are melted into them, and are not
Save reflexions of their souls.
Thus am I Dante for a space and am
One Francois Villon, ballad-lord and thief,
Or am such holy ones I may not write
Lest blasphemy be writ against my name;
This for an instant and the flame is gone.
’Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere
Translucent, molten gold, that is the “I”
And into this some form projects itself:
Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine;
And as the clear space is not if a form’s
Imposed thereon,
So cease we from all being for the time,
And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on.
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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
I love Francois Marie Aoret Voltaire's
wit and stunning impertinence...
"Whatever is too stupid to be said gets sung!"
Voltaire 1694-1778
(I hadn't noticed...)
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
A true friend is one who sticks to you through thick or thin unconditionally. Someone you can always bank upon even in the times of adversities. They are often your best critics just for the sake of your own betterment. They don’t mind being right in your face and telling you where are you actually going wrong. In the words of Francois de La Rochefoucauld, “A true friend is the greatest of all blessings, and that which we take the least care of all to acquire.” A true friend loves you for what you are and not what you ought to be. A true friend should always be cherished. A true friend knows you in and out and is always there to back you even while you are up against the odds. According to William Penn, “A true friend freely, advises justly, assists readily, adventures boldly, takes all patiently, defends courageously, and continues a friend unchangeably.”
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
Celestial gardener
Grower of the seeds
Of spiritual flowers
Multi-colored scents
Of restful souls…
You plant on clouds, graciously
The stems and leaves
Swaying in the air
You hold lives in
Your gentle hands
In a little corner in heaven
Where the Almighty has
Assigned to you
To tend His garden
Of everlasting life
There is an immortal
Glow in your eyes
As you nurture these
Cosmic trees in
The hallway on high
No more sadness for you now,
No more painful tears
Or regrets
You have passed on to another form
Where sinister shadows do not exist
And darkness is defeated
By the white of the light
Rest easy now sweet gardener
And spread all your love and kindness
In the eternal garden called “heaven”
For: Francois Jeanne
05 August, 2009
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 6:31 AM UTC
Mon ami, auin frer.
J'ne pais solil... entres courage.
So faun le si'plique en la je'pael.
Paella ene ***
Suplique, france. Francois, chine.
Au revoir.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
At two sixty three on a union street
They ain't afraid of no killer
They'll just shove 'em in their pipe
and smoke him up like backy
They break the neck of a pup/pussycat
Just to try to scare you
They're mendacious mothers/mendicants
You can't ignore their ignorance
Even a sponge has a right to think
The pumpernickel president Hooligans
of the world unite, inherit the wind tonight
Lethal teenagers spread their aids
Interstate Highway Poet off of exit 16A
Here yee Hear ye
Step right up to the minstrel show
We've got your medicine right here
Whatever you need we're giving away
Whatever you want just don't be greedy
Take all you want but, it won't be free
Just say you need be ten thousand, a million
A trillion or more, who could put a limit on this
Go 'head now take a sip
Ain't that good fer ya/ ain't that swell
Mighty fine medicine
Mighty fine medicine
Don't forget your change
Moonlit Minstrel Dancing madness at the
New Millennium Medicine Show
You can't be on the Redding when you drive the B&O;
Heart and run away/Forget
I guess it's not your fault you're you
Look back but, the label stays
the one that I esquired to you
Cops in Vegas teaching drugs to children, 1963
Accuse me of blame with their askance
le seul inform'e! Here I am
I saw white poppies grow at SHAPE
War is used to make debt e. pound
To hate what people love is to offend human nature
The villion shot 'em down Francois
Piero Mazda has no fear his Kumrad
Koba's over here Now fix
John Adams, Jeff., and Lincoln
These men are a really awfully stinking
They won't take gifts/ They want to earn it
Take what they steal; pretend it has value
They drink their way into a bible
Did that one line make me enviable?
Come on someone try to fix it
Malia needs her tap, tax dances
The suffering has got to end
For EVERYONE my lonely friend
WE/ALL have got the power
Here, in seventeenth century France
I always try to give you choices dear mao tse
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
Then Francois said,'so far it's looking okay'
and I,
being in Dieppe for the day
said,
'yes'
I could guess what you're thinking but I'm busy drinking cheap lager and wine,mixing hops with the vine,something I do all the time,
and the time is now,
got to forget it somehow,alcohol assists me
duty free.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
Francie really is my name.
Uncle Francie has the same;
Uncle Francie is to blame.
Francis is my legal name;
But I was never called the same.
Francie is the one that stuck,
Don't talk to me about Irish luck.
But when I turned twenty-two,
I introduced myself as
Fran,
Sounding more like a man.
I got tired of re-repeating,
Francie, you know, rhymes with Nancy.
I was exhausted of always hearing,
Could you spell that for me Dearie?
When I drove a limosine,
Clients called me Francois.
When I faltered, when I drank,
I told the cops
My name was Frank.
I believe I'm the same
No matter what I'm called by name.
And even though
My ego's fraying,
I'm pleased to turn
If you call saying,
It's good to see you well, Francie.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC