1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always ***,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every ***** and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?

4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is *****, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my *****-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my
feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and
poke-****.

6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the ******* of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know
it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and
am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

8
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the ****** floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-*****,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in
fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain’d by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.

9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-****’d game,
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her
feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d
feet,
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they ***** with spray.

12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

13
The ***** holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The ***** that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish’d and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown i

Ah, doth swayeth the grass around the heavily-watered grounds, and even lilies are even busy in their pondering thoughts. Dim poetry is lighting up my insides, but still-canst not I, proceed on to my poetic writings, for I am committed to my dear dissertation-shamefully! Cannot even I enjoy watery sweets in front of my decent romantic candlelight-o, how destructible this serious nexus is!

Ah, and the temperatures' slender fits are but a new sensation to this melancholy surroundings. How my souls desire to be liberated-from this arduous work, and be staggered into the bifurcating melodies of the winds. O, but again-these final words are somehow required, how blatantly ungenerous! What a fine doomed environment the greenery out there hath duly changed into. White-dark stretches of tremor loom over every bald bush's horizon. O-what a dreadful, dreadful pic of sovereign menace! Not at all lyrical; much less gorgeous! Even the ultimate touches of serendipity have been broomed out of their localised regions. Broomed forcibly; that their weight and multitudes of collars whitened-and their innocent stomachs pulled systematically out. Ah, how dire-dire-dire; how perseveringly unbearable! A dawn at dusk, then-is a normal occurence and thus needeth t' be solitarily accepted. No more grains of sensitivity are left bare. Not even one-oh, no more! A tumultous slumber hinders everything, with a sense of original perplexity t'at haunts, and harms any of it t'at dares to pass by. O, what a disgrace t'at is secretly housed by t'is febrile nature! And o, t'is what happeneth when poets are left onto t'eir unstable hills of talents, with such a wild lagoon of inspirations about! Roam, roam as we doth-along the parked cars, all unread-and dolefully left untouched, like a moonlit baby straightening his face on top of the earth's liar *****. Ah, I knoweth t'is misery. A misery t'at is not only textual, but also virginal; but what I comprehendeth not is the unfairness of the preceding remark itself-if all miseries were crudely virginal, then wouldst it be unworthy of perceiving some others as personal? O, how t'is new confusion puzzles me, and vexes me all too badly! Beads of sweat are beginning to form on my humorous palms, with lines unabashed-and pictorial aggressions too unforgiving too resist. Ah, quiver doth I-as I am, now! O, thee-oh, mindful joyfulness and delight, descend once more onto me-and maketh my work once again thine-ah, and thy only, own vengeful blossom! And breathe onto my minds thy very own terrific seizure; maketh all the luring bright days no more an impediment and a cure; to every lavish thought clear-but hungrily unsure! Ah, as I knoweth it wouldst work-for thy seizure on my hand is gentle, ratifying, and safely classical. How I loveth thy little grasps-and shall always do! Like a moonlight, which had been carried along the stars' compulsive backs-until it truly screamed, while the bountiful morning retreated, and mounted its back. Mounted its back so that it could not see. Invasive are the stars-as thou knoweth, adorned with elaborations t'at humanity, and even the sincerest of gravities shall turn out. Ah, so 'tis how the moon's poor sailing soul is-like a chirping bird-trembled along the snowy night, but knocked back onto abysmal conclusions, soon as sunshine startled him and brought him back anew, to the pale hordes of mischievous, shadowy roses. Ah, all these routines are similar-but unsure, like thoughts circling-within a paper so impure. And when tragic love is bound, like the one I am having with 'im; everything shall crawl-and seem dearer than they seem; for nothing canst bind a heart which falls in love, until it darkeneth the rosiness of its own cheeks, and destroys its own kiss. Like how he hath impaired my heart; but I shall be a stone once more; abysses of my deliciously destroyed sapphire shall revive within the glades of my hand; and my massive tremors shall ever be concluded. O, love, o notion that I may not hate; bestow on my thy aberrant power-and free my tormented soul-o, my poor tormented soul, from the possible eternal slumber without tasting such a joy of thine once more! I am now trapped within a triangle I hated; I am no more of my precious self-my sublimity hath gone; hath attempted at disentangling himself so piercingly from me. I am no more terrific; I smell not like my own virginity-and much less, an ideal lady-t'at everyone shall so hysterically shout at, and pray for, ah, I hath been disinherited by the world.

Ah, shall I be a matter to your tasty thoughts, my love? For to thee I might hath been tentative, and not at all compulsory; I hath been disowned even, by my own poetry; my varied fate hath ignored and strayed me about. Ah, love, which danger shall I hate-and avoid? But should I, should I diverge from t'is homogeneous edge I so dreamily preached about? And canst thou but lecture me once more-on the distinctness between love and hate-in the foregoing-and the sometimes illusory truth of our inimical future? And for the love of this foreignness didst I revert to my first dreaded poetry-for the sake of t'is first sweetly-honeyed world. For the time being, it is perhaps unrighteous to think of thee; thou who firstly wert so sweet; thou who wert but too persuasive-and too magnanimous for every maiden's heart to bear. Thou who shone on me like an eternal fire-ah, sweet, but doth thou remember not-t'at thou art thyself immortal? Thou art but a disaster to any living creature-who has flesh and breath; for they diverge from life when time comes, and be defiled like a rusty old parish over one fretful stormy night. Ah, and here I present another confusion; should I reject my own faith therefrom? Ah, like the reader hath perhaps recognised, I am not an interactive poet; for I am egotistic and self-isolating. Ah, yet-I demand, sometimes, their possibly harshest criticism; to be fit into my undeniable authenticity and my other private authorial conventions. I admireth myself in my writing as much as I resolutely admireth thee; but shall we come, ever, into terms? Ah, thee, whose eyes are too crucial for my consciousness to look at. Ah, and yet-thou hath caused me simply far-too-adequate mounds of distress; their power tower over me, standing as a cold barrier between me and my own immaculate reality of discourse. Too much distress is, as the reader canst see, in my verse right now-and none is sufficiently consoling-all are unsweet, like a taste of scalding water and a tree of curses. Yes, that thou ought to believe just yet-t'at trees are bound to curses. Yester' I sheltered myself, under some bits of splitting clouds-and t'eir due mourning sways of rain, beneath a solid tree. With leaves giggling and roots unbecoming underneath-ah, t'eir shrieks were too selfish; ah, all terrible, and contained no positive merit at all-t'at they all became too vague and failed at t'eir venerable task of disorganising, and at the same time-stunning me. Ah, but t'eir yelling and gasping and choking were simply too ferociously disoriented, what a shame! Their art was too brutal, odd, and too thoroughly equanimious-and wouldst I have stood not t'ere for the entire three minutes or so-had such perks of abrupt thoughts of thee streamed onto my mind, and lightened up all the burdening whirls of mockery about me in just one second. O, so-but again, the sound melodies of rain were of a radical comfort to my ears-and t'at was the actual moment, when I realised t'at I truly loved him-and until today, the real horror in my heart saith t'at it is still him t'at I purely love-and shall always do. Though I may be no more of a pretty glimpse at the heart of his mirror, 'tis still his imagery I keepeth running into; and his vital reality. Ah, how with light steps I ran to him yester' morning; and caught him about his vigorous steps! All seemed ethereal, but the truthful width of the sun was still t'ere-and so was the lake's sparkling water; so benevolently encompassing us as we walked together onto our separated realms. And passing the cars, as we did, all t'at I absorbed and felt so neatly within my heart was the intuitive course; and the unavoidable beauty of falling in love. Ah, miracles, miracles, shalt thou ever cease to exist? Ah, bring but my Immortal back to me-as if I am still like I was back then, and of hating him before I am not guilty; make him mine now-even for just one night; make him hold my hands, and I shall free him from all his present melancholy and insipid trepidations. Ah, miracles; I doth love my Immortal more t'an I am permitted to do; and so if thou doth not-please doth trouble me once more; and grant, grant him to me-and clarify t'is tale of unbreathed love prettily, like never before.

As I have related above I may not be sufficient; I may not be fair-from a dark world doth I come, full not of royalty-but ambiguity, severed esteem, and gales-and gales, of unholy confidentiality. And 'tis He only, in His divine throne-t'at is worthy of every phrased gratitude, and thankful laughter; so t'is piece is just-though not artificial, a genuine reflection of what I feelest inside, about my yet unblessed love, and my doubtful pious feelings right now-and about which I am rather confused. Still, I am to be generous, and not to be by any chance, too brimming or hopeful; but I shall not be bashful about confessing t'is proposition of love-t'at I should hath realised from a good long time ago. Ah, I was but too arrogant within my pride-and even in my confessions of humility; I was too charmed by myself to revert to my extraordinary feelings. Ah, but again-thou art immortal, my love; so I should be afraid not-of ceasing to love thee; and as every brand-new day breathes life into its wheels-and is stirred to the living-once more, I know t'at the swells of nature; including all the crystallised shapes of th' universe-and the' faithful gardens of heaven, as well as all the aurochs, angels, and divinity above-and the skies' and oceans' satirical-but precious nymphs, are watching us, and shall forgive and purify us; I know t'at this is the sake of eternity we are fighting for. And for the first time in my life-I shall like to confess this bravely, selfishly, and publicly; so that wherever thou art-and I shall be, thou wilt know-and in the utmost certainty thou canst but shyly obtain, know with thy most honest sincerity; t'at I hath always loved thee, and shall forever love thee like this, Immortal.

Resuscitate our dead memories only just to die again;
Waking from a deep slumber, Staring out the window pane;
Counting hours, how long can I endure the need to restrain?;
Nothing have changed I should just get back to sleep again.

The sun rises slowly as it burns my pale tainted skin;
It just felt so good just to feel pain! For so long I've been so keen;
I grew weak in my dreams when I'm asleep, the thoughts of you makes me sick!
It's not that you vexes me, It's because of what I did to you that worries me;

Never before I have felt so sensitive within this lifeless body...
Lived only by drinking blood! To be confined in this coffin just to feel lonely!
And then you came... The one I thought who restrained the beast in me;
The one who gave warmth not burning me, calmed my soulless fury.

But we must all know that the nature has its way of breaking;
Something that is beautiful, Something profound! A new beginning...
And so it came to that point where I fed on her! left her dying!
Perhaps it was all meant to be for a while just to forget the craving...

I'm a killer, a monster! An abomination to this world!
But I can't take my life...Believe me I tried!
I bathed under the sun turn to ashes and died!
Only to know that when darkness falls I'll be revived...

I must make a choice... It fancies me just having this thoughts right now;
What could I possibly do?If the beast within is the one who contains me and how?
It seems like a personal attraction just to add some satisfaction as I reach for the ****;
A little drama, show some masked humanity, make them live a little just to quench the thrill!

I have glared, I have grinned, I have laughed and I have seduced...
As I get closer for my teeth to sink in, let loose, let the hunger reduced;
But after the feed do I feel remorse? For hours I thought I did...
It's been like that through all the years... Feels redundant indeed.

So how far will this story goes? For centuries I have pondered in circles.
I have been there the evolution, the changes, the life as it cycles.
And again...Here and now as I stand where once I become capable staring at the sun;
I will forget the unforgettable, sail away! Far away from this land...

Remember my story as it will never end;
I'm finding a way now to break free from this curse;
To be one with my prey walk free no more blood to quench thirst;
So long and goodbye from me Dracula...
Serenity is what I seek...A redemption of what they speak.

It vexes me
How everytime I wear makeup
They ask in a sing-song voice who I'm trying to impress
*as if I can't just wear it for myself

Thus did they fight about the ship of Protesilaus. Then Patroclus
drew near to Achilles with tears welling from his eyes, as from some
spring whose crystal stream falls over the ledges of a high precipice.
When Achilles saw him thus weeping he was sorry for him and said,
“Why, Patroclus, do you stand there weeping like some silly child that
comes running to her mother, and begs to be taken up and carried-
she catches hold of her mother’s dress to stay her though she is in
a hurry, and looks tearfully up until her mother carries her—even
such tears, Patroclus, are you now shedding. Have you anything to
say to the Myrmidons or to myself? or have you had news from Phthia
which you alone know? They tell me Menoetius son of Actor is still
alive, as also Peleus son of Aeacus, among the Myrmidons—men whose
loss we two should bitterly deplore; or are you grieving about the
Argives and the way in which they are being killed at the ships, throu
their own high-handed doings? Do not hide anything from me but tell me
that both of us may know about it.”
  Then, O knight Patroclus, with a deep sigh you answered,
“Achilles, son of Peleus, foremost champion of the Achaeans, do not be
angry, but I weep for the disaster that has now befallen the
Argives. All those who have been their champions so far are lying at
the ships, wounded by sword or spear. Brave Diomed son of Tydeus has
been hit with a spear, while famed Ulysses and Agamemnon have received
sword-wounds; Eurypylus again has been struck with an arrow in the
thigh; skilled apothecaries are attending to these heroes, and healing
them of their wounds; are you still, O Achilles, so inexorable? May it
never be my lot to nurse such a passion as you have done, to the
baning of your own good name. Who in future story will speak well of
you unless you now save the Argives from ruin? You know no pity;
knight Peleus was not your father nor Thetis your mother, but the grey
sea bore you and the sheer cliffs begot you, so cruel and
remorseless are you. If however you are kept back through knowledge of
some oracle, or if your mother Thetis has told you something from
the mouth of Jove, at least send me and the Myrmidons with me, if I
may bring deliverance to the Danaans. Let me moreover wear your
armour; the Trojans may thus mistake me for you and quit the field, so
that the hard-pressed sons of the Achaeans may have breathing time-
which while they are fighting may hardly be. We who are fresh might
soon drive tired men back from our ships and tents to their own city.”
  He knew not what he was asking, nor that he was suing for his own
destruction. Achilles was deeply moved and answered, “What, noble
Patroclus, are you saying? I know no prophesyings which I am
heeding, nor has my mother told me anything from the mouth of Jove,
but I am cut to the very heart that one of my own rank should dare
to rob me because he is more powerful than I am. This, after all
that I have gone through, is more than I can endure. The girl whom the
sons of the Achaeans chose for me, whom I won as the fruit of my spear
on having sacked a city—her has King Agamemnon taken from me as
though I were some common vagrant. Still, let bygones be bygones: no
man may keep his anger for ever; I said I would not relent till battle
and the cry of war had reached my own ships; nevertheless, now gird my
armour about your shoulders, and lead the Myrmidons to battle, for the
dark cloud of Trojans has burst furiously over our fleet; the
Argives are driven back on to the beach, cooped within a narrow space,
and the whole people of Troy has taken heart to sally out against
them, because they see not the visor of my helmet gleaming near
them. Had they seen this, there would not have been a creek nor grip
that had not been filled with their dead as they fled back again.
And so it would have been, if only King Agamemnon had dealt fairly
by me. As it is the Trojans have beset our host. Diomed son of
Tydeus no longer wields his spear to defend the Danaans, neither
have I heard the voice of the son of Atreus coming from his hated
head, whereas that of murderous Hector rings in my cars as he gives
orders to the Trojans, who triumph over the Achaeans and fill the
whole plain with their cry of battle. But even so, Patroclus, fall
upon them and save the fleet, lest the Trojans fire it and prevent
us from being able to return. Do, however, as I now bid you, that
you may win me great honour from all the Danaans, and that they may
restore the girl to me again and give me rich gifts into the
bargain. When you have driven the Trojans from the ships, come back
again. Though Juno’s thundering husband should put triumph within your
reach, do not fight the Trojans further in my absence, or you will rob
me of glory that should be mine. And do not for lust of battle go on
killing the Trojans nor lead the Achaeans on to Ilius, lest one of the
ever-living gods from Olympus attack you—for Phoebus Apollo loves
them well: return when you have freed the ships from peril, and let
others wage war upon the plain. Would, by father Jove, Minerva, and
Apollo, that not a single man of all the Trojans might be left
alive, nor yet of the Argives, but that we two might be alone left
to tear aside the mantle that veils the brow of Troy.”
  Thus did they converse. But Ajax could no longer hold his ground for
the shower of darts that rained upon him; the will of Jove and the
javelins of the Trojans were too much for him; the helmet that gleamed
about his temples rang with the continuous clatter of the missiles
that kept pouring on to it and on to the cheek-pieces that protected
his face. Moreover his left shoulder was tired with having held his
shield so long, yet for all this, let fly at him as they would, they
could not make him give ground. He could hardly draw his breath, the
sweat rained from every pore of his body, he had not a moment’s
respite, and on all sides he was beset by danger upon danger.
  And now, tell me, O Muses that hold your mansions on Olympus, how
fire was thrown upon the ships of the Achaeans. Hector came close up
and let drive with his great sword at the ashen spear of Ajax. He
cut it clean in two just behind where the point was fastened on to the
shaft of the spear. Ajax, therefore, had now nothing but a headless
spear, while the bronze point flew some way off and came ringing
down on to the ground. Ajax knew the hand of heaven in this, and was
dismayed at seeing that Jove had now left him utterly defenceless
and was willing victory for the Trojans. Therefore he drew back, and
the Trojans flung fire upon the ship which was at once wrapped in
flame.
  The fire was now flaring about the ship’s stern, whereon Achilles
smote his two thighs and said to Patroclus, “Up, noble knight, for I
see the glare of hostile fire at our fleet; up, lest they destroy
our ships, and there be no way by which we may retreat. Gird on your
armour at once while I call our people together.”
  As he spoke Patroclus put on his armour. First he greaved his legs
with greaves of good make, and fitted with ancle-clasps of silver;
after this he donned the cuirass of the son of Aeacus, richly inlaid
and studded. He hung his silver-studded sword of bronze about his
shoulders, and then his mighty shield. On his comely head he set his
helmet, well wrought, with a crest of horse-hair that nodded
menacingly above it. He grasped two redoubtable spears that suited his
hands, but he did not take the spear of noble Achilles, so stout and
strong, for none other of the Achaeans could wield it, though Achilles
could do so easily. This was the ashen spear from Mount Pelion,
which Chiron had cut upon a mountain top and had given to Peleus,
wherewith to deal out death among heroes. He bade Automedon yoke his
horses with all speed, for he was the man whom he held in honour
next after Achilles, and on whose support in battle he could rely most
firmly. Automedon therefore yoked the fleet horses Xanthus and Balius,
steeds that could fly like the wind: these were they whom the harpy
Podarge bore to the west wind, as she was grazing in a meadow by the
waters of the river Oceanus. In the side traces he set the noble horse
Pedasus, whom Achilles had brought away with him when he sacked the
city of Eetion, and who, mortal steed though he was, could take his
place along with those that were immortal.
  Meanwhile Achilles went about everywhere among the tents, and bade
his Myrmidons put on their armour. Even as fierce ravening wolves that
are feasting upon a homed stag which they have killed upon the
mountains, and their jaws are red with blood—they go in a pack to lap
water from the clear spring with their long thin tongues; and they
reek of blood and slaughter; they know not what fear is, for it is
hunger drives them—even so did the leaders and counsellors of the
Myrmidons gather round the good squire of the fleet descendant of
Aeacus, and among them stood Achilles himself cheering on both men and
horses.
  Fifty ships had noble Achilles brought to Troy, and in each there
was a crew of fifty oarsmen. Over these he set five captains whom he
could trust, while he was himself commander over them all.
Menesthius of the gleaming corslet, son to the river Spercheius that
streams from heaven, was captain of the first company. Fair Polydora
daughter of Peleus bore him to ever-flowing Spercheius—a woman
mated with a god—but he was called son of Borus son of Perieres, with
whom his mother was living as his wedded wife, and who gave great
wealth to gain her. The second company was led by noble Eudorus, son
to an unwedded woman. Polymele, daughter of Phylas the graceful
dancer, bore him; the mighty slayer of Argos was enamoured of her as
he saw her among the singing women at a dance held in honour of
Diana the rushing huntress of the golden arrows; he therefore-
Mercury, giver of all good—went with her into an upper chamber, and
lay with her in secret, whereon she bore him a noble son Eudorus,
singularly fleet of foot and in fight valiant. When Ilithuia goddess
of the pains of child-birth brought him to the light of day, and he
saw the face of the sun, mighty Echecles son of Actor took the
mother to wife, and gave great wealth to gain her, but her father
Phylas brought the child up, and took care of him, doting as fondly
upon him as though he were his own son. The third company was led by
Pisander son of Maemalus, the finest spearman among all the
Myrmidons next to Achilles’ own comrade Patroclus. The old knight
Phoenix was captain of the fourth company, and Alcimedon, noble son of
Laerceus of the fifth.
  When Achilles had chosen his men and had stationed them all with
their captains, he charged them straitly saying, “Myrmidons,
remember your threats against the Trojans while you were at the
ships in the time of my anger, and you were all complaining of me.
‘Cruel son of Peleus,’ you would say, ‘your mother must have suckled
you on gall, so ruthless are you. You keep us here at the ships
against our will; if you are so relentless it were better we went home
over the sea.’ Often have you gathered and thus chided with me. The
hour is now come for those high feats of arms that you have so long
been pining for, therefore keep high hearts each one of you to do
battle with the Trojans.”
  With these words he put heart and soul into them all, and they
serried their companies yet more closely when they heard the of
their king. As the stones which a builder sets in the wall of some
high house which is to give shelter from the winds—even so closely
were the helmets and bossed shields set against one another. Shield
pressed on shield, helm on helm, and man on man; so close were they
that the horse-hair plumes on the gleaming ridges of their helmets
touched each other as they bent their heads.
  In front of them all two men put on their armour—Patroclus and
Automedon—two men, with but one mind to lead the Myrmidons. Then
Achilles went inside his tent and opened the lid of the strong chest
which silver-footed Thetis had given him to take on board ship, and
which she had filled with shirts, cloaks to keep out the cold, and
good thick rugs. In this chest he had a cup of rare workmanship,
from which no man but himself might drink, nor would he make
offering from it to any other god save only to father Jove. He took
the cup from the chest and cleansed it with sulphur; this done he
rinsed it clean water, and after he had washed his hands he drew wine.
Then he stood in the middle of the court and prayed, looking towards
heaven, and making his drink-offering of wine; nor was he unseen of
Jove whose joy is in thunder. “King Jove,” he cried, “lord of
Dodona, god of the Pelasgi, who dwellest afar, you who hold wintry
Dodona in your sway, where your prophets the Selli dwell around you
with their feet unwashed and their couches made upon the ground—if
you heard me when I prayed to you aforetime, and did me honour while
you sent disaster on the Achaeans, vouchsafe me now the fulfilment
of yet this further prayer. I shall stay here where my ships are
lying, but I shall send my comrade into battle at the head of many
Myrmidons. Grant, O all-seeing Jove, that victory may go with him; put
your courage into his heart that Hector may learn whether my squire is
man enough to fight alone, or whether his might is only then so
indomitable when I myself enter the turmoil of war. Afterwards when he
has chased the fight and the cry of battle from the ships, grant
that he may return unharmed, with his armour and his comrades,
fighters in close combat.”
  Thus did he pray, and all-counselling Jove heard his prayer. Part of
it he did indeed vouchsafe him—but not the whole. He granted that
Patroclus should ****** back war and battle from the ships, but
refused to let him come safely out of the fight.
  When he had made his drink-offering and had thus prayed, Achilles
went inside his tent and put back the cup into his chest.
  Then he again came out, for he still loved to look upon the fierce
fight that raged between the Trojans and Achaeans.
  Meanwhile the armed band that was about Patroclus marched on till
they sprang high in hope upon the Trojans. They came swarming out like
wasps whose nests are by the roadside, and whom silly children love to
tease, whereon any one who happens to be passing may get stung—or
again, if a wayfarer going along the road vexes them by accident,
every wasp will come flying out in a fury to defend his little ones-
even with such rage and courage did the Myrmidons swarm from their
ships, and their cry of battle rose heavenwards. Patroclus called
out to his men at the top of his voice, “Myrmidons, followers of
Achilles son of Peleus, be men my friends, fight with might and with
main, that we may win glory for the son of Peleus, who is far the
foremost man at the ships of the Argives—he, and his close fighting
followers. The son of Atreus King Agamemnon will thus learn his
folly in showing no respect to the bravest of the Achaeans.”
  With these words he put heart and soul into them all, and they
fell in a body upon the Trojans. The ships rang again with the cry
which the Achaeans raised, and when the Trojans saw the brave son of
Menoetius and his squire all gleaming in their armour, they were
daunted and their battalions were thrown into confusion, for they
thought the fleet son of Peleus must now have put aside his anger, and
have been reconciled to Agamemnon; every one, therefore, looked
round about to see whither he might fly for safety.
  Patroclus first aimed a spear into the middle of the press where men
were packed most closely, by the stern of the ship of Protesilaus.
He hit Pyraechmes who had led his Paeonian horsemen from the Amydon
and the broad waters of the river Axius; the spear struck him on the
right shoulder, and with a groan he fell backwards in the dust; on
this his men were thrown into confusion, for by killing their
leader, who was the finest soldier among them, Patroclus struck
panic into them all. He thus drove them from the ship and quenched the
fire that was then blazing—leaving the half-burnt ship to lie where
it was. The Trojans were now driven back with a shout that rent the
skies, while

untitled (vs. imperialism + its idyllic head, which is only idolic, cult of personality)


The tug of war between our better, worser angels, voices in our heads that aren't,
an aspect of sociological schizophrenia that Westerners were all programmed with
from birth on, tears at us as it was meant to, for the divided fall to ebony, ivory,
the black and white supremacies, conquering in perfect harmony, neigh, perfect war,
which can only beget more, thus the global unending unnecessary war against all life
only increases, as the irrelevant pieces are discarded ever more, for more, now, 13000
kids a day die of lack of potable water, hunger, while the 130 running for manager-
in-chief of the world's retail store, the united **** of assassins, won't mention it
once, what the real left always fought to end.  Like genocide, remember when it was
commonly understood if you knew about it and weren't fighting it you were a genocider?
Just last year Coates on the Hayes show said, "...if you think whites shouldn't be
genocided you're a racist...", a song of economic sukkkcess by ebony over ivory for
them and the republican conspiracy, for, the only other things, besides neutering of
newborns, assassinating infants in cribs, anatomical destruction and mass-****** of
kids, teens, that they have enforcing their 35 % ruling the 65 % are all the inter-
locking, laced economic systems based on scarcity instead of nature's abundance,
ever increasing the supposed garnering of ever more short-term delusional pleasures,
profits and powers, in ever more cyclical, centralizing patterns that dictate
astronomically larger real deficits over the long-term, in a word, Earth-******,
the central organizing theme of global defacto-slavery of all by the non-renewable fuel
industrial complexes, the real left vexes with our unifying song of liberation from
and abolishing of fossil fuel use, keeping it all in the ground, which is where they
pound the real (non-socialist) greens.  Why don't our hands demand "...We(e),..." climb,
our streching demand we reach only more over time, our lungs only more wind under an
only greater wingspan over time, instead of the opposite?  "...We(e),..." need to
turn 360 degrees around, back to the evolution and the future humanity will only
have if you, illimitable potential, indivisible as life, leave no footprints that
follow none, which will echo forever on, in all ways, always.  Viva la Evolucion.

I shake awake in the sleep…
The invisible dialogues, unable
to distinguish from darkness
vexes me...
I have heard the sob of the horn bill of the freedom
throughout the half broken dreams…
you also may blame me like my mother
that it’s because not pray to God when I go to bed…
For how many ‘freedoms’
I've been kept decorated
in the living room?
the fishes in aquariums
are not the beauty kept in the glass pots
but freedom closed in the glass…
While the fishes argue that
the three quarter of the world has made for them,
looking towards the open canopy of freedom,
the love birds, quibble me from the cages
that what I caged is the word of ‘freedom’ itself.

Doubtlessly, creating Auschwitz cells in living rooms
how can I speak about the freedom?

Having exempted the birds towards canopy of indulgence
the fishes to the sea of the rights,
I went to fly in the freedom of sleep
forgetting to pray to God…
then, I know
the birds from the canopy of indulgence
and the fishes from the sea of the rights,
are praying God for the sake of me…

I toast to the spirits you've been counting, lying in that hammock with a stranger from Mars. Your muddy fingers, they creep like hairless spider arms between the ropey knots that bind together all its parts. There is a house inside the hilltop, where it peaks there is a church- there once was a man in shackles and handcuffs living there, he also had mud on the bottoms of his feet. Even the pennies you found get lost now and then. Even your white hair goes a shade of blonde. I can't sleep but I don't try, I never tried not to do something so much that the rest of me broke. I pushed so hard that sand fell into my socks. You only told me half of what will happen to you at 10am, the rest of it you told me that you'd prefer I didn't know, but if I am to survive on the secrets I know that you don't know about. Then tonight I will be sewing the wool over my eyes.------------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------------- No one could ever have any idea what comes easy. The creaking heavy wood of your slop-room door, or the filth I cough up in green, mustard, and tar globules every hour. There is the was. Small hands in half pockets. Stitches supposedly dissolving into our skins. The yellow wall, the panda pillow, the Pink Sugar, your hair wax and heavy handed straight-ironing tilt my curved and bent feet Northward about 6 to 60º degrees. Late trains and no complaints. Stubs of hair and tender legs. I don't give but my elbows buckle. This frame wasn't built to take blow after blow. Some friends tell me they can see tomorrow before it comes. Lakeside, readied, silver-necklace I haven't seen. Gold flightless bird that's never walked but says it will. I am cornered, my cornea tinted my vexes and leftovers, black and white pearls, birthdays, earthworms, and vinegar. Family dinners that push me nearer to the hole in the donut. I'm just so afraid of falling overboard. It's just I can't go forever without being heard.-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------------- In and the. How long do stories like this carry on for? Does my name come up in private? Does mom two even know whether I ever existed or if I was split? I am the answer to the secret 'ask' question? When do I become background photo one or two? I am the one that's grateful I had a chance to sleep toe to toe. That I uncovered the winter that woke up the bleach and incense in the frosted air. While school is in session, am I crazy to believe in mermaids and sparklers and stickers, I'll stick with the choice that I made a year ago Tuesday- September hasn't ended but November's nowhere near. The reason I smoke so much is because I am no good at waiting. For phone calls, tweets, texts, updates, or written mail. No one told us that this could end underwater without even half of a breath, if you'd of asked then I would have told you that's why I steal your underwear and your sweatpants. You can have all my money, I don't even want, I just need it for you. You can have every word that I write, wield, and speak with, every sentiment and sentence, each promise,and compromise, everything that I own.-------------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------------- Four photographs later. Everything means something. I'm in knots. Spiderwebs from elbow to elbow. Fishing hooks from knee to knee. My neck feels very naked, bare. Nothing, not even traces of pink or cerise lipstick or lip marks. Smudge me, stop punishing me, please, prease, don't leave. This isn't very good for either of us. My story cannot tread so closely to an ending, to the ends of a night or a phone call or an eyebrow pencil or an eyelash curler, not the double-sided extra-soft blanket you keep on your bed, not the bottles and dollars and boxes and jewelry under your mattress, not the zip in your doorway or the zipper in my jeans, not the two holes in my belt loops or the caffeine in my morning coffee. I quit cigarettes, ended my sentences earlier, grew quiet, wore more band shirts and skinny jeans. Even the lines of lips, outlined by hips, white roses painted red, blonde hairs blanketed by the bleaching on your head. I'm wrestling hula hoops, I'm putting my pinkies in your gauges, and amazed how good it feels- and I'm happy you didn't....leaves of autumn shatter on concrete city streets, although you'd hate it I'm thinking of a tattoo sleeve, how about you make it? Darling please! Rice Krispie I'm on my Lee Dungaree's, begging you to meet me on our knees. And every candy that I spit out once I got to the middle, every lollipop that I ever bit into to find the gum, each Happy Meal toy I bought separately; you are the only girl I attended school to meet when I wasn't enrolled. I'm holding on. The bottoms of my jeans rolled up so I don't fade into use. I miss having your tongue in my mouth. I want to feel my hands in your pants. It's my tongue that gets curious as I begin to feel the heat off your *******. Tender touching. Dire romance. Throttle my face with your legs. I'll perch you up on a pillow, you can hold my head till I beg. Because if I go at this life thing alone, pretty soon I'll have a mouth full of lead.

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry
Came loud, -and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
’Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny ***** and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My playmate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

“How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
looking at everything and calling out
Yes! No!”
–Mary Oliver, “Yes! No!”

1.

The coils of this labyrinth remind me of the small intestine.  This vexes me.  Walking the labyrinth is supposed to be a spiritual experience, isn’t it?  Neither time nor place for unlovely images of the body.  The truth is that I dislike the labyrinth.  I find it too constraining, too tedious—all these looping, repetitive coils.  The truth is that I hate the labyrinth because it is pale and remote, and silently indifferent to me.  If I am going to engage with something, I’d like for it to talk back, please.  I have questions, you know.  I have some concerns.  And perhaps just one or two small issues with control, and delayed gratification.

2.

“I think serenity is not something you just find in the world, like a plum tree,
holding up its white petals” (Mary Oliver, “Yes! No!”).


3.

“Watch how we encounter each other,” you say, and we walk, slowly, separately.  Around one turn we meet, and you kiss me, and your tongue is muscular and wet.  Around another turn you say, over your shoulder, “Hello,” and continue walking.  It is hard for me to keep my balance even though the path is smooth and flat.  I feel like we are in a Magritte painting.  Your white shirt glows softly somewhere to the left of my awareness.  A voice not connected to your body says, “Do you like my hat?”  We are walking.  We are together.  We are not together.  


4.

“Imagination is better than a sharp instrument.  To pay attention, this is our endless
and proper work” (Mary Oliver, “Yes! No!”).


5.

So now:
Quiet, quiet—the darkness is full.
Your skin is listening
to the night air.

In the center of the labyrinth, someone has placed a gift.

Quiet, quiet—someone is telling you a story.
The oldest story in the world, and his body hums and pulses
under your fingers.

In the center, there is a gift.

Quiet, quiet—this is not walking.  
This is surrendering to the path, your body long and outstretched
against the stones.

In the center, someone has placed a gift.

The Hunting

The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow.
"If only you'd spoken before!
It's excessively awkward to mention it now,
With the Snark, so to speak, at the door!
"We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe,
If you never were met with again--
But surely, my man, when the voyage began,
You might have suggested it then?

"It's excessively awkward to mention it now--
As I think I've already remarked."
And the man they called "Hi!" replied, with a sigh,
"I informed you the day we embarked.

"You may charge me with ******--or want of sense--
(We are all of us weak at times):
But the slightest approach to a false pretence
Was never among my crimes!

"I said it in Hebrew--I said it in Dutch--
I said it in German and Greek:
But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much)
That English is what you speak!"

"'Tis a pitiful tale," said the Bellman, whose face
Had grown longer at every word:
"But, now that you've stated the whole of your case,
More debate would be simply absurd.

"The rest of my speech" (he exclaimed to his men)
"You shall hear when I've leisure to speak it.
But the Snark is at hand, let me tell you again!
'Tis your glorious duty to seek it!

"To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care;
To pursue it with forks and hope;
To threaten its life with a railway-share;
To charm it with smiles and soap!

"For the Snark's a peculiar creature, that wo'n't
Be caught in a commonplace way.
Do all that you know, and try all that you don't:
Not a chance must be wasted to-day!

"For England expects--I forbear to proceed:
'Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite:
And you'd best be unpacking the things that you need
To rig yourselves out for the fight."

Then the Banker endorsed a blank cheque (which he crossed),
And changed his loose silver for notes:
The Baker with care combed his whiskers and hair.
And shook the dust out of his coats:

The Boots and the Broker were sharpening a *****--
Each working the grindstone in turn:
But the ****** went on making lace, and displayed
No interest in the concern:

Though the Barrister tried to appeal to its pride
And vainly proceeded to cite
A number of cases, in which making laces
Had proved an infringement of right.

The maker of Bonnets ferociously planned
A novel arrangement of bows:
While the Billiard-marker with quivering hand
Was chalking the tip of his nose.

But the Butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine,
With yellow kid gloves and a ruff--
Said he felt it exactly like going to dine,
Which the Bellman declared was all "stuff".

"Introduce me, now there's a good fellow," he said,
"If we happen to meet it together!"
And the Bellman, sagaciously nodding his head,
Said "That must depend on the weather."

The ****** went simply galumphing about,
At seeing the Butcher so shy:
And even the Baker, though stupid and stout,
Made an effort to wink with one eye.

"Be a man!" said the Bellman in wrath, as he heard
The Butcher beginning to sob.
"Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird,
We shall need all our strength for the job!"

The vividest viridian, the variety,
An orange vinaigrette,
     Vexes her.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

With each reach I am further away than I hoped.
Clawing desperately at walls of mud.
Foiled by the viscosity of fools.
No matter how hard I try to escape the solitude it haunts me still.
Looming over me like a cowl adhered to my skull.
Comforting is its presence.
Complex are it’s vexes.
Is it the walls or my skin that take the brunt of my aggression?
Is it outward or all within?
Could it be that the darkness is my only friend?
The only thing that remains.
All my efforts are in vain.
All my transgressions explained.
My thoughts are all insane.
But here in the depth I can escape the pain.
So here I shall remain.
Filled with more of the same.
Questions unexplored… a bane.

With such compelling cause to grieve
  As daily vexes household peace,
  And chains regret to his decease,
How dare we keep our Christmas-eve;

Which brings no more a welcome guest
  To enrich the threshold of the night
  With shower'd largess of delight
In dance and song and game and jest?

Yet go, and while the holly boughs
  Entwine the cold baptismal font,
  Make one wreath more for Use and Wont,
That guard the portals of the house;

Old sisters of a day gone by,
  Gray nurses, loving nothing new;
  Why should they miss their yearly due
Before their time? They too will die.

I had a nightmare of you
You will never leave my house
Or be forgotten by the living
My soul is haunted by your fantasy
My life quivers from lips and eyes
Can ghosts recieve emotion?
A plane drives us apart; tangible or not
Even a ghoul has its perfection
Ghastly I cannot perceive, lust is blind
Gossamer shrouds have left me frenzied
The forsaken pleading for sanity
Release tendrils and leave me grave
Condemn mine spirit to peace
She vexes the dead with promise of living
Instead I am cursed with but a dream

Picture-perfect spectacle, splattered upon the canvas
White canvas polka-dotted, splashed, smacked
With an ensemble of colors partaking in lively dances
Artistry exemplary, simple applause apparently apt.

It was this artist’s one shot
The proof was in the painting
The piece ; joy is what it brought
The other piece, other joy, exhilarating.

Reds, violets, blues
Pinks, greens, and orange hues
Rainbow splats and careful flats
Certain clusters of paint make me glad.

Though, like every painting painted
A hidden passage creating vexes
Faint sadness ; happiness tainted
The mind of this creator perplexes.

All the while I’ve been feeling his art
And touching the surface
Deep below was his heart
Well crafted mask that hugged his face

I shall pick his brain
Quite literally, though it’s repulsive
For this painting was his last, ashame
His retirement is messy, but in an eye of an artist
This gunpoint suicide was one that held artistic fame.

Slumber used to offer me such vistas
as to awe and wholly set my mind free
Then, forbidden ana snatched sleep from me
I read of Them, coming from far reaches
of the Void, beyond our souls' frail cages
Star-spawned, They found Earth with ravenous glee
to feed on the dreams of all that would be
Formless They come, with dirges and vexes

You'll feel Their touch when you awake screaming,
when you smell rot even on a sunny day
When horrid waking visions are unfurled
of a thousand eyes in darkness gleaming
Now I no longer sleep, knowing that They
occupy, beside us, this fetid world

WRITING (Reflections from My Diary)

A writer becomes a writer not because he wants to write-
he becomes one because he WRITES and never stops writing.
It's only through the sloughs of disappointment and despair
that he finally sees the light which might take years, decades or a life-time.

Skills alone are not enough, nor grit or tenacity.
The other qualities, (indeed I regard these as being more important) he must acquire are patience and humility.

How could I ever call myself a writer? When I read the works of the masters and even those of my peers, I realise that I don't qualify to be among them. Best to regard myself as a student, an apprentice, a beginner and admirer (of all forms of art) and in this realisation I would have no choice but to write, write and write--day and night, if I wish to make any headway.

Yet, I always enjoy what I do--when I write, it's as though I live in another trajectory--I'm lost in time, beauty and wonder, and the external world, with all its drabness and tedium, seems to fade away and no longer vexes me. I become a new being, I have wings, I fly to a realm I've not known before, I am free and exultant, I sing, I dance, I marvel, I LIVE!

22nd July 2017, Melbourne copyright

An Envious Soul
For I lack a better namesake is
When a smile is gone because of past vexes
Darkened tunnel
Vision
Don't even pretend that its not there

Love bonds pull tight
Love bonds strangle the light
Love bonds cloud common sense
Love bonds

Let the stars commence

No matter what, my way is lit
If You Looked   for a way to see what I want
It's there plainly

But Windy Days sees nothing
And Envious Soul pulls back curtains to see it all
See. It. All.

Windy Days waste away
Pounding at a bleak future landscape
Windy days sees nothing
It cannot comprehend

Bonds tighten then fray
               Be frightened away

Somewhere something menacing is happening

Overtaking the mind cantankerous me, here inside the apartment. No longer making plans, exciting friends, hosting

anything

More than a before noon call to maintenance or planned visit from someone else’s friend- concocted thirteen months ago. What has made them so afraid to ever allow themselves to enjoy, the chance at sour or sweet, umami, or something in between vexes these feet under-beat.

Seemingly never to trammel a midnight sidewalk or sweaty cramped R&B/Soul Dance party.

some third floor walk up

4:00a.m.

stranger’s unfurnished creative space

Friday untied to Monday

Above, the blushing blood moon vexes silken ebon space
with shadows in the mournful mist recalling, pale, a wistful trace -
her farewell smile I viewed through tears that almost veiled her face -
she turned away and whispered low 'another time, another place...'

Free as the wind, you roam the land
Removing vexes from your heart.
Emerging anew from the past
Mellifluous with many smiles.
Elate my friend, your eyes possess
Lyrics no poet has ever wrote.

The one who knows what an aglet is
And the one who found a cure to break outs
Are neck and neck
In the race to critical acclaim

The pure of heart take aim towards the regency
With flushed flesh
As if they were the ones racing

The chaste one vexes them all
They hope her chest caves in
And her vital organs fail
They see her as an appalling misuse of DNA

In this sequence
There is a strong emphasis of hate
But why?
Because hate is one of the fundamentals of life that's ubiquitous
Until an outbreak of letting go comes
And the appeals for torment to befall others come to and end

With that said, I want to see who wins this race, if that ***** little ***** gets what she has coming to her and those know-nothings on the throne get over thrown
As I enjoy this rhubarb and turpentine pie
It looks mouthwatering as ever

vexes sharp looks intriguing blond of hair
tightly of thighs mutters a pair
that i think might sound nice like
a nighttime sounds
pretty pushing a pin

between them

SOCIAL SECURITY “RAISE” - A PROTEST POEM*
By Carol Rae Bradford, M.Ed.   [Please Center]


It’s really time to cancel our votes—but instead,
Change that forlorn, modest Social Security-Bed,
That deprived seniors do not, must not, be fed
Many have died, expenses bled.
Edible solutions should be made that must be fairly sped
Why must this swindle be something you’d allow?
We can't pay for medicine, nor good food for now.
2020’s 1.6 % raise won't feed even a baby cow.
A six percent raise would really help right now.  J
“Security” a misnomer at best--beset by this test
We worked long and hard, not having much rest, lest
Seniors, never did need more of any such stress test
Seniors are good, deserve the very best!
Well and long before our final rest!

This unfair decision we no longer can allow
We seniors have a right to enjoy a whole life’s vow, NOW!
Some of us could not save much those earlier days
Check in with the rich, they do not live in these ways!
Medicare jumps in with that ill-liked, ill-fated raise
This reality has become an unhealthy phase
Erases, removes that stingy S.S. raise!
Cancel the indexes
That do truly vex us!
Create a new law/option that really lets us
Be happy, allow no more vexes.
Please do-gooders, if any of you are alive
Please, please, do not us deprive.
We seniors like to enjoy a life while alive!
Truly, the curse of poverty has proven its way
Writing, protesting, really doesn’t pay.
Now we pay secondly on taxed-earned income
Seconds are not fair--not known of by President Lincoln.
Never existing in earlier times
Now we are enveloped with many more fines.  

Bought-and-paid-for Politicians
Out to install more misled missions,
Rarely conforming to citizens’ visions
Glued-into-their political office chairs,
Acting more like obsequious mares,
May we find just one who cares? Or dares?
Taxes go out to unauthorized places
Places that ignore decent societies’ graces
Places we send armaments to **** other races
Eliminating equality for seniors’ later-life’s graces!
How is Social Security any kind of “security?”
Do politicians at all agree with this lack of purity?
They sure do create a genuine insecurity!
Why then should elders have to suffer insufferable punity?
They are instead given a large amount of impunity.

Climate change, Schlimate Change
Almost now, out of our range,
To take many final Earth goods away
Our grandchildren aren’t ever going to find their way
Or have their say
To see another day.
Will they be here, anyway?
Enthusiasts evilly enjoy laws to push blocking
This serious issue now has most of us talking
We really must stop this locking
up of really hopeful, skillful news.
Promoting, inculcating, what we’d see as better-quality views.

Dissension is no longer an accepted intention
We no longer are allowed to ever mention
the “other,” we so often write for their protection
This is hurting,  promoting, much unnecessary tension.
Free speech is certainly now found on the out
Even though--we move, get out and shout!
Middle class is gone, now what to do?
Go out, read, review and mostly renew!
Fight for your life, and prove to the masses
Rich and poor are the two remaining classes!
Hate to say it, forces us into being muddled middle-class *****.
Leaders, now not perfect, are easily becoming fascists.
Roosevelt’s Freedom of Speech
Nearly gone, couldn’t you screech?
Time for a good overreach
We do so beseech
Time for all to push against any future breach.

Government spreads its one way usually with bias
Could government be protecting some no-good liars?
Some media follow supinely with same-song lies
What to do, some believe, but put a stop to our cries:
We must undo their devices, and to criticize.

Why must leaders obey, vote for, SPECIAL INTERESTS’ greed?
We gotta change things, yet with great, great speed!
To verily allow enough for every senior’s need.

Social Security Poem-by Carol Rae Bradford, M.Ed.
November-2019  (c)

*Inspired by three articles in The Boston Globe:

“Social Security to get modest 1.6% increase,” Boston Globe, October 11, 2019.
“Most Mass. Single seniors struggle to pay for food, housing, study says,”
“Senior couples pained to afford basics.”, Boston Globe, November 19, 2019, and
“Social Security tilting to favor higher earners,” “Social Security disfavors less fortunate,“
Boston Globe, December 3, 2019


By Carol Rae Bradford, M.Ed.
Email: cbrad4334@aol.com

Please Center the poem. Thank you

It has been a year
Exactly one year to the day
When we decided to say
I do, again, forever, together.

And never a day goes by
That I don’t try to hold you
And tell you again how much
You mean, your voice, your touch.
The only things that matter
Are these smatterings of moments
Like hugs and kisses good morning
And the same at bedtime at night.
These things are right and the best
Better than all the rest in life
Worth any strife, any price,
Several steps beyond nice
They are what fuels my hopes
And my peaceful dreams.

It seems that sometimes quickly
There are tickly moments to bear
Like a bolt out of somewhere
That must be suffered through
But as I do, there are you
Smiling saying it will pass
And just that fast, it does.
What it was is then a memory
And no longer vexes me
Because what is important is us
And not a sorrow that once was.

So, here is yet another toast
To what matters most, you and I
Learning from what has gone by
And building toward a great future
That is the two of us together
And never a regret that we are
Who we are, not wishing on a star
But accepting and reveling
In what we have now
And happy with how
Things can work out for two
Like me and like you.

Atom open born energy fragrance
atmosphere bay embraces pactis'd origin heard
youth procreant *** uprights
soul proof vexes familiar stealthy fancied wondering
Backward
abased loose plunged
scabs full flags, handkerchiefs
babe Sprouting hair Tenderly,
faint perceive hints old somewhere collapses
die manifold companion lips Undrape!
silently red-faced sprawls clinking doors atop
mountains settle round luxuriant
slave friendly handsome owns I laughing
wet bodies spray sharpens lithe
steady giant for Oxen tread
consider wild sharp-hoof'd foot growing
easiest pure I resist cannot riddle grass
music battles dead fail'd set press.

Maybe if I thought of her hard enough I could breathe her into my presence.

And although I try, her face only brings a tear

And with this tear I mix my hearts manifestation.

Only to write more grief,

Within the lines of this leaf

This is the great lovers manifesto

Questionable only with this:

Will I and my love ever manifest?

Or will I remain forever torn from my flesh?

Fighting the unchangeable,

The which, I cannot correct.
 

A part of isn’t here.

Though this part continues to live on

And I cry not because it lives, because it does not live it only exist

And though I pray for it to transcend,

I can’t ignore the wreckage that takes place within.
 

A part of me isn’t here.

And I wonder if someone is making love to you?

And even though there are more important questions that bombard me in the dead of night.

This one vexes me in the voices of rain drops dying upon my window.

Mockingly asking,

Does he hold you closely at night just to here two hearts beat simultaneously singing a love song?

Does he taste your sadness manifested as tears falling from your eyes?

And if he loves you answer me this,

Has his spirit ever transcended the ethereal to comfort you when you’re lonely?

I know the thought of you out there with all life has to offer and the thought of me having tasted some of the bitter fruit that this world produces is disturbing.

But don’t kiss him!

And if you do, veil your eyes so that he doesn’t look into them as I once did.

Don’t kiss him!

Because what lies within a kiss is a trust that boarders on the edge of love,

And what lies within losing your love is a mentality that boarders insanity.

And I could lose you through a kiss,

Lose you through a kiss,

Lose you through a kiss,

And in turn lose myself.

One more prophet of doom in the room and I'll go,
the last show on earth is always the one that gives birth to the next and it vexes me so.
What is over and done is done with,give it a rest,look on the bright side,the right side,tomorrow is Sunday,you can dress in your best and kneel in the dust reading prayers from musty old books.
There's a much bigger prophet in here,in my heart ain't it queer? you become what you are and you never get far from the start,in the end you're a part of it,a little bit anyway,and tomorrow's today,only a light switch away and will you pray for this sinner?
eat roast beef for dinner?
watch Jeremy Kyle?
A prophet of doom every once in a while does a power of good
I wish I could
believe that.

Down in my tummy, there's a weird rumble
That brings dizziness and makes me to stumble
It turns everything I see into a jumble
Makes everything I say sound like a mumble
To explain myself, round and round I fumble
I find myself annoyed at everything and I grumble
Everyone vexes, causing my world to crumble
When satisfied, it leaves me quiet and humble

A gust vexes the curtain
and I am mindful of you.

That life, then, manifest, now,
In a halting procession
Of burnt celluloid.

Ash trays like pyres, leering gypsy eyes:
you mocked death, it mocked you.

And mocks you still,
perhaps for the last time, this blue midnight
as cherubs scrub the hospital floor.

Out you're ******,
like the curtain, like the gust.