'slowpoke' by csny wrote: something opened up the gates again
i can control it, so i'm rushing in
here comes a mermaid and a little girl
some open drawers from around the world
i got some medals hanging on my chest
i've seen some good ones but i missed the best
lady luck, don't you turn on me
i'm just a student of your history
i'm just a student of your history
slowpoke, i'm going to run with you
wear all your clothes and do what you do
slowpoke we've got some things to find
when i was faster i was always behind
when i was faster i was always behind
something pulling back the curtain again
the stage is darker and the crowd is in
the song is gentle and the song is long
something's missing, but something is found
something's missing, but something is found
Word
and great loves will one day have to part -smashing pumpkins
Billy Collins wrote: The Country
I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice
might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.
Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe
behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,
the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time —
now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,
lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?
No chalkbag since 1995.
Another by Billy Collins
Man Listening To Disc
This is not bad --
ambling along 44th Street
with Sonny Rollins for company,
his music flowing through the soft calipers
of these earphones,
as if he were right beside me
on this clear day in March,
the pavement sparkling with sunlight,
pigeons fluttering off the curb,
nodding over a profusion of bread crumbs.
In fact, I would say
my delight at being suffused
with phrases from his saxophone --
some like honey, some like vinegar --
is surpassed only by my gratitude
to Tommy Potter for taking the time
to join us on this breezy afternoon
with his most unwieldy bass
and to the esteemed Arthur Taylor
who is somehow managing to navigate
this crowd with his cumbersome drums.
And I bow deeply to Thelonious Monk
for figuring out a way
to motorize -- or whatever -- his huge piano
so he could be with us today.
This music is loud yet so confidential.
I cannot help feeling even more
like the center of the universe
than usual as I walk along to a rapid
little version of "The Way You Look Tonight,"
and all I can say to my fellow pedestrians,
to the woman in the white sweater,
the man in the tan raincoat and the heavy glasses,
who mistake themselves for the center of the universe --
all I can say is watch your step,
because the five of us, instruments and all,
are about to angle over
to the south side of the street
and then, in our own tightly knit way,
turn the corner at Sixth Avenue.
And if any of you are curious
about where this aggregation,
this whole battery-powered crew,
is headed, let us just say
that the real center of the universe,
the only true point of view,
is full of hope that he,
the hub of the cosmos
with his hair blown sideways,
will eventually make it all the way downtown.
Billy Collins
Man Listening To Disc
This is not bad --
ambling along 44th Street
with Sonny Rollins for company,
his music flowing through the soft calipers
of these earphones,
as if he were right beside me
on this clear day in March,
the pavement sparkling with sunlight,
pigeons fluttering off the curb,
nodding over a profusion of bread crumbs.
In fact, I would say
my delight at being suffused
with phrases from his saxophone --
some like honey, some like vinegar --
is surpassed only by my gratitude
to Tommy Potter for taking the time
to join us on this breezy afternoon
with his most unwieldy bass
and to the esteemed Arthur Taylor
who is somehow managing to navigate
this crowd with his cumbersome drums.
And I bow deeply to Thelonious Monk
for figuring out a way
to motorize -- or whatever -- his huge piano
so he could be with us today.
This music is loud yet so confidential.
I cannot help feeling even more
like the center of the universe
than usual as I walk along to a rapid
little version of "The Way You Look Tonight,"
and all I can say to my fellow pedestrians,
to the woman in the white sweater,
the man in the tan raincoat and the heavy glasses,
who mistake themselves for the center of the universe --
all I can say is watch your step,
because the five of us, instruments and all,
are about to angle over
to the south side of the street
and then, in our own tightly knit way,
turn the corner at Sixth Avenue.
And if any of you are curious
about where this aggregation,
this whole battery-powered crew,
is headed, let us just say
that the real center of the universe,
the only true point of view,
is full of hope that he,
the hub of the cosmos
with his hair blown sideways,
will eventually make it all the way downtown.
Billy Collins
and the orange peels float on..ashley seitz kramer wrote: Before the Trojan War
Zeus spotted Leda from forty yards away
on a Friday before lunch. He was on his way
to pierce Prometheus for handing out matches
in soupkitchens, but Leda crossed the boulevard,
tucked her flowing hair behind her ear.
And he stared: she felt the heat.
Leda dropped the photo she carried of her brothers
on a boating trip, tan and free to drift.
She looked at Zeus, then looked past him.
Already, while picking up the photo,
she had fallen in love with him, fallen out,
felt regret sitting in her stomach like bread
that wouldn’t digest, only expand.
Surely he would understand.
Zeus strolled over, spun the thick ring
on his finger—a red jewel resting
in its middle like an eye—and asked where
she was headed. If she liked fish.
and great loves will one day have to part -smashing pumpkins
jd salinger's 'for esmé - with love and squalor' wrote:it was a long time before x could set the note aside, let alone lift esmé's father's wristwatch out of the box. when he finally did lift it out , he saw that its crystal had been broken in transit. he wondered if the watch was otherwise undamaged, but he hadn't the courage to wind it and find out. he just sat with it in his hand for another long period. then suddenly, almost ecstatically, he felt sleepy.
you take a really sleepy man, esmé, and he al-ways stands a chance of again becoming a man with all his fac- with all his f-a-c-u-l-t-i-e-s intact.
and great loves will one day have to part -smashing pumpkins
dylan thomas wrote: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
and great loves will one day have to part -smashing pumpkins
When I heard the learned astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wandered off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Looked up in perfect silence at the stars.
-Walt Whitman
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wandered off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Looked up in perfect silence at the stars.
-Walt Whitman