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Jun. 2nd, 2018
Poems Of The Week
Jun. 2nd, 2018 07:38 amA couple of poems that i have enjoyed.
Why I Am Not A Painter
by Frank O'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to me
The Century's corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited.
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware.
Why I Am Not A Painter
by Frank O'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to me
The Century's corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited.
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware.
The Friday Five (Belatedly)
Jun. 2nd, 2018 07:46 amI am feeling a bit silly today so -
How often do you empty trash in your house?
Is there something that you are currently obsessed with?
Is there something that is incredibly popular at the moment, but that annoys the crap out of you?
In your opinion, which smells worse a cat fart or a dog fart?
Do you make up or create your own words or vocabulary?
How often do you empty trash in your house?
Is there something that you are currently obsessed with?
Is there something that is incredibly popular at the moment, but that annoys the crap out of you?
In your opinion, which smells worse a cat fart or a dog fart?
Do you make up or create your own words or vocabulary?
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In Canterbury
Jun. 2nd, 2018 10:15 pmA visit to sunny Canterbury today to do a phone store visit for one of my companies. I was going to do it next week but i had this itch to see the cathedral city. Weather turned out to be gloriously sunny so why not. It was an easy one anyway,and i quickly did the report in the cafe of Waterstones bookshop.
Naturally i bought some books. These were slim volumes at a quid each in the Penguin Moderns,fifty in all and numbered as such. In other words,quick reads.
Picked up a small supply of pipe tobacco as well,and perused a couple of charity shops,but nowt inspired me.
So ,after a quick gander at the refurbished Wetherspoons pub in Bargate .i took the bus home.
Back in Faversham i noticed the record shop cat sprawled over racks of vinyl in the sunshine,and would not budge whilst punters were trying to look through the racks,
When i arrived at my base i noticed the neighbours’ cat coming towards me so i made a fuss of the feline - stroking her and and scratching her head.She loves that.A sprightly eighteen too.
So now i am relaxing to some classical music,finishing of a large mug of coffee, and about to do some reading.
This is my current read pile.
Naturally i bought some books. These were slim volumes at a quid each in the Penguin Moderns,fifty in all and numbered as such. In other words,quick reads.
Picked up a small supply of pipe tobacco as well,and perused a couple of charity shops,but nowt inspired me.
So ,after a quick gander at the refurbished Wetherspoons pub in Bargate .i took the bus home.
Back in Faversham i noticed the record shop cat sprawled over racks of vinyl in the sunshine,and would not budge whilst punters were trying to look through the racks,
When i arrived at my base i noticed the neighbours’ cat coming towards me so i made a fuss of the feline - stroking her and and scratching her head.She loves that.A sprightly eighteen too.
So now i am relaxing to some classical music,finishing of a large mug of coffee, and about to do some reading.
This is my current read pile.
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