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Any favourites? Bored at work so I got to thinking what pieces have moved me over the years. Amateur, professional, comtemporary, classics, all welcome for sharing. Here's are a couple that've been floating around me the past few days:

 

The Second Coming

 

By William Butler Yeats

 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

 

The City in the Sea

 

by Edgar Allan Poe.

 

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

 

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out the lurid sea

Streams up the turrets silently—

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—

Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—

Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—

Up many and many a marvelous shrine

Whose wreathèd friezes intertwine

The viol, the violet, and the vine.

 

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

 

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves;

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol's diamond eye—

Not the gaily-jeweled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!

Among that wilderness of glass—

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea—

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

 

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave—there is a movement there!

As if the towers had thrust aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide—

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy Heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow—

The hours are breathing faint and low—

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence,

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.

 

The Red Wheelbarrow

 

by William Carlos Williams.

 

 

so much depends

upon

 

a red wheel

barrow

 

glazed with rain

water

 

beside the white

chickens.

 

 

 

 

 

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Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning

 

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

 

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

 

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

 

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I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

 

ozymandias--Shelley

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Guest LucaAltieri

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

 

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two imposters just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

 

 

"If" - The original Mr. Kipling

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Excalibur

 

by D. Brent

 

I froze your tears,

and made a dagger

and stabbed it in my cock, forever

it stays there like Excalibur

Are you my Arthur? Say you are.

Take this cool dark steeled blade

steal it, sheathe it in your lake

I'd drown with you to be together

Must you breath? 'Cause I need heaven.

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Warning!

 

When I am an old woman,

I shall wear purple - -

With a red hat which doesn't go,

and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension

on brandy and summer gloves and satin sandles,

And say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

and gobble up samples in shops

and press alarm bells

and run with my stick along public railings,

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick flowers in other people's gardens

and learn to spit!

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at ago,

or only bread and pickles for a week,

and hoard pens and pencils

and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry,

and pay our rent

and not swear in the street,

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner

and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me

are not too shocked and surprised

when suddenly I am old,

And start to wear purple.

 

--Jenny Joseph

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I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

 

ozymandias--Shelley

 

Fuckin' great, that. Yeats was inspired by Shelley if I'm not mistaken, and one can see why.

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Excalibur

 

by D. Brent

 

I froze your tears,

and made a dagger

and stabbed it in my cock, forever

it stays there like Excalibur

Are you my Arthur? Say you are.

Take this cool dark steeled blade

steal it, sheathe it in your lake

I'd drown with you to be together

Must you breath? 'Cause I need heaven.

 

bluelaugh.gif bluelaugh.gif bluelaugh.gif Every time.

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The Hollow Men

 

by T.S. Elliot.

 

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

 

      A penny for the Old Guy

 

      I

 

We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

Our dried voices, when

We whisper together

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass

Or rats’ feet over broken glass

In our dry cellar

 

Shape without form, shade without colour,

Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

 

Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom

Remember us—if at all—not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.

 

      II

 

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

In death’s dream kingdom

These do not appear:

There, the eyes are

Sunlight on a broken column

There, is a tree swinging

And voices are

In the wind’s singing

More distant and more solemn

Than a fading star.

 

Let me be no nearer

In death’s dream kingdom

Let me also wear

Such deliberate disguises

Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves

In a field

Behaving as the wind behaves

No nearer—

 

Not that final meeting

In the twilight kingdom

 

      III

 

This is the dead land

This is cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man’s hand

Under the twinkle of a fading star.

 

Is it like this

In death’s other kingdom

Waking alone

At the hour when we are

Trembling with tenderness

Lips that would kiss

Form prayers to broken stone.

 

      IV

 

The eyes are not here

There are no eyes here

In this valley of dying stars

In this hollow valley

This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

 

In this last of meeting places

We grope together

And avoid speech

Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

 

Sightless, unless

The eyes reappear

As the perpetual star

Multifoliate rose

Of death’s twilight kingdom

The hope only

Of empty men.

 

      V

 

Here we go round the prickly pear

Prickly pear prickly pear

Here we go round the prickly pear

At five o’clock in the morning.

 

Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow

                                For Thine is the Kingdom

 

Between the conception

And the creation

Between the emotion

And the response

Falls the Shadow

                                Life is very long

 

Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the Shadow

                                For Thine is the Kingdom

 

For Thine is

Life is

For Thine is the

 

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

 

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I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

 

ozymandias--Shelley

 

Oi!  :angry:

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From memory, so probably slightly wrong...

 

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I think that I would favour fire.

But if it had to perish twice

I think from what I know of hate

That for destruction ice is also great

And would suffice.

 

(Robert Frost)

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On window panes, the icy frost

Leaves feathered patterns, crissed & crossed,

But in our house the christmas tree

Is decorated festively

With tiny dots of colored light

That cozy up this winter night.

Christmas songs, familiar, slow,

Play softly on the radio.

Pops and isses from the fire

Whistle with the bells and choir.

 

My tiger is now fast asleep

On his back and dreaming deep.

When the fire makes him hot,

He turns to warm whatever's not.

Propped against him on the rug,

I give my friend a gentle hug.

Tomorrow's what I'm waiting for,

But I can wait a little more.

 

Calvin & Hobbes

 

:D

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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

 

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds

 

 

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The Fall of Rome   

by W. H. Auden 

 

 

(for Cyril Connolly)

 

The piers are pummelled by the waves;

In a lonely field the rain

Lashes an abandoned train;

Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

 

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;

Agents of the Fisc pursue

Absconding tax-defaulters through

The sewers of provincial towns.

 

Private rites of magic send

The temple prostitutes to sleep;

All the literati keep

An imaginary friend.

 

Cerebrotonic Cato may

Extol the Ancient Disciplines,

But the muscle-bound Marines

Mutiny for food and pay.

 

Caesar's double-bed is warm

As an unimportant clerk

Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK

On a pink official form.

 

Unendowed with wealth or pity,

Little birds with scarlet legs,

Sitting on their speckled eggs,

Eye each flu-infected city.

 

Altogether elsewhere, vast

Herds of reindeer move across

Miles and miles of golden moss,

Silently and very fast.

 

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to his coy mistress - andrew marvell

 

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, Lady, were no crime

We would sit down and think which way

To walk and pass our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side

Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the Flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires, and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, Lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

 

But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found,

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song: then worms shall try

That long preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust:

The grave's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

 

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

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                          S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse

                          A persona che mai tornasse al mondo

                          Questa fiamma staria sensa piu scosse.

                          Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo

                          Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero

                          Sensa tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

 

 

                Let us go then, you and I,

                When the evening is spread out against the sky

                Like a patient etherized upon a table;

                Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

                The muttering retreats

                Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

                And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

                Streets that follow like a tedious argument

                Of insidious intent

                To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .

                Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’

                Let us go and make our visit.

 

                In the room the women come and go

                Talking of Michelangelo.

 

                The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

                The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

                Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

                Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

                Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

                Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

                And seeing that it was a soft October night,

                Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

 

                And indeed there will be time

                For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

                Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

                There will be time, there will be time

                To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

                There will be time to murder and create,

                And time for all the works and days of hands

                That lift and drop a question on your plate;

                Time for you and time for me,

                And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

                And for a hundred visions and revisions,

                Before the taking of a toast and tea.

 

                In the room the women come and go

                Talking of Michelangelo.

 

                And indeed there will be time

                To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’

                Time to turn back and descend the stair,

                With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—

                [They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’]

                My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

                My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

                [They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’]

                Do I dare

                Disturb the universe?

                In a minute there is time

                For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

 

                For I have known them all already, known them all—

                Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

                I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

                I know the voices dying with a dying fall

                Beneath the music from a farther room.

                So how should I presume?

 

                And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

                The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

                And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

                When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

                Then how should I begin

                To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

                And how should I presume?

 

                And I have known the arms already, known them all—

                Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

                [but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

                Is it perfume from a dress

                That makes me so digress?

                Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

                And should I then presume?

                And how should I begin?

 

                                        .      .      .      .      .

 

 

                Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

                And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

                Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

 

                I should have been a pair of ragged claws

                Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

 

                                        .      .      .      .      .

 

 

                And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

                Smoothed by long fingers,

                Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers

                Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

                Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

                Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

                But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

                Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter

                I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

                I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

                And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

                And in short, I was afraid.

 

                And would it have been worth it, after all,

                After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

                Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

                Would it have been worth while

                To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

                To have squeezed the universe into a ball

                To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

                To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

                Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—

                If one, settling a pillow by her head,

                Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all.

                That is not it, at all.’

 

                And would it have been worth it, after all,

                Would it have been worth while,

                After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

                After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

                And this, and so much more?—

                It is impossible to say just what I mean!

                But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

                Would it have been worth while

                If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

                And turning toward the window, should say:

                ‘That is not it at all,

                That is not what I meant at all.’

 

                No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

                Am an attendant lord, one that will do

                To swell a progress, start a scene or two

                Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

                Deferential, glad to be of use,

                Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

                Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

                At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

                Almost, at times, the Fool.

 

                I grow old . . . I grow old . . .

                I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

 

                Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

                I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

                I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

 

                I do not think that they will sing to me.

 

                I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

                Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

                When the wind blows the water white and black.

 

                We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

                By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

                Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

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This one always gets me.  I really love the use of concrete details mixed with intangible meanings.

 

This Room And Everything In It

Li-Young Lee

 

Lie still now

while I prepare for my future,

certain hard days ahead,

when I'll need what I know so clearly this moment.

 

I am making use

of the one thing I learned

of all the things my father tried to teach me:

the art of memory.

 

I am letting this room

and everything in it

stand for my ideas about love

and its difficulties.

 

I'll let your love-cries,

those spacious notes

of a moment ago,

stand for distance.

 

Your scent,

that scent

of spice and a wound,

I'll let stand for mystery.

 

Your sunken belly

is the daily cup

of milk I drank

as a boy before morning prayer.

 

The sun on the face

of the wall

is God, the face

I can't see, my soul,

 

and so on, each thing

standing for a separate idea,

and those ideas forming the constellation

of my greater idea.

And one day, when I need

to tell myself something intelligent

about love,

 

I'll close my eyes

and recall this room and everything in it:

My body is estrangement.

This desire, perfection.

Your closed eyes my extinction.

Now I've forgotten my

idea. The book

on the windowsill, riffled by wind...

the even-numbered pages are

the past, the odd-

numbered pages, the future.

The sun is

God, your body is milk...

 

useless, useless...

your cries are song, my body's not me...

no good ... my idea

has evaporated...your hair is time, your thighs are song...

it had something to do

with death...it had something

to do with love.

 

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^it's prufrock by ts eliot

 

A Green Crab's Shell   

by Mark Doty

 

Not, exactly, green:

closer to bronze

preserved in kind brine,

 

something retrieved

from a Greco-Roman wreck,

patinated and oddly

 

muscular. We cannot

know what his fantastic

legs were like--

 

though evidence

suggests eight

complexly folded

 

scuttling works

of armament, crowned

by the foreclaws'

 

gesture of menace

and power. A gull's

gobbled the center,

 

leaving this chamber

--size of a demitasse--

open to reveal

 

a shocking, Giotto blue.

Though it smells

of seaweed and ruin,

 

this little traveling case

comes with such lavish lining!

Imagine breathing

 

surrounded by

the brilliant rinse

of summer's firmament.

 

What color is

the underside of skin?

Not so bad, to die,

 

if we could be opened

into this--

if the smallest chambers

 

of ourselves,

similarly,

revealed some sky.

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A Song of Despair

 

by Pablo Neruda

 

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.

The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

 

Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.

It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

 

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.

Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

 

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.

From you the wings of the song birds rose.

 

You swallowed everything, like distance.

Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

 

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.

The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

 

Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,

turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

 

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.

Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

 

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,

sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

 

I made the wall of shadow draw back,

beyond desire and act, I walked on.

 

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,

I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

 

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.

and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

 

There was the black solitude of the islands,

and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

 

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.

There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

 

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me

in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

 

How terrible and brief my desire was to you!

How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

 

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,

still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

 

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,

oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

 

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force

in which we merged and despaired.

 

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.

And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

 

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,

and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

 

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,

what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

 

From billow to billow you still called and sang.

Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

 

You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.

Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

 

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,

lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

 

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour

which the night fastens to all the timetables.

 

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.

Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

 

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.

Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

 

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

 

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!

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