logosotoi tautologosthoi

     Men Made Out Of Words                         

 

What should we be without the sexual myth,
The human reverie or poem of death?

Castratos of moon-mash – Life consists
Of propositions about life. The human

Reverie is a solitude in which
We compose these propositions, torn by dreams,

By the terrible incantations of defeats
And by the fear that defeats and dreams are one.

The whole race is a poet that writes down
The eccentric propositions of its fate.

                                                 Wallace Stevens  +1955












.

go ahead feel free

Alfred Corn

Alice’s Rules                         

Any behavior even suggesting restraint
should expect a faceful of cream pie. Be free
or else. How’d they say do it? "Thanks, I’ve got
other plans," and, these put into effect, steal home,
veer off at a tangent, whatever, so you won’t be
boxed in and made to fess up. Prefer the faux
marble urn to the "real," a malicious fake, and harp
on what was never thought but oft expressed
so as to convey the contraband being imported.
An offensive is most when delivered deadpan,
no mouthed butter melting as the loom is bowered.
"Know what I’m saying?" we say, hedging our bets
when we hog the mike, lest the players trip over
the ferns or refuse to use flamingos for their mallets.

Today man (or woman) is guaranteed to feel
a lot more like now than was true yesterday —
depending, granted, on which day we’re talking
and on whose nickel. In the city of Dis, junkie
and disc-jockey smote the chest, crumpling
posies meant to impress the Empress with.
"Please come in and perch in front of my latest
mirror writing while we punt up the river Lapis,
whose surface dimples with parodic fleur-de-lis."
Collection amounts to a new Fleurs du mal?
They’ll have to squawk and earn it first. Then be
proclaimed a touchdown, toast of the capital —
though still hard-pressed, a burn-victim of ironic
and amped-up malingerers. The loyals, meanwhile,
need to scrape together a little support, each two
of us pitching in, a-pelting ye olde dodos with sugared
almonds. Numbing out on a nemesis so manual as that,
what’ll we ens and ems have to say for ourselves?

.....

.

Magnus Sigurdsson - some poems from iceland

Vetrarhugur          

What’s the winter for?
To remember love.
  — Theodore Roethke

  
Það hefur gránað
í fjöll,
og haustvindarnir
æða naprir
milli húsa. 

Samt hlakka ég
til komandi vetrar. 

Þegar áin streymir
milli skara,
og raddirnar
berast óravegu
í stillunum

milli
okkar tveggja, 

í mánuðinum
með járnnafnið.
Þegar orðin eru
einsog kalt stál 

og það er málmbragð
milli tanna.

     Winter Thoughts

What’s the winter for?
To remember love.
  — Theodore Roethke

  
The mountain
has turned grey,
and autumn winds
whip sharply
between buildings.

Yet I look forward
to the coming winter.

When rivers channel
through border ice
and voices carry
far away
in the stillness,

between
us,

in the months
with iron names
when words are
like cold steel,

and leave a metallic
taste between my teeth.

                   trans. Meg Matich

.

soneto erotico

          French Braids                             





While one hand is content to touch, admire
A balanced, careful weave—preserve for viewing
The beauty and the boundaries of desire—
The other hand is busy at undoing.
The quiet hand counsels restraint; afraid
To wreck the composition of composure,
It’s wary of destruction just for fun.
The other wants to slip between each braid,
To tease apart the strands, let run, spill over,
Release, unbind, what was so neatly done.
Your urgent kiss decides which hand is played.
A gentle pull brings argument to closure.
Surprised, my hands attempt to catch your hair:
It falls the way the rain lets go the air.



                              Robert W. Crawford










....................

Gil had the blues

                    RIP, Gil Scott-Heron.

"Whitey on the Moon"                             

A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face and arms began to swell.
(and Whitey's on the moon)
I can't pay no doctor bill.
(but Whitey's on the moon)
Ten years from now I'll be paying still.
(while Whitey's on the moon)
The man just upped my rent last night.
('cause Whitey's on the moon)
No hot water, no toilets, no lights.
(but Whitey's on the moon)
I wonder why he's upping me?
('cause Whitey's on the moon?)
I wuz already paying him fifty a week.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Taxes taking my whole damn check,
Junkies making me a nervous wreck,
The price of food is going up,
An' as if all that shit was't enough:
A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face and arm began to swell.
(but Whitey's on the moon)
Was all that money I made last year
(for Whitey on the moon?)
How come there ain't no money here?
(Hmm! Whitey's on the moon)
Y'know I just about had my fill
(of Whitey on the moon)
I think I'll send these doctor bills,
Airmail special
(to Whitey on the moon)

....

love real love adrift

      Empathy                                                

My love, I’m grateful tonight
Our listing bed isn’t a raft
Precariously adrift
As we dodge the coast-guard light,

And clasp hold of a girl and a boy.
I’m glad that we didn’t wake
Our kids in the thin hours, to take
Not a thing, not a favorite toy,

And we didn’t hand over our cash
To one of the smuggling rackets,
That we didn’t buy cheap lifejackets
No better than bright orange trash

And less buoyant. I’m glad that the dark
Above us, is not deeply twinned
Beneath us, and moiled with wind,
And we don’t scan the sky for a mark,

Any mark, that demarcates a shore
As the dinghy starts taking on water.
I’m glad that our six-year old daughter,
Who can’t swim, is a foot off the floor

In the bottom bunk, and our son
With his broken arm’s high and dry,
That the ceiling is not seeping sky,
With our journey but hardly begun.

Empathy isn’t generous,
It’s selfish. It’s not being nice
To say I would pay any price
Not to be those who’d die to be us.

                            A E Stallings

...

like kissing with the mind

Come hither, shepherd swain      (Fond Desire)

      [song lyrics - to be performed by two singers]

Come hither, shepherd swain!
  Sir, what do you require?
I pray thee show to me thy name;
  My name is Fond Desire.

When wert thou born, Desire?
  In pride and pomp of May.
By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot?
  By fond conceit men say.

Tell me who was thy nurse?
  Fresh youth, in sugar'd joy.
What was thy meat and daily food?
  Sad sighs and great annoy.

What had'st thou then to drink?
  Unfeign'd lover's tears.
What cradle wert thou rocked in?
  In hope devoid of fears.

What lulled thee to thy sleep?
  Sweet thoughts that liked one best.
and where is now thy dwelling place?
  In gentle hearts I rest.

Doth company displease?
  It doth in many one.
Where would Desire then choose to be?
  He loves to muse alone.

What feedeth most thy sight?
  To gaze on beauty still.
Whom find'st thou most thy foe?
  Disdain of my good will.

Will ever age or death
  Bring thee unto decay?
No, no, Desire, farewell;
  A thousand times a day.

The, Fond Desire, farewell;
  Thou art no mate for me;
I should be loathe, methinks, to dwell
  With such a one as thee.

                                           Earle of Oxenforde

                                                    Edward de Vere 











....