sitting at this keyboard
getting sillier and sillier,
descending from Olympus
to a hell of trivia,
fingers wildly itching
for some inspiration,
tapping out some pointless words
in conceited desperation
so I hope you’ll weakly smile
and charitably say
‘oh it’s just a poet who won’t shut up
having a bad day’…
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‘We never care for the present moment. We are so foolish that we wander in times that are not ours, and never think of the only time that belongs to us; we are so frivolous that we dream of the days that are not, and thoughtlessly pass over the only one that exists. We never live, but hope to live; and since we are always preparing to be happy it is inevitable that we shall never be so.’
(1623 – 1662)French philosopher and mathematician—————Not a waitress; just a waiter.Though she sees herself asa planner; a Girl With Plans.Mid-January; travel brochuresall over the sofa; and not decided yet.But it’s just such fun – she’s been like thatsince she was a little girl – the future’s alwaysgolden, shining, full of possibility…the present simply doesn’t compare..She’ll…
You asked me
all your love-lettersas if thatwould free you –from what?I wishI had read themonce againbefore I did;that would besome sort ofsweet revenge –for what?
‘Atonement’ – for me, it has a solemn,
ring to it – spoken in the severest tonesin some headmaster’s study in the skies…and you, feeling that this is the last chanceto rake up all your worst, your very worstmemories that still chill your heart after all these years,so you try not to think about them…so, to ease the sense that fate’s about to…
We’re living just as the century begins.
shall cover with our writingturns now, overhead, in strange hands.We feel the sweep of it like a wind.We see the brightness of a new pagewhere everything yet can happen.Unmoved by us, the fates take its measureand look at one another, saying nothing.And we write.(Following Rilke’s poem I,8 in his ‘Book of Hours’)
At the far edge of the expanding cemetery
its small gravestones re-emerge only in late summerlike a clipped coat, the tall grass annually machined; ofthose who made no will or testamentthat we know of and we may be wrongnor do we know their last thoughts if thoughtsnor do the stones reveal the names they knew themselves by; andwas the human love their inscriptions…
Greek
are happy with verbsexisting without a subject.Renders.Philosophers, silent;poets, dumb;contemplatives, still..Is.Becomes?Continues?Ends?Cogitates:Is?Is:cogitates.Meditates.Rests.Cla rifies.Wonders.Praises.Expands.Em braces.Loves.Is.