It

 

it

!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!

 

(Emily Dickinson, via Biblioklept)

Emily Dickinson Poems Book Cover

Emily Dickinson Poems Book Cover (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

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Fright Night Villanesque

Fright Night

Fright Night (Oil and Cold Wax, 16″x16″)

Fright Night Villanesque

Strip it down bare-boned, meet the beasts head-on

The serotinal thief is cowardly

Fright night’s raging will pale when day is done

The swirly eyes feverish when light is gone

The brake lights, air bags all but memory

Strip it down bare-boned, meet the beast head-on

Sharp fangs glisten, triangles having fun

In sad abandon they blink forever uselessly

Fright night’s raging will pale when day is done

The pulse of light, a gonner, such was man

The scritching sounds of horror legs scurry

Strip them down bare, boned; meet the beast; head on

Dismembered in the day’s light, now there’s none

Just the skid marks on an easel, somewhat sunny

Fright night’s raging will pale when day is done

But lie down and dream deeply, hon

Those leglike lashes come crawling for more fun

Stripped to bare bone, meat- the beast’s head

Fright night’s whimper will pale when life is done

Coup de chapeau au Passé: J’ay perdu ma Tourterelle, translated here…(Lichtenstein too-two-II, of course…tipping the hat is so much better than tipping the cow, no?)

Susurrus

Susurrus (SussieRus)

Let the mindpebbles mollyslip

on the smooth sand

 

do not probe

do not stab at the shark pups through the bars

 

do not step harshly on the

coral fingers of the skull cave

 

softly softly catch the sea monkey

 

don’t go diving in that submarine

its 533 gauge torpedo tubes

have little tolerance

for the clownfish

of inquiry

 

slide smooth along the seabed’s undulations

embrace the susurrus

of silence

Un Petit Peu de Pushkin

Perplexing

Perplexing

Apparently, today is Take-your-poet-to-work Day…Well, it would be pretty crowded in the studio then. I have been meaning to read some more Pushkin. I have unfortunately not seen the Eugene Onegin opera, but you can listen to it here! Just as delicious, you can listen to the translated poem here, read by the inimitable Stephen Fry. The poem has been translated by various people, including Vladimir Nabokov and Douglas R. Hofstadter (of Gödel, Escher,Bach).

There is a beautiful ink self-portrait of Pushkin on the Wikipedia site:

English: Russian poet Alexander Pushkin (1799-...

English: Russian poet Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837) Русский: Русский писатель и поэт Пушкин, Александр Сергеевич (1799-1837), Институт русской литературы, Санкт-Петербург (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This poem seemed apt:

MON PORTRAIT

Vous me demandez mon portrait,

Mais peint d’après nature :

Mon cher, il sera bientôt fait,

Quoique en miniature.

Je sais un jeune polisson

Encore dans les classes :

Point sot, je le dis sans façon

Et sans fades grimaces.

Onc, il ne fut de babillard,

Ni docteur de Sorbonne

Plus ennuyeux et plus braillard

Que moi-même en personne.

(from Poems by Alexander PushkinAleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin– January 1888, Cupples and Hurd- Publisher on Google Play)

 

(Another interesting resource I found, as translated by G.R Ledger: Pushkin’s Poems…)

 

 

LobTail Regrets

LobTail Regrets

Since changing into a cat

I cannot read anymore

The world has cats

and dogs

Cats that vomit up hairballs

in slime

Dogs that gobble it up

with glee

I wish there were more whales

that vomited verdigris

Is that green-grey?

 

(green prom dress made with love

to match my eyes

the wrong green

the wrong green

not chromium oxide green

not sap green

not olive green

the colour of seared leprechaun green)

 

No, Payne’s grey, verdigris

a mix of fine ash and bees wax

with kernels of golden squid beaks

Those whales, how they

spy-hop and make sweet!

I am hungry for

whale vomit

(via The Uffish Thumb)

Morbid Spiritoïdy

The Vague Curve

The Vague Curve

Today’s poem:

A Ballade of Suicide (G.K. Chesterton)

The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours–on the wall–
Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!”
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay–
My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall–
I see a little cloud all pink and grey–
Perhaps the rector’s mother will not call–
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way–
I never read the works of Juvenal
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational–
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small–
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

ENVOI
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Well, okay then, I’ll try a sonnet:

Suicide Sonnet

Suicide Sonnet

(Hat Tip to this Cyanide and Happiness)