Anthony Easton - Clareview, ca 4:30 2008
Cheer the fuck up everyone.
What a great image!
Julian Montague - check it out:
http://www.strayshoppingcart.com/shopping_cart/1_introduction.htm
Of course, once I'm outside throwing a big squeaky ball for the ginormous gallumping fur-bearing fuckwad, everything seems just fine with the universe.
thanks lorna, that makes me feel loved
You're welcome and we have a lot in common with Edmonton today. It's been years since I've seen this much snow accumulation in Toronto.
Makes me sad for the glory days of Mayor Mel Lastman when he called in the Canadian Army after one blizzard.
Just think how much more warm and cosy we'd feel, huddled around our glowing monitors, if there were great big cuddly tanks rumbling down the snowy streets.
That is a fucking gorgeous photograph.
There's so much snow out there right now that I'm totally convinced that it's the end of the world. A military presence would go a long way in reassuring me. (and returning some DVD's for me. And picking up some magazines maybe. Chips and dip would be nice too.)
Great picture.
The Global War on Crystalline Precipitation is better with Cheetos.
Cheetas would be fun, too.
Yeah!
I think Sally & GVB should get themselves a BIG cat.
Brrrr. it's cold here in the Bay Area too. It almost dipped into the 50's (Fahrenheit) the other day.
In Memory of WB Yeats
(d. Jan. 1939)
By WH Auden
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river
was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But in the importance and noise of tomorrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
II
You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has its madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the bsuy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
III
Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Yet let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.
In the nightmare of the dark,
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestred in its hate;
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Fellow poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;
With the framing of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
|
Anthony Easton - Clareview, ca 4:30 2008
Cheer the fuck up everyone.
- L.M. 2-12-2008 9:36 pm
What a great image!
- KW (guest) 2-12-2008 9:58 pm
Julian Montague - check it out:
http://www.strayshoppingcart.com/shopping_cart/1_introduction.htm
- J@simpleposie (guest) 2-12-2008 10:06 pm
Of course, once I'm outside throwing a big squeaky ball for the ginormous gallumping fur-bearing fuckwad, everything seems just fine with the universe.
- L.M. 2-12-2008 11:16 pm
thanks lorna, that makes me feel loved
- anthony (guest) 2-13-2008 1:18 am
You're welcome and we have a lot in common with Edmonton today. It's been years since I've seen this much snow accumulation in Toronto.
Makes me sad for the glory days of Mayor Mel Lastman when he called in the Canadian Army after one blizzard.
- L.M. 2-13-2008 1:33 am
Just think how much more warm and cosy we'd feel, huddled around our glowing monitors, if there were great big cuddly tanks rumbling down the snowy streets.
That is a fucking gorgeous photograph.
- sally mckay 2-13-2008 4:58 am
There's so much snow out there right now that I'm totally convinced that it's the end of the world. A military presence would go a long way in reassuring me. (and returning some DVD's for me. And picking up some magazines maybe. Chips and dip would be nice too.)
- L.M. 2-13-2008 5:39 am
Great picture.
The Global War on Crystalline Precipitation is better with Cheetos.
- mark 2-13-2008 10:43 pm
Cheetas would be fun, too.
- M.Jean 2-13-2008 10:47 pm
Yeah!
I think Sally & GVB should get themselves a BIG cat.
- L.M. 2-13-2008 11:06 pm
Brrrr. it's cold here in the Bay Area too. It almost dipped into the 50's (Fahrenheit) the other day.
- joester (guest) 2-14-2008 7:53 am
In Memory of WB Yeats
(d. Jan. 1939)
By WH Auden
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river
was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But in the importance and noise of tomorrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
II
You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has its madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the bsuy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
III
Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Yet let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.
In the nightmare of the dark,
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestred in its hate;
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Fellow poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;
With the framing of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
- The Bru (guest) 2-15-2008 6:45 am