Friday, February 19, 2010

"Six thousand white years,
the time of the world without misfortune;
the ocean will break across every place
at the end of night, at the cry of birds."

--Calendar of the Birds, in: Early Irish Verse tr Ruth P M Lehmann (1982)

"With Reference to the Roman Games"

expat mentat
opally amalgam · gloomth
nil thermostat · a throw of
dice will not aboliŠ©ance

i cannot make amends,
a stranger to this shore;
what's strange in mountain lands
is stranger on the shore

the moon is ice on ice
still colder in the dawn
the ocean's hiss defends
no stranger on its shore

if any passage swerves
it seems to find no term
i know this passage ends
though stranger with its shore

those who leave it write
the melancholy scroll
in time the rhyme descends
a stranger on that shore

Graywyvern cocks an eye
at trees of flame and finery;
the season understands,
stranger, too, to this shore

spinning room is sinking deep

"Another measure of Scott's worth as a poet is the fact that from the sales of The Lady of the Lake he earned £ 10,000." --Medievalism

Perpetual drum jam, in the stained glass dimness. Some dance, some sleep. People come & go, but the beat never reaches an end.

Treat Her Like a Lady. (cover by Accidental Charm)

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