Face at the Bottom of the World and Other Poems.
"congestion pricing"
love is a low-yield nuke
nidings clustered wassail;
nightmare's costive fossil
docks plights we prattle of
"along this road
cicada cries
in a large room"
--@poemexe.com
I'm getting where the only images i believe are weird old engravings.
"The Old Masters
About suffering, they knew no more or less
than we do, being
housed in luminescence;
a local cumulus
of feverfew and jade
reduced to void, the tower overthrown,
the bells upturned.
I see one now, impoverished
and old before his time, a lesser man’s
subordinate, or master to a trade
he never asked for.
Burdened by the weight
of office, or the whim of some mad king,
he stands alone, above the dark lagoon,
and watches, while the city fades from quartz
to plum, from plum
to cochineal, a restless drift
through subtleties and shades
he cannot
capture, though he magnifies the whole
and loves it all the more, for being
useless, fleeting, governed by no rule,
a headlong and unmasterable now
that slips away, one pier light at a time."
--John Burnside
"Is access to information a universal right or a privilege?" (via Mefi)
"Dream of Blood
i
I thought the wealthgoddess washed me with godsfire sprung from the long
sharp, lathered my hair red, that wristbandflame-wearer her hawkholder
blood-red in the woundshower of handglow-spending men.
ii
I thought the watching warflame goddess hooded me with a gory headdress
over my roughmown raking, hands bathed in swordrain. So the quilting
queen woke me from dreaming.
iii
I thought the axe-ogress-shakers’ long steel chopped my fingers, hands, both
my arms to huge wounds, then sliced a gash, my twinemaiden, in my
skulltop, my helmetstump.
iv
I thought, armringprincess, the carrioncatching gods shed my blood from
both broad shoulders with their sharp swords, great mischief of
falconfeeding. Mercy like theirs, my leekleafhealing lady, makes my life
grow grey.
v
I thought the blood ran down both sides, such woundflooding was mine to
endure. I dream, my goldenlady, I am their forces’ outlaw, awaiting the
spikestorm, now as I go to sleep.
vi
I thought in my sleep stood a silverbanded goddess, giant’s daughter, grieving
with wet lashes, glorious seafiregold girl suddenly – what do I make of
this – binding my wounds."
--Peter Daniels in Modern Poets on Viking Poetry
" 'I cannot think what has come over you.'
'Then you cannot think at all,’ said Fabian. ‘But I daresay that is the case. A good many people can’t.' ” --@icomptonburnett.bsky.social
"together'd/ shadows flit at twilight..."
"The concept of portraying evil and then destroying it - I know this is considered mainstream, but I think it is rotten. This idea that whenever something evil happens someone particular can be blamed and punished for it, in life and in politics is hopeless."
--Hayao Miyazaki via @jacobwren.bsky.social
"Plough of the Sea
Your deep hull lifts and leaps
for leagues: toil forth. Whale-earth
tears to foaming furrows;
you scythe a keel-fine line.
Nestled in the surf-field
sea-mice spurn bow and stern.
Storm-steady, tiller firm,
be ox-strong: prow-ward, plough."
--Beverley Nadin in Modern Poets on Viking Poetry
"In my memory are lagoons." (via @alexanderchee.bsky.social)
"Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.
On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.
On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.
Possess, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.
For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger’s feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no."
--AE Housman via vamoul.substack
" 'Frog is late,' said Toad.
Toad looked at his clock. He remembered it was broken. The hands of the clock did not move."
--@frogandtoadbot.bsky.social
"winter mist
snowflake caught
an island"
--@poemexe.com
river of thud-riddles
always twingebanged twice
rune-scored twig
i drawl & watch drift off
there a song screenshotted
must dree its sift
where kinder-handled casket
(stiffbound or staple-pierce)
might catch no stats
none: & we are numbskulls
to the trough snout-snared;
on numbers, snack
10 Great Films of 1925. (via feuilleton)
"Journey to the West
Ship of speech, word-wave,
sails westward, and I, speaking,
hold hard to wind’s unfolding
across air’s parchment, writing.
Lords and lackeys murmur and mill
and I, outside, stoop and supplicate,
seek king’s councillors, crave
access and audience, a prince who pays
for tongue’s treasure, mind’s unfolding,
richly wrapped in iron rings.
Earls of earth’s serpent spend
safety, scorn stability, senses
stripped; proud proclaimers, power-drunk,
cast kings’ cares to the wind’s casket.
Let warriors wait hard on heath;
hope under heaven favours flight.
Broad battles rage bitter,
brave lords drain heart’s mead,
unstinting drink the wine of ravens,
speak soft words, plough hard rows.
Mine is the gift of gold, speaking
strong lines; yours is steel,
a sharp sword, a worthy weapon.
A wise warrior weighs God’s words.
Wind’s servant, across the shifting hills
I return, richer in words and welcomes,
giving gifts undiminishing, gaining
grace of place, proud amongst peers.
I have fared far, fought clinging coils
of earth’s duplicitous dragon, found
home, the giver of true gifts;
one word resolves all riddles."
--Oz Hardwick in Modern Poets on Viking Poetry
“A leopard does not change its spots, or change his feeling that spots are rather a credit.” --@icomptonburnett.bsky.social
"Religion is what happens when mansplaining gets out of control." --@jimmerthatisall.bsky.social
"A Violet Darkness
And all that remains for me is to follow a violet darkness
on soil where myths splinter and crack.
Yes, love was time, and it too
splintered and cracked
like the face of our country.
My share of the people
is the transit of their ghosts."
--Najwan Darwish via @rabihalameddine.bsky.social
rain before sunrise · isthmus
in the spaces spiral-visioned
runaway spook
nuts & bolts nattering
perfectly form-fitted
natheless foul
not the bourn we bet on
to be January-jostling
blindness jettisoned
"night
rings & rings…
into the fire"
--@poemexe.com
This Bear Wants to Have Some Flour Milled.
