bsh1 Memorial Profile Pick of the Week No. 6- APOCOLOCYNTOSES (DIVI) BRIANII

Author: oromagi ,

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  • oromagi
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    oromagi
    SUNDAY MORNING

      I

    Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
    Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
    And the green freedom of a cockatoo
    Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
    The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
    She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
    Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
    As a calm darkens among water-lights.
    The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
    Seem things in some procession of the dead,
    Winding across wide water, without sound.
    The day is like wide water, without sound,
    Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
    Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
    Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.


           II

    Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
    What is divinity if it can come
    Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
    Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
    In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
    In any balm or beauty of the earth,
    Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
    Divinity must live within herself:
    Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
    Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
    Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
    Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
    All pleasures and all pains, remembering
    The bough of summer and the winter branch.
    These are the measures destined for her soul.


           III

    Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
    No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
    Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
    He moved among us, as a muttering king,
    Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
    Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
    With heaven, brought such requital to desire
    The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
    Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
    The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
    Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
    The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
    A part of labor and a part of pain,
    And next in glory to enduring love,
    Not this dividing and indifferent blue.


           IV

    She says, “I am content when wakened birds,
    Before they fly, test the reality
    Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
    But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
    Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”
    There is not any haunt of prophecy,
    Nor any old chimera of the grave,
    Neither the golden underground, nor isle
    Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
    Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
    Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured
    As April’s green endures; or will endure
    Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
    Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
    By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.


           V

    She says, “But in contentment I still feel
    The need of some imperishable bliss.”
    Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
    Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
    And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
    Of sure obliteration on our paths,
    The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
    Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
    Whispered a little out of tenderness,
    She makes the willow shiver in the sun
    For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
    Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
    She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
    On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
    And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.


           VI

    Is there no change of death in paradise?
    Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
    Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
    Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
    With rivers like our own that seek for seas
    They never find, the same receding shores
    That never touch with inarticulate pang?
    Why set the pear upon those river-banks
    Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
    Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
    The silken weavings of our afternoons,
    And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
    Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
    Within whose burning bosom we devise
    Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.


           VII

    Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
    Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
    Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
    Not as a god, but as a god might be,
    Naked among them, like a savage source.
    Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
    Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
    And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
    The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
    The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
    That choir among themselves long afterward.
    They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
    Of men that perish and of summer morn.
    And whence they came and whither they shall go
    The dew upon their feet shall manifest.


           VIII

    She hears, upon that water without sound,
    A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
    Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
    It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
    We live in an old chaos of the sun,
    Or old dependency of day and night,
    Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
    Of that wide water, inescapable.
    Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
    Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
    Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
    And, in the isolation of the sky,
    At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
    Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
    Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

    -Wallace Stevens
  • oromagi
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    oromagi
    Diffugere  nives, redeunt iam gramina campis
        arboribusque comae;
    mutat terra vices et decrescentia  ripas
        flumina praetereunt;
    Gratia  cum Nymphis geminisque sororibus audet
        ducere nuda choros.
    Inmortalia ne speres, monet annus et almum
        quae rapit hora diem.
    Frigora mitescunt zephyris, ver proterit aestas
        interitura, simul
    pomifer autumnus fruges effuderit, et mox
        bruma recurrit iners.
    Damna tamen celeres reparant caelestia lunae;
        nos ubi decidimus,
    quo pius Aeneas, quo Tullus dives et Ancus,
        pulvis et umbra sumus.
    Quis scit an adiciant hodiernae crastina summae
        tempora di superi?
    Cuncta manus avidas fugient heredis, amico
        quae dederis animo.
    Cum semel occideris et de te splendida Minos
        fecerit arbitria,
    non, Torquate, genus, non te facundia, non te
        restituet pietas;
    Infernis neque enim tenebris Diana pudicum
        liberat Hippolytum,
    nec Lethaea valet Theseus abrumpere caro
      vincula Pirithoo.

    Book IV, Oda vii

    -Horace


  • SupaDudz
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    SupaDudz
    --> @oromagi
    It says he is banned til 12.06.19??? That is today

    Are we seeing a second coming?
  • oromagi
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    oromagi
    (remember when I dumped this poem in a Trump debate and we had to start again?  good times)
    (thanks to armoredcat for asking)

    The Sheep Child

    Farm boys wild to couple
    With anything      with soft-wooded trees   
    With mounds of earth      mounds   
    Of pinestraw      will keep themselves off   
    Animals by legends of their own:   
    In the hay-tunnel dark
    And dung of barns, they will   
    Say    I have heard tell

    That in a museum in Atlanta   
    Way back in a corner somewhere   
    There’s this thing that’s only half   
    Sheep      like a woolly baby
    Pickled in alcohol      because   
    Those things can’t live.      his eyes
    Are open      but you can’t stand to look   
    I heard from somebody who ...

    But this is now almost all   
    Gone. The boys have taken   
    Their own true wives in the city,
    The sheep are safe in the west hill
    Pasture      but we who were born there
    Still are not sure. Are we,
    Because we remember, remembered
    In the terrible dust of museums?

    Merely with his eyes, the sheep-child may   

    Be saying      saying

             I am here, in my father’s house.
             I who am half of your world, came deeply
             To my mother in the long grass
             Of the west pasture, where she stood like moonlight
             Listening for foxes. It was something like love
             From another world that seized her
             From behind, and she gave, not lifting her head   
             Out of dew, without ever looking, her best
             Self to that great need. Turned loose, she dipped her face   
             Farther into the chill of the earth, and in a sound   
             Of sobbing      of something stumbling
             Away, began, as she must do,
             To carry me. I woke, dying,

             In the summer sun of the hillside, with my eyes
             Far more than human. I saw for a blazing moment   
             The great grassy world from both sides,
             Man and beast in the round of their need,
             And the hill wind stirred in my wool,
             My hoof and my hand clasped each other,
             I ate my one meal
             Of milk, and died
             Staring. From dark grass I came straight
             
             To my father’s house, whose dust
             Whirls up in the halls for no reason
             When no one comes      piling deep in a hellish mild corner,   
             And, through my immortal waters,
             I meet the sun’s grains eye
             To eye, and they fail at my closet of glass.
             Dead, I am most surely living
             In the minds of farm boys: I am he who drives
             Them like wolves from the hound bitch and calf
             And from the chaste ewe in the wind.
             They go into woods      into bean fields      they go
             Deep into their known right hands. Dreaming of me,   
             They groan      they wait      they suffer
             Themselves, they marry, they raise their kind.

    -James Dickey