torsdag 26. april 2012
.: What a fine day !
.: What a fine day !: When I am sad and weary, When I think all hope has gone, When I walk along High Street I think of you with nothing on... Have a nice...
What a fine day !
When I am sad and weary,
When I think all hope has gone,
When I walk along High Street
I think of you with nothing on...
Have a nice time !
.: Where the sally tree went pale in every breeze,wh...
.: Where the sally tree went pale in every breeze,
wh...: Where the sally tree went pale in every breeze, where the perfect eye of the nesting blackbird watched, where one fern was always green. ...
wh...: Where the sally tree went pale in every breeze, where the perfect eye of the nesting blackbird watched, where one fern was always green. ...
Where the sally tree went pale in every breeze,
where the perfect eye of the nesting blackbird watched,
where one fern was always green.
I was standing watching you
take the pad from the gatehouse at the crossing
and reach to life a white wash off the whins.
I could see the vaccination mark
stretched on your upper arm, and smell the coal smell
of the train that comes between us, a slow goods.
wagon after wagon full of big-eyed cattle.
But your vaccination mark is on your thigh,'
an O that's healed into the bark.
Except a dryad's not a woman
you are my wounded dryad
in a mothering smell of wet
and ring-wormed chestnuts.
Our moon was small and far,
was a coin long gazed at
brilliant on the Pequod's mast
across Atlantic and Pacific waters.
Not the mud slick,
not the black weedy water
full of alder cones and pock-marked leaves.
Not the cow parsley in winter
with its old whitened shines and wrist,
its sibilance, its shaking.
Not even the tart green shade of summer
thick with butterflies
and fungus plump as a leather saddle.
No. But in a still corner,
braced to its peddle-dashed wall,
heavy, earth-drawn, all mouth and eye,
the sunflower, dreaming umber.
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Catspiss smell,
the pink bloom open;
I press a leaf
of the flowering currant
on the back of your hand
for the tight slow burn
of its sticky juice
to prime your skin,
and your viens to be crossed
criss-cross with leaf-veins.
I lick my thumb
and dip it in mould,
I anoint the anointed
leaf-shape. Mould
blooms and pigments
the back of your hand
like a birthmark -
my umber one,
you are stained, stained
to perfection.
.jpg)
where the perfect eye of the nesting blackbird watched,
where one fern was always green.
take the pad from the gatehouse at the crossing
and reach to life a white wash off the whins.
stretched on your upper arm, and smell the coal smell
of the train that comes between us, a slow goods.
wagon after wagon full of big-eyed cattle.
an O that's healed into the bark.
Except a dryad's not a woman
you are my wounded dryad
in a mothering smell of wet
and ring-wormed chestnuts.
Our moon was small and far,
was a coin long gazed at
brilliant on the Pequod's mast
across Atlantic and Pacific waters.
Not the mud slick,
not the black weedy water
full of alder cones and pock-marked leaves.
Not the cow parsley in winter
with its old whitened shines and wrist,
its sibilance, its shaking.
Not even the tart green shade of summer
thick with butterflies
and fungus plump as a leather saddle.
No. But in a still corner,
braced to its peddle-dashed wall,
heavy, earth-drawn, all mouth and eye,
the sunflower, dreaming umber.
.jpg)
Catspiss smell,
the pink bloom open;
I press a leaf
of the flowering currant
on the back of your hand
for the tight slow burn
of its sticky juice
to prime your skin,
and your viens to be crossed
criss-cross with leaf-veins.
I lick my thumb
and dip it in mould,
I anoint the anointed
leaf-shape. Mould
blooms and pigments
the back of your hand
like a birthmark -
my umber one,
you are stained, stained
to perfection.
.jpg)
.: Takknemlighet er hjertes hukommelse !... Tenk dage...
.: Takknemlighet er hjertes hukommelse !... Tenk dage...: Barn av reinbuen. Fantastisk hvor en slik spontan markering og hvor mange som møtte opp.
Takknemlighet er hjertes hukommelse !... Tenk dagen i dag ! Som om dagen kan bli glemt ? Nei, Aldri med et slikt folk...
Barn av reinbuen.
Fantastisk hvor en slik spontan markering
og hvor mange som møtte opp.
onsdag 25. april 2012
.: Every day I will think of you ! Longing to see yo...
.: Every day I will think of you ! Longing to see yo...: Deiligst av alle gleder er Gleden for slett ingen ting. Ikke for noe du kan eller vil, Gleden for intet og Gleden for alt, Gleden for...
.: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was wi...
.: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was wi...: Just one more sweet thing With the dreams and pains Just one more grand spring With gales and rain With rising water With changing we...
.: Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail. Or kno...
.: Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail. Or kno...: People you might know ? Or... Most people ignore most poetry because Most poetry ignores most people Something won`t let me Wo...
.: Det er mangt et godt hode under en gammel hatt...
.: Det er mangt et godt hode under en gammel hatt...: I stripet badedrakt og ør av dødsforakt flyr den med hevet spyd midt i sin egen lyd. Et ondt og giftig stikk det korte øyeblikk av...
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