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* * *
"The Passionate Shepherd to his Love"

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of th purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

"The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd"

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.
Lola Rennt
* * *
(Untitled Fragment)

The angles of your wrists
preserve a certain mystery,
unknown by any lips
or written down in history.

To measure their degree
would solve the oldest questions -
providence and alchemy
answered in your gestures.

But god and gold will never rival
the way your fingers curl.
They hold my breath's arrival
like a rare and undiscovered pearl.

* * *
It just sounds like the title of a good poem, or a line from a poem turned into a monumental book, like "For Whom the Bell Tolls" and "Things Fall Apart" ...

What Breathes Us
Barry Spacks

Regards to the day, the great long day
that can't be hoarded, good or ill.

What breathes us likely means us well.

We rise up from the earthly root
to seek the blossom of the heart.

What breathes us likely means us well.

We are a voice imprelled to tell
where the joining of sound and silence is.

We are te tides, and their witness.

What breathes us likely means us well.

* * *
Rain falls hard
Burns dry
A dream
Or a song
That hits you so hard
Filling you up
And suddenly gone

Breath Feel Love
Give Free
Know in you soul
Like your blood knows the way
From you heart to your brain
Know that you're whole

And you're shining
Like the brightest star
A transmission
On the midnight radio
And you're spinning
Like a 45
Dancing to your rock and roll

Here's to Patti
And Tina
And Yoko
And Nona
And Nico
And me

And all the strange rock and rollers
You know you're doing all right
So hold on to each other
You gotta hold on tonight

And you're shining
Like the brightest stars
A transmission
On the midnight radio

And you're spinning
Your new 45's
All the misfits and the losers
Yeah, you know you're rock and rollers
Spinning to your rock and roll

Lift up your hands

-Hedwig and the Angry Inch, "Midnight Radio"
* * *
* * *
* * *
The Dreamer to Her Adversary”

- Give me an adventure
Among flying bullets,
among a forest of trees,
or dancing bears.
I am hungry.
I’ll not be too picky.
Just give me my adventure!

- Are you still hungry for adventure?
Do you still thirst for death?
What made you think that you could win,
young Dreamer?
I’ve worn you down to nothing,
I’ve slain all your kin,
I have all but conquered;
a Dreamer can only save a Dreamer’s skin.

- I am exhausted, yes
and, yes, you’ve worn me down,
but you’ve also made the adrenaline flow
and you’ve made my heart pound
Who says that I have lost?
You’ve given me everything I’ve asked.
I took everything you threw.
I haven’t given up,
and neither, I fear, have you.

* * *
"A Lack of Malice"

There is no malice
in sleep
Even in the most random lust
is unintentional
and has no meaning in hues of red
and green
However guilty one feels
upon waking.

All feelings are either elated or sad
or some variation thereof
There are no sinister natures
are sociopaths
Feeling no intent
There are no hunters
even though one hunts
There are no murderers
even though one murders
There is blank and void
until realisation
upon waking

For those who don't know (which is most of you, myself included until recently), David Bottoms is the poet Laureate of GA. Go figure.

"Disregard (Watching David Bottoms)"

You can get away
with disregard.
Staring at some-random-one in the crowd,
or down at your notes,
or walking out when introduced.

There seems to be some apathy
in being a contemporary poet:
Some aloofness that allows you
to act disinterested.

Do you think, though, that we're not watching you
with just as much intense scrutiny
as we should be giving our speaker?

Or maybe you have heard it all
with registered boredom.
It's not the philosophy of one who believes
that there are "no new ideas,"
but none will be shared here
(except, perhaps, your own?)

But there is an intensity and persistence
in the way you hold whomever
or no one.
Like the cogs are turning
and the ears are tuned
but only the eyes
TATU - "Clowns (Can You See Me Now?)"
* * *
You are my Violet and I am your Claire
But there are no lilies for us now
We are a world apart
The wounds we inflicted upon each other
ran to deep
and the blood refused to clot

Vulnerability is not a matter of opinion
It is a fact
and a variation
Which among us are vulnerable?
Who between us will lose?

This thing
This is a dead thing
To be mourned with lilies
in the desert
With the world between us

This residue
is alive
never to settle
never to soothe
We are the stuff of dreams
But they will never feel the same again

Ani DiFranco - "Two Little Girls"
* * *

When it first begins, as you might expect,
the lips and thin folds are closed, the pouting
layers pressed, lapped lightly,
almost languidly, against one another
in a sealed bud.

However, with certain prolonged
and random strokings of care
along each binding line, with soft
gathering and edge, with inquiring
intensities of gesture - as the sun
swinging slowly from winter back
to spring, touches briefly,
between moments of moon and masking
clouds, certain stunning points
with such ministrations, a slight
swelling, a quiver of reaching,
a tendency toward space,
might be noticed to commence.

Then with dampness from the dark,
with moisture from the falling
night of morning, from hidden places
within the hills, each seal begins
to loosen, each recalcitrant clasp
sinks away into itself, and every tucked
grasp, every silk tack willingly relents,
releases, gives way, proclaims a turning,
declares a revolution, assumes,
in plain sight, a surging position
that offers, an audacious offering
that beseeches, every petal parted wide.

Remember the spiraling, blue
valerian, remember the violet, sucking
larkspur, the laurel and rosebay
and pea cockle flung backwards, remember
the fragrant, funnelling lily, the lifted
honeysuckle, the sweet, open pucker
of the ground ivy blossom?

Now even the darkest crease possessed,
the most guarded, pulsing, least drop
of pearl bead, moon grain trembling
deep within is fully revealed, fully exposed
to any penetrating wind or shaking fur
or mad hunger or searing, plunging surprise
the wild descending sky in delirium
has to offer.
Aroused ; P
Ani DiFranco - "Welcome To:"
* * *
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine -

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

weird weird
Ani DiFranco - "Swandive"
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