I give away all that I am frame moments that remain rolled straight from brown eyes I know charms turn the crowd to action another silent chill says alone is a way-station to form
She could find reason anywhere if she looked for it. The clock told her to get up. She got up. She ate. The plot is the one thing we know, said Mandelstam.
She sat her purse down on the kidney-shaped coffee table, turned on the floor-lamp, and called the monkey over to have a chat. What had he done today? She wanted to know.
" ... guages lines of a Flemish horse hauling beer" Briggflatts, part 2 I was a grad student in 1967 when Basil Bunting, then 67, came to teach at our school. It was Hugh Kenner, the author of The Pound Era, who had invited the poet to Santa Barbara.
In a siren voice the months are singing "Mood Indigo" I must wash their aftertaste down with a quart of Lethe for all the optimism I lost this winter. On shelves the alphabetical friction of names irritates. I move letters
>In the reverse psychology of earnestness, more suddenly meant less. Every tear was a crocodile hanging from the underlid. Every nose had its neat dot of moisture. And for wisdom, there was the Dali Lama.
> I want to come to terms with my vaulted and faulty interior, with the clocks stacked in my kidneys, with my face of a radish draining tears into a tile sea. And I do not want to come to terms with this vaunted faculty, with these mer and men maids calving right below consciousness.
p>Linked to indescribable power, to its shadow analyzed by minorities who have, in my lifetime, refused to remain anonymous "Until the missing story of ourselves is told, nothing besides told can suffice us; we shall go on quietly craving it."