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A Poet on a Magical Journey Home
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Save Point 0.8.1, a Portland, Oregon, exhibit, Aug. 13-Sept. 5, 2004, at Disjecta.
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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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Falsehood, by William Cartwright
STILL do the stars impart their light
To those that travel in the night;
Still time runs on, nor doth the hand
Or shadow on the dial stand;
The streams still glide and constant are:
Communion, by Natalia Carmona
Walk into the night, walk...
And let the wind caress you
And sing you its song
Fly into the night,
Naked, boundless...
The Dreamer, by Nicholas Vachel Lindsay
"~Why do you seek the sun,
In your Bubble-Crown ascending?
Your chariot will melt to mist,
Your crown will have an ending.~"
"Nay, sun is but a Bubble,
Revelation, by Edmund Gosse
INTO the silver night
She brought with her pale hand
The topaz lanthorn-light,
And darted splendour o'er the land;
Around her in a band,
Samela, by Robert Greene
LIKE to Diana in her summer weed,
Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,
Goes fair Samela.
Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed
When wash'd by Arethusa faint they lie,
The Homeland, by Dana Burnet
My land was the west land; my home was on the hill,
I never think of my land but it makes my heart to thrill;
I never smell the west wind that blows the golden skies,
But old desire is in my feet and dreams are in my eyes.
My home crowned the high land; it had a stately grace.
Man, by Sir John Davies
I KNOW my soul hath power to know all things,
Yet she is blind and ignorant in all:
I know I'm one of Nature's little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.
I know my life 's a pain and but a span;
Candlemas, by Alice Brown
O hearken, all ye little weeds
That lie beneath the snow,
(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!)
The sun hath risen for royal deeds,
A valiant wind the vanguard leads;
Ireland, by Dora Sigerson
'TWAS the dream of a God,
And the mould of His hand,
That you shook 'neath His stroke,
That you trembled and broke
To this beautiful land.
Johnie Scot, by Anonymous
Child Ballad 99
When Johnie Scot saw this big, broad letter,
It caused him for to smile,
But the very first line that he did read,
The tears run down for a while,
`The Love in her Eyes lay Sleeping', by William Forster
The love in her eyes lay sleeping,
As stars that unconscious shine,
Till, under the pink lids peeping,
I wakened it up with mine;
And we pledged our troth to a brimming oath
Sociology Of The Sociopath, by Richard Thomas Cummings
Trepid tears stain their beaded trail
Across arching waves of flesh;
Over shadowed ridges they pour,
Seeping through neurosis' pores.
Grotesque---the gruesome gestures of lore
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