A Poetry Thread

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Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

--The New Colossus By Emma Lazarus
 
"To Autumn."
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

~John Keats
 
IMG_1075.jpeg


When we lived in Greensboro near Guilford College I walked by this sign as well as the grave of Randall Jarrell almost every day. Eventually I sought out his work and followed that by investigating his biography. His poems were to their own rhythm and often rough and about war and/or death and killing.

&&&&&&&&&&&

One of his most famous was the short “Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.”

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,

And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur

froze.

Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,

I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.

When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

&&&&&&&&&

Despite the grim nature of this example (he served as a navigator in the US Army Air Corps during WWII) he reportedly had a wry sense of humor. Post-Hot War in 1956 he served in the position that in 1985 became that of national poet laureate. We still have someone in that position, it is Arthur Sze, born and raised in New York City and the son of Chinese immigrants.

Back to the tale telling: Not only did Jarrell’s life come close by my own in Greensboro but it turns out that he died quite near the place where we had lived last in Chapel Hill (on Dogwood Acres Drive). As best as can be figured on the evening of October 14, 1960, he was struck by a car somewhere just south of where the old Watts Motel was located, perhaps along where the lighted soccer fields are today. The full measure of the circumstances have never been satisfactorily settled. Seems fitting.

Today is the 60th anniversary of the day he died.

To close here is one of Jarrell’s poems from 1960 that illustrates a combo of his morbid AND dry-wry wit.


“The House in the Wood

The hunter crouches in his blind

’Neath camouflage of every kind,
And conjures up a quacking noise

To lend allure to his decoys.

This grown-up man, with pluck and luck,

Is hoping to outwit a duck.”
 
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From A German War Primer

AMONGST THE HIGHLY PLACED
It is considered low to talk about food.
The fact is: they have
Already eaten.

The lowly must leave this earth
Without having tasted
Any good meat.

For wondering where they come from and
Where they are going
The fine evenings find them
Too exhausted.

They have not yet seen
The mountains and the great sea
When their time is already up.

If the lowly do not
Think about what's low
They will never rise.

THE BREAD OF THE HUNGRY HAS
ALL BEEN EATEN
Meat has become unknown. Useless
The pouring out of the people's sweat.
The laurel groves have been
Lopped down.
From the chimneys of the arms factories
Rises smoke.

THE HOUSE-PAINTER SPEAKS OF
GREAT TIMES TO COME
The forests still grow.
The fields still bear
The cities still stand.
The people still breathe.

ON THE CALENDAR THE DAY IS NOT
YET SHOWN
Every month, every day
Lies open still. One of those days
Is going to be marked with a cross.

THE WORKERS CRY OUT FOR BREAD
The merchants cry out for markets.
The unemployed were hungry. The employed
Are hungry now.
The hands that lay folded are busy again.
They are making shells.

THOSE WHO TAKE THE MEAT FROM THE TABLE
Teach contentment.
Those for whom the contribution is destined
Demand sacrifice.
Those who eat their fill speak to the hungry
Of wonderful times to come.
Those who lead the country into the abyss
Call ruling too difficult
For ordinary men.

WHEN THE LEADERS SPEAK OF PEACE
The common folk know
That war is coming.
When the leaders curse war
The mobilization order is already written out.

THOSE AT THE TOP SAY: PEACE
AND WAR
Are of different substance.
But their peace and their war
Are like wind and storm.

War grows from their peace
Like son from his mother
He bears
Her frightful features.

Their war kills
Whatever their peace
Has left over.

ON THE WALL WAS CHALKED:
They want war.
The man who wrote it
Has already fallen.

THOSE AT THE TOP SAY:
This way to glory.
Those down below say:
This way to the grave.

THE WAR WHICH IS COMING
Is not the first one. There were
Other wars before it.
When the last one came to an end
There were conquerors and conquered.
Among the conquered the common people
Starved. Among the conquerors
The common people starved too.

THOSE AT THE TOP SAY COMRADESHIP
Reigns in the army.
The truth of this is seen
In the cookhouse.
In their hearts should be
The selfsame courage. But
On their plates
Are two kinds of rations.

WHEN IT COMES TO MARCHING MANY DO NOT
KNOW
That their enemy is marching at their head.
The voice which gives them their orders
Is their enemy's voice and
The man who speaks of the enemy
Is the enemy himself.

IT IS NIGHT
The married couples
Lie in their beds. The young women
Will bear orphans.

GENERAL, YOUR TANK IS A POWERFUL VEHICLE
It smashes down forests and crushes a hundred men.
But it has one defect:
It needs a driver.

General, your bomber is powerful.
It flies faster than a storm and carries more than an elephant.
But it has one defect:
It needs a mechanic.

General, man is very useful.
He can fly and he can kill.
But he has one defect:
He can think.

~Bertoldt Brecht
 
For this conversation would you consider music lyrics to be poetry?

Just listening to 3 Doors Down "When I'm Gone".

Sometimes music lyrics speak to me.

I really like this song and the lyrics, but I don't understand these lines:
When your education X-ray cannot see under my skin
I won't tell you a damn thing that I could not tell my friends


Full Lyrics:

There's another world inside of me that you may never see
There's secrets in this life that I can't hide
But somewhere in this darkness, there's a light that I can't find
Or maybe it's too far away, yeah, or maybe I'm just blind
Or maybe I'm just blind
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
Hold me when I'm scared and love me when I'm gone
Everything I am and everything in me
Wants to be the one you wanted me to be
I'll never let you down, even if I could
I'd give up everything if only for your good
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
You can hold me when I'm scared, you won't always be there
So love me when I'm gone
Love me when I'm gone
When your education X-ray cannot see under my skin
I won't tell you a damn thing that I could not tell my friends
Been roaming through this darkness, I'm alive, but I'm alone
And part of me is fighting this, but part of me is gone
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
Hold me when I'm scared and love me when I'm gone
Everything I am and everything in me
Wants to be the one you wanted me to be
I'll never let you down, even if I could
I'd give up everything if only for your good
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
You can hold me when I'm scared, you won't always be there
So love me when I'm gone
Or maybe I'm just blind
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
Hold me when I'm scared and love me when I'm gone
Everything I am and everything in me
Wants to be the one you wanted me to be
I'll never let you down, even if I could
I'd give up everything if only for your good
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
You can hold me when I'm scared, you won't always be there
So love me when I'm gone
Love me when I'm gone, oh-whoa, whoa
Love me when I'm gone, when I'm gone
Oh, when I'm gone, oh, when I'm gone



To me it's seems to be about the vulnerability of loving someone. Maybe some longing for love or love lost.
 

If We Must Die​

By Claude McKay
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
 
Appropriate since the OP on this thread was Sandberg...


Chicago​

By Carl Sandburg

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
 
This could go in the Funnies thread, but I think its best, highest use, is to be read as poetry...

Don't know why, but it reminds me of a Haiku form a book of very mildly inappropriate Haiku's I read in fifth grade that has always stuck with me all these years for some reason...

Uncle arrested
For Fondling a manikin
Our shades drawn tonight
 
And while i'm walking down memory lane, here's my 6th grade limerick that I wrote and got a C on. I was, and still am, inordinately proud of it and to this day feel the grade was grave miscarriage of justice.

There one was a young man from Spain
Who encountered so very much pain
Fought a bull in the ring
Got thrown for a fling
And now all that's left is a stain
 
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OK this is my new favorite time waster hobby, spotting Reddit posts that are not meant to be poetry but can be read like poetry.

1762549277841.png

I don't have two wolves inside of me
I have two cats
They have the zoomies
And they are scratching the hell out of everything

One demands Treats
The other also demands Treats
But louder somehow

The upholstery of my psyche is ruined
 
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To My Friends

Dear friends, and here I say friends
the broad sense of the word:
Wife, sister, associates, relatives,
Schoolmates of both sexes,
People seen only once
Or frequented all my life;
Provided that between us, for at least a moment,
A line has been stretched,
A well-defined bond.
I speak for you, companions of a crowded
Road, not without its difficulties,
And for you too, who have lost
Soul, courage, the desire to live;
Or no one, or someone, or perhaps only one person, or you
Who are reading me: remember the time
Before the wax hardened,
When everyone was like a seal.
Each of us bears the imprint
Of a friend met along the way;
In each the trace of each.
For good or evil
In wisdom or in folly
Everyone stamped by everyone.
Now that the time crowds in
And the undertakings are finished,
To all of you the humble wish
That autumn will be long and mild.

~Primo Levi
 
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.

Dreaming when Dawn’s Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
“Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
“Before Life’s Liquor in its Cup be dry.”

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted–“Open then the Door!
“You know how little while we have to stay,
“And, once departed, may return no more.”

Opening of the "Rubai’yat of Omar Khayam" *
"Translated" by Edward Fitzgerald

*The history of which is a wild ride to say the least.
 
Prose or poetry? The first few verses of The Prophet by Kahil Girbran:

Almustafa, the chosen and the
beloved, who was a dawn unto his own
day, had waited twelve years in the city
of Orphalese for his ship that was to
return and bear him back to the isle of
his birth.

And in the twelfth year, on the seventh
day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he
climbed the hill without the city walls
and looked seaward; and he beheld his
ship coming with the mist.

Then the gates of his heart were flung
open, and his joy flew far over the sea.
And he closed his eyes and prayed in the
silences of his soul.

*****

But as he descended the hill, a sadness
came upon him, and he thought in his
heart:

How shall I go in peace and without
sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the
spirit shall I leave this city.

Long
were the days of pain I have spent
within its walls, and long were the
nights of aloneness; and who can depart
from his pain and his aloneness without
regret?

Too many fragments of the spirit have I
scattered in these streets, and too many
are the children of my longing that walk
naked among these hills, and I cannot
withdraw from them without a burden and
an ache.

It is not a garment I cast off this
day, but a skin that I tear with my own
hands.

Nor is it a thought I leave behind me,
but a heart made sweet with hunger and
with thirst.

*****

Yet I cannot tarry longer.

The sea that calls all things unto her
calls me, and I must embark.

For to stay, though the hours burn in
the night, is to freeze and crystallize
and be bound in a mould.

Fain would I take with me all that is
here. But how shall I?

A voice cannot carry the tongue and
the lips that gave it wings. Alone
must it seek the ether.

And alone and without his nest shall the
eagle fly across the sun.
 
“Harlem” BY LANGSTON HUGHES
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
 
A Thought Went Up My Mind To-Day
by Emily Dickinson

A thought went up my mind to-day
That I have had before,
But did not finish, -- some way back,
I could not fix the year,
Nor where it went, nor why it came
The second time to me,
Nor definitely what it was,
Have I the art to say.
But somewhere in my soul, I know
I 've met the thing before;
It just reminded me -- 't was all --
And came my way no more.
 
POETRY NEWS FROM CHAPEL HILL


"At the basketball courts near Cobb Residence Hall, Gabrielle Calvocoressi leads a group of about eight students in a friendly shootaround. She’s the one wearing a Big Bird t-shirt that matches the colors of her orange and white striped ball.

Each week, Calvocoressi — who is an English professor at UNC — meets students on the basketball court for poetry recital sessions she calls “Oh Shoot!” Nobody keeps score in these games. Calvocoressi wants them to be non-competitive. What she hopes is that students will use the sport to explore the openness of poetry and decompress a lot of the baggage that comes from such a competitive sport.

“I like to think of ‘Oh, Shoot!’ as a place also where, just like a pickup game, who knows who’s going to show up,” says Calvocoressi. “But we’re all going to learn a lot.”

-profile-Carolina-Connection-Anthony-Guerra-Flores.jpg


“Oh, Shoot!” is English professor Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s game where players use their bodies to create the movement of poetry through the rhythm of basketball. (Photo via Anthony Guerra-Flores / Carolina Connection.)

And this can mean a lot of things. Sometimes students discuss the stresses of academia; other times, they’re celebrating writing a new draft of a poem. Calvocoressi wants this time to be full of movement that helps not only her students, but also her own poetic craft and her disability.

“I have a visual disability called nystagmus, and I thought, ‘Gosh, I want to do that [exercise].” I started to do it, I started loving doing it and I also thought, ‘How am I going to find time to do it?’ And I realized, both myself and a lot of people I know – including students – often don’t have time in their day to move their bodies around outside.”

She says she loves when students feel in tune with their bodies and feel confident in a space that is at times very cutthroat.

“People really talked about gym class and how painful that space was for a lot of them,” says Calvocoressi. “Part of the pain is I really wanted to do it. I had a basketball hoop at my grandparents house and I would play all day long, all day long. But the moment I went to school and got on the basketball court, nobody wanted to play with me.”

Alexander Gast calls himself the “Oh, Shoot!” power forward and is in the Senior Honors Thesis for Poetry at UNC. He says “Oh, Shoot!” falls right after his thesis class and allows him to de-stress after a long day.

“Getting to talk about poetry with people who care about poetry in a goofy basketball setting is such a joy,” he says. “Sometimes we don’t even talk about poetry — it can just be hanging out outside with people you love. So, I guess it’s getting to practice a thing I love in a completely different medium.”

Gast, after all the three-pointers, often reads to the entire group the poems he’s been working on throughout the semester. He says it’s rewarding.

“When I’m giving a reading or even just getting workshopped in class, I always care about it so much that I always get super anxious,” Gast describes. “Then all of sudden [having a prompt at “Oh, Shoot!”] like, ‘read a poem you’ve never read aloud before,’ or ‘read a poem that reveals something about you,’ and being surrounded by people you love who are all sweaty from doing layups… it’s a ridiculous medium to get to read your own work and share it with people. And ridiculous in the best of ways.”

Luna Hou is a recent UNC Grad working on her MFA. She loves how her poetry and hook shot contributes to this small community of writers.

“A poem lives on the page,” Hou says. “But to be able to hear it in the air and have it live in community with other people in other forms…it’s so magical to revise your work in that lens and sort of try [it] out.”

And after a long day of dribbling, reading, prompt-making, and jumpshotting, the perfect swish makes everyone feel the confidence and support of “Oh, Shoot!” Calcocoressi says that is her favorite part.

“[What] we all look forward to is that feeling: cheering each other on and also being like, ‘We’re here, we get to be here,'” she says.

Calvocoressi doesn’t confine her poetry to the basketball court. After a recent “Oh, Shoot!” session, she went to The Center for the Study of the American South on Franklin Street to be celebrated for being a National Book Award Finalist for her latest collection “The New Economy.” But she says she’ll be back on the basketball court soon, and she’s always happy to meet new players and poets."
 
This is a poem I wrote in 1978 when I was providing daycare for the children of a friend... pardon its length

MAGICAL DAY

As I listen to the children in my keeping
begin to stir from their sleep of the night before

Laughing,

And conversing in a language only the very young can understand,
I stoop over the kitchen counter staring stupidly at a jelly sandwich not yet made
Such a culinary undertaking defies consummation

Instead I dream of crying out for them to hold fast to the magical day
that only a child can believe will last forever

As I clear the breakfast dishes and the little ones dawdle
as they dress for new adventures

Gurgling,

soft nonsensical rhymes each an attraction to the other,
I stare into the sink and try to recall when I last felt this deafening deadness
Such a time hides from recollection

Instead I scream soundless warnings of what happens
when young ones grow old and older ones refuse to...

As I search for misplaced car keys and
the children amuse themselves as they shuffle out the door,

Whispering,

secretly about mysterious times soon to be encountered
I wipe a tear from my cheek, pretending it to be a wisp of perspiration
The innocent are in need of such protection
Instead I beam at them silently agreeing that ,indeed, a magical day awaits one and all

As I watch through my windshield the wee ones as they enter the school yard,

Rushing,

hurry and scurry to find their very favorite playmates,
I slump forward from the weight of a muted yearning for yesterday
There can be no resurrection

Instead my steam of hot tears burns as a pyre,

the remaining testament to the death of a magical day
 
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Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The poem, written on Christmas Day, 1863 was deeply enmeshed in the horror of The Civil War. It was first turned into a song in 1872. Bing Crosby recorded the version that we know as "I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day," in 1956.
 
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, UNC '41.

"I Am Waiting.
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder"
 
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