A star, however willing, cannot help the moon.
“Full religion is the large poem in loving repetition;
like any poem it must be inexhaustible and complete
with turns where we ask Now why did the poet do that?
You can’t pray a lie, said Huckleberry Finn;
you can’t poe one either. It is the same mirror:
mobile, glancing, we call it poetry,
Fixed centrally, we call it a religion,
and God is the poetry caught in any religion,
caught, not imprisoned. Caught as in a mirror.”
see, he’s the proud possessor of a twelve-inch snake
a tiger, or a brown, perhaps
but, more likely, a benign carpet variety
pink and friendly.
he says he’d like to ‘pull it out
and whack it on their table’
to shock them from their myth-making
talk of his anatomy.
penis envy, sibling style
by Liz Hall-Downs
Something will have gone out of us as a people
if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed;
if we permit the last virgin forests to be turned into
comic books and plastic cigarette cases;
if we drive the few remaining members of the wild species
into zoos or to extinction;
if we pollute the last clear air and dirty the last clean streams
and push our paved roads through the last of the silence,
so that never again will Americans be free in their own country
from the noise, the exhausts, the stinks of human and automotive waste.
~ Wallace Stegner,
letter to David E. Pesonen of the Wildland Research Center,
3 December 1960 ~
Poetry and Alcohol
The two of us we have lived together long,
she sits in the kitchen watching Brazilian soaps,
I read TLS which gives me an edge even though I think some of the stuff is effete and some of the famous writers and painters are totally overvalued.
I do catch a glance of the TV in the living room from
time to time, a nature program that irritates me, the
Australian hero is actually worrying the wild animals and I hope he will be bitten by a crocodile, or trampled by an irate elephant. No such luck.
Andrew Motion wrote something about oral poetry,
I appeared once at poetry venue, nervously drank
too much, and insulted the organizer. Wish the TLS
would adopt me. Really! But like late George Best,
I’m a loose cannon liable to tell them to fuck off
Jan Oskar Hansen
foto 3 cats in raleigh nsw australia
Karl Cameron-Jackson and Mike Hopkins | 05 March 2012
The feral cat
Fresh blood dripping from your snarling mouth
your shoulders bunched, spine high-arched
you glared angrily at me as I drove past in my car.
Icon of primeval hunter, you crouched by the roadside
teeth burgeoning in crushing, crunching jaws
tearing flesh from a fresh-killed victim with razor claws.
Boldness imaged your new freedom
in an expanding heart that lusted
solely to hunt … stalk … kill prey.
You are growing wiser
stronger … faster … wilder.
― George R.R. Martin, A Feast for Crows
“First think of the person who lives in disguise,
Who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies.
Next, tell me what’s always the last thing to mend,
The middle of middle and the end of end?
And finally give me the sound often heard
During the search for a hard-to-find word.
Now string them together, and answer me this,
Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?”
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
― Louisa May Alcott, Little Women
“Today, Aaron decided, he would begin to grieve in earnest. He would walk the lonely beach, mocked by gulls, uncaring, his every step a stately rebuke to the malign forces that had blighted his fate. His was the tragedy of a man who couldn’t have his own way, and he intended to make known his anguish in the solemn solitude that only a stretch of sand, a suspiring sea, and a beetling cliff could provide.”
― Joseph Caldwell, The Pig Did It
“Theory has all too often been a zoo in which we cage the wild beasts of violence that inhabit our worlds. We then gaze at these beasts from a safe distance, we contemplate them, we theorize how they would act in their own environments – and we never go to those environments where the beasts roam freely to actually check our theories. To do so would be disastrous. It would point out the absurdity of our analyses and the illusion of safety so carefully crafted.”
Carolyn Nordstrom, A Different Kind of War Story
“Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell,’ Holly advised him. ‘That was Doc’s mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up, Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky."
"She’s drunk," Joe Bell informed me.
"Moderately," Holly confessed….Holly lifted her martini. "Let’s wish the Doc luck, too," she said, touching her glass against mine. "Good luck: and believe me, dearest Doc — it’s better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear.”
Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s