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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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The Buried City, by George Sylvester Viereck
My heart is like a city of the gay
Reared on the ruins of a perished one
Wherein my dead loves cower from the sun,
White-swathed like kings, the Pharaohs of a day.
Within the buried city stirs no sound,
Pedestrian, by Bob Childs
His face froze
Wide eyed like a
Thief caught in a spotlight
Her scream took hold of her hands and
Locked them to the wheel
A Dedication, by Thomas Alexander Browne (`Rolf Boldrewood')
They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less
Of sound than of words,
In lands where bright blossoms are scentless,
And songless bright birds;
Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses,
Against Indifference, by Charles Webbe
MORE love or more disdain I crave;
Sweet, be not still indifferent:
O send me quickly to my grave,
Or else afford me more content!
Or love or hate me more or less,
Of a rose, a lovely rose, Of a rose is al myn song., by Anonymous
LESTENYT, lordynges, both elde and yinge,
How this rose began to sprynge;
Swych a rose to myn lykynge
In al this word ne knowe I non.
The Aungil came fro hevene tour,
Sonet, by Mark Alexander Boyd
FRA bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin,
Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie;
Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree,
Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.
Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin,
As in the Midst of Battle there is Room, by George Santayana
As in the midst of battle there is room
For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth;
As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth
Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom;
As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb
Jock O'Hazeldean, by Walter Scott
Child Ballad 293
Why weep ye by the tide, lady
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son
And ye shall be his bride
A Hymn, by James Shirley
O FLY, my Soul! What hangs upon
Thy drooping wings,
And weighs them down
With love of gaudy mortal things?
The Sun is now i' the east: each shade
The Song of Tigilau, by Marcus Clarke
The song of Tigilau the brave,
Sina's wild lover,
Who across the heaving wave
From Samoa came over:
Came over, Sina, at the setting moon!
The Kings, by Louise Imogen Guiney
A man said unto his Angel:
"My spirits are fallen low,
And I cannot carry this battle:
O brother! where might I go?
"The terrible Kings are on me
Brunch At Work, by Maggie Lamont
Two charred tomatoes,
scrambled eggs & Irish Bacon
I tear at the spiced pork with my teeth
Coffee and Icewater
Lifting a huge pot full of potatoes
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