Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Not quite April, but this is how I feel lately

The beginning of Sword Blades and Poppy Seeds
by Amy Lowell

A drifting, April, twilight sky,
A wind which blew the puddles dry,
And slapped the river into waves
That ran and hid among the staves

Of an old wharf. A watery light
Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white
Without the slightest tinge of gold,
The city shivered in the cold.

All day my thoughts had lain as dead,
Unborn and bursting in my head.
From time to time I wrote a word
Which lines and circles overscored.
My table seemed a graveyard, full
Of coffins waiting burial.

I seized these vile abortions, tore
Them into jagged bits, and swore
To be the dupe of hope no more.
Into the evening straight I went,
Starved of a day's accomplishment.

This is one of my favorite poems, but is too long to post entirely. I always think of the first few lines on cold, wet, windy days.

Saturday, March 20, 2010


First you stole my breath away
Then you stole my time
Then you stole a kiss from me
Then you stole my mind

I knew you for the thief you were,
I knew right from the start,
First you'd steal my dreams away,
Then you'd steal my heart.

Then like a thief on some dark night
Or maybe some bright day,
You'd quietly slip the window up
And steal yourself away.



half a league half a league half a league onward. . . a wind which whips the puddles dry. . .my friend you would not tell with such high zest. . . here where the world is silent. . .he took his vorpal sword in hand. . .nothing beside remains. . .the sun was shining on the sea. . . all the kings horses and all the kings men . . . lives of great men all remind us. . .

Once uttered, the words can't be unsaid
Once thought, a thoughts un-unthinkable
The written word can't be unread
A dream, once dreamt is unsinkable

So exposed our lives are filled
With a richness incomparable,
Which in time will always yeild
A damage unrepairable.