The Sun Magazine brings us a splendid interview of Jungian poet James Applewhite, entitled Returning To Beauty. Here’s an excerpt: A good poem can’t lie. The attitudes of the writer… Read more A Good Poem Can’t Lie →
Part One Part Two Part Three Since I’ve confessed myself a conservative, a democrat, and a monarchist, how does that affect my artistic philosophy? (For after all, this has largely… Read more Conservatism and Art →
bluesun wintersun/ waking poolsinbowl miroom/ birdsilence ah god
Your laughter is a rainbow shimmered bird It sits upon my shoulder when I am hard at work I turn to look but it has flown. Your lifetime is a… Read more Your Life →
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare.Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace,And lay them prone upon the earth and ceaseTo ponder on themselves, the while they stareAt nothing, intricately drawn nowhereIn shapes of shifting lineage; let geeseGabble and hiss, but heroes seek releaseFrom dusty bondage into luminous air.O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day,When first the shaft into his vision shoneOf light anatomized! Euclid aloneHas looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate theyWho, though once only and then but far away,Have heard her massive sandal set on stone. Here… Read more Poetry Survey Series Post 2: Sonnet by Edna St. Vincent Millay →
Here is one of the more extraordinary poems of Emily Dickinson, numbered 480. My understanding is that the dash marks are breaths that interrupt the meter (Emily’s own exclusive technique.) It may interest readers to remember that Emily died a spinster and a near-recluse. *** “Why do I love” You, Sir? Because— The Wind does not require the Grass To answer—Wherefore when He pass She cannot keep Her place. Because He knows—and Do not You— And We know not— Enough for Us The Wisdom it be so— The Lightning—never asked an Eye Wherefore it shut—when He was by— Because He knows it cannot speak— And reasons… Read more Poetry Survey Series Post 1 →
She scorns all your thoughts – she can’t afford many. She mocks at your beauty, for she hasn’t any. Her favorite chores are snuffing the wick, pinching the sprout and lobbing the brick. She wants it all stripped, to show you the bones and say, “here’s the blood-sack you thought was Jones!” Here’s Lady Contempt, for you all to look at. ‘Like’ if you’re someone she once threw the book at.
What song can I sing? I have not a word to say; Full of emptiness, in wordless prayers I pray toward formless forms and heatless burnings toward Flyers In The Heaven without wing and know – it is not You! You are not these! O! (Whom shall I address?) To what bright center shall I press, and truly say: Ah, it is You! At last? (When will I be strong enough to grip you fast?) Should I form pictures in my mind? And say: this homely glow upon these yellow leaves, this pale pink… Read more A Very Poor Effort →