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anything done subtly can be good. ;) maybe I should've said that _I_ would never use either word in a poem. it just rubs me the wrong way. either word alone isn't enough to make a poem bad though, obviously. that wasn't what i was saying. "teach the free man how to praise" is a little childish. KS On 15/02/07, TheOldMole <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > > I > He disappeared in the dead of winter: > The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted, > And snow disfigured the public statues; > The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day. > What instruments we have agree > The day of his death was a dark cold day. > > Far from his illness > The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, > The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; > By mourning tongues > The death of the poet was kept from his poems. > > But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, > An afternoon of nurses and rumours; > The provinces of his body revolted, > The squares of his mind were empty, > Silence invaded the suburbs, > The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers. > > Now he is scattered among a hundred cities > And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections, > To find his happiness in another kind of wood > And be punished under a foreign code of conscience. > The words of a dead man > Are modified in the guts of the living. > > But in the importance and noise of to-morrow > When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse, > And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed, > And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom, > A few thousand will think of this day > As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual. > > What instruments we have agree > The day of his death was a dark cold day. > > II > > You were silly like us; your gift survived it all: > The parish of rich women, physical decay, > Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. > Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, > For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives > In the valley of its making where executives > Would never want to tamper, flows on south > From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, > Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, > A way of happening, a mouth. > > > > > III > > Earth, receive an honoured guest: > William Yeats is laid to rest. > Let the Irish vessel lie > Emptied of its poetry. > > In the nightmare of the dark > All the dogs of Europe bark, > And the living nations wait, > Each sequestered in its hate; > > Intellectual disgrace > Stares from every human face, > And the seas of pity lie > Locked and frozen in each eye. > > Follow, poet, follow right > To the bottom of the night, > With your unconstraining voice > Still persuade us to rejoice; > > With the farming of a verse > Make a vineyard of the curse, > Sing of human unsuccess > In a rapture of distress; > > In the deserts of the heart > Let the healing fountain start, > In the prison of his days > Teach the free man how to praise. > ----- Original Message ----- > From: "kasper salonen" <[log in to unmask]> > To: <[log in to unmask]> > Sent: Thursday, February 15, 2007 3:45 PM > Subject: Re: Early Snap - Famous > > > >a poem should never have the word 'poet' or 'poem' in them, as an > > undeviating rule. > > a poem about _the_ poet is even wronger. > > > > you've definitely posted better poems onto this list Janet. I wasn't > > really entertained by this at all, I'm afraid. > > > > KS > > > > On 13/02/07, Janet Jackson <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > >> Nearly Wednesday. > >> This is not at all what I set out to write! > >> And the ending in particular is crap. > >> But the Muse has flown and I want to go to bed now. Goodnight! > >> > >> Janet > >> > >> ---------- > >> > >> Famous > >> > >> When I was 17 a palm-reader told me, > >> "you're going to be famous", but > >> it hasn't happened. Yet > >> I can hardly go anywhere without > >> meeting some person who knows me > >> > >> and when I recite my poems at readings > >> in a dramatic black outfit > >> some people act > >> like fans, waiting for a tidbit, > >> a chapbook autographed, saying kind things. > >> > >> In a dream I visit the main residence > >> of a man famous as any president > >> (he is, indeed, a poet, > >> but he is not famous for that) > >> and his famous wife, sleek and gracious. > >> > >> She greets me politely. I tell her my name > >> and am suddenly aware of the state > >> of my clothes: the ragged t-shirt > >> and stained jeans in which I'd slept > >> under a tree, in the rain, earlier in the dream. > >> > >> I hope she forgets me, but people rarely do. > >> But no-one will ever forget > >> her. The poor woman can't > >> just sleep out on the street > >> in old clothes, the way poets do. > >> > >> A first draft by Janet Jackson > >> Tue Feb 13 22:45:19 WST 2007 > >> > >> ------------------------------------------------------- > >> Janet Jackson <[log in to unmask]> > >> Poems at Proximity: > >> http://www.proximity.webhop.net > >> > >> The choice is between nonviolence and nonexistence. > >> Martin Luther King Jr. > >> s > >> >