On Classic and Beautiful English Poetry 1
somewhere else
Matthew Shenoda
Right on this ridge.
Exposed to the orange dusk
Autumn in the mountains
The story begins.
Wood for the stove.
Feel the heat from the shoulder to the tendon.
Greet mules and deer
Water the garden again.
With rhythm, with the song.
When the axe begins to mix with the wind
Continue the warm days
On the open banks of the river
There, the passion for healing was found in the water.
From one source to another—
There is no place where we can't start.
Where the water is old, the wind is young.
Teach each other like axes and wood.
Open up a place for dignity
Plant a seed and pray for rain.
For sun.
Understand things outside of yourself.
One day they will say:
Who do you think you are?
A new day will come.
Let you do the talking.
On that day, the story will appear.
But don't tell yourself.
Tell the story of flowers blooming in the desert.
Or about your enemy's greatest victory
Tell stories from other places
On Classic and Beautiful English Poetry II
A place I've never been before, and I'd love to go.
Author e.e. cummings
A place I've never been before, and I'd love to go.
Any experience, your eyes have their silence:
In your most vulnerable posture, something surrounds me,
Or I can't reach them because they are too close to me.
You can easily open me at the slightest glance.
Although I enclosed myself as a finger,
When it opens in spring, you always open one petal at a time.
Cleverly and mysteriously touching her first rose
Or if you want to shut me down, me and
My life will suddenly end beautifully,
When this flower's heart imagines
The heavy snow falls carefully everywhere;
Everything we can feel in this world.
Your extremely fragile strength: whose texture?
Decorate me with the colors of its country,
With each breath comes death and eternity.
I don't know how you closed it.
And open it; Only I understand.
The voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses.
No one, even the rain, has all these hands.
On Classic and Beautiful English Poetry (3)
Clayton Ellerman's Silence
Pats, Peeters, Apollo globe, sound.
Break up with silence, charcoal fire
I can still hear, feel the entanglement of the pool,
Just like a cave might leak perfume—
Along the wet walls of hides,
Like a flower in, in, attract their legs.
Pan-plant body, crawling over
A bottomless premonition, groping for the fate of Persephone;
By Hades' purple hair.
Exploded in their brains.
They buried their foreheads in coal and corral.
Winding in the night sky—
The animals crossed in.
A huge vulva was cut in front of the gate.
The power from it is heaven, power.
What the Klumanu left us:
Use our throats as altars.
The original words were mixed with animal fat,
The injured man tried to tell who did it.
This group is the edge of a wheel that is about to be invented.
Their speech is spoke, played in a loop,
Around, the center of the fire, our silk,
It's their burning, we fall, you fall,
We lean towards you, and you lean towards us, Dionysus.
Plop, pool, stir.
With the harp gap between the peaks of the flame,
Water to fire, we to them.
Foal eyes, rubber, they circulate.
Go back to those caves where the walls may be strung together.
Between their teeth, sticky soul matter
Their hands, oh
They sewed themselves into some bone loom, huh?
What small male spiders they are.
Great ability to devour them.
Female rock elastic words!