Dry. The wind is parched by the wind.
The stars are machines whose needlepoints
Stab through the throat. Crazed by thirst,
That dog must be killed. Don't cry. Please don't.
It's a waste of water. Yes, I know
The sand is hotter than you can stand,
But, surely, since we have come this far. . . .
2
You'd be surprised
How the body endures
Suffering. What else can it do?
Oh, the mind. That's different. Close your eyes,
And just keep going. Did I ever tell
You stories of Cortez, Ghenghis Khan,
And Hannibal--quite ordinary men?
If we stop now, it will be hard in
The morning. Think of the risk of sun.
3
I'm sorry I said that. Concentrate
On images and dreams, on wanted things
Like streams, springs, and rivulets. . . .
It makes it worse? Think of nothing, then,
But the blood that flows from head to foot
And back, of the brain's banked oxygen,
Of how footfall must follow tread,
If you will it to. You can stand the pain.
Do it for my sake. I ask again.
4
I think the path has become obscure.
The map's inaccurate. I cannot read
The compass because the flashlight's failed,
And we're out of matches. Besides, I think
It was off last time. It's hard to be sure.
Have faith in me. Have faith in me.
Think of all those who have gone before.
5
There must be a country somewhere right now
Of rain, of snow, of golden wind
Where in the rushes, all that play
of watery hazards takes the mind.
And that must be the country of joy,
That country that we will never find.
Or perhaps we will. Now we must rest,
Before the sand makes us blind.
6
Only so many miles to go,
And ages in which to do it. So
I like to think. The dog is dead.
I swear
There should be water soon.
We must wait. And wait. The sun's too high.
We'll begin again at the end of day.
7
My darling,
Not to have made it is
To kill, and kill,
And be killed again.
Now, only your body lies
In my bodiless arms,
So dead, so still,
And there is the oasis, up ahead.
~Howard Moss
This is such a cool idea! Here's a rather lovely sonnet that my lit class just explicated:
ReplyDeleteSonnet XIX “On His Blindness”
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,—
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask:—But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: God doth not need
Either man's work, or His own gifts, who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:—
They also serve who only stand and wait.
John Milton (1608 – 1674)
Here's another--a rather witty "response" to "To a Coy Mistress":
ReplyDelete'His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell'
Since you have world enough and time
Sir, to admonish me in rhyme,
Pray Mr Marvell, can it be
You think to have persuaded me?
Then let me say: you want the art
To woo, much less to win my heart.
The verse was splendid, all admit,
And, sir, you have a pretty wit.
All that indeed your poem lacked
Was logic, modesty, and tact,
Slight faults and ones to which I own,
Your sex is generally prone;
But though you lose your labour, I
Shall not refuse you a reply:
First, for the language you employ:
A term I deprecate is "coy";
The ill-bred miss, the bird-brained Jill,
May simper and be coy at will;
A lady, sir, as you will find,
Keeps counsel, or she speaks her mind,
Means what she says and scorns to fence
And palter with feigned innocence.
The ambiguous "mistress" next you set
Beside this graceless epithet.
"Coy mistress", sir? Who gave you leave
To wear my heart upon your sleeve?
Or to imply, as sure you do,
I had no other choice than you
And must remain upon the shelf
Unless I should bestir myself?
Shall I be moved to love you, pray,
By hints that I must soon decay?
No woman's won by being told
How quickly she is growing old;
Nor will such ploys, when all is said,
Serve to stampede us into bed.
When from pure blackmail, next you move
To bribe or lure me into love,
No less inept, my rhyming friend,
Snared by the means, you miss your end.
"Times winged chariot", and the rest
As poetry may pass the test;
Readers will quote those lines, I trust,
Till you and I and they are dust;
But I, your destined prey, must look
Less at the bait than at the hook,
Nor, when I do, can fail to see
Just what it is you offer me:
Love on the run, a rough embrace
Snatched in the fury of the chase,
The grave before us and the wheels
Of Time's grim chariot at our heels,
While we, like "am'rous birds of prey",
Tear at each other by the way.
To say the least, the scene you paint
Is, what you call my honour, quaint!
And on this point what prompted you
So crudely, and in public too,
To canvass and , indeed, make free
With my entire anatomy?
Poets have licence, I confess,
To speak of ladies in undress;
Thighs, hearts, brows, breasts are well enough,
In verses this is common stuff;
But -- well I ask: to draw attention
To worms in -- what I blush to mention,
And prate of dust upon it too!
Sir, was this any way to woo?
Now therefore, while male self-regard
Sits on your cheek, my hopeful bard,
May I suggest, before we part,
The best way to a woman's heart
Is to be modest, candid, true;
Tell her you love and show you do;
Neither cajole nor condescend
And base the lover on the friend;
Don't bustle her or fuss or snatch:
A suitor looking at his watch
Is not a posture that persuades
Willing, much less reluctant maids.
Remember that she will be stirred
More by the spirit than the word;
For truth and tenderness do more
Than coruscating metaphor.
Had you addressed me in such terms
And prattled less of graves and worms,
I might, who knows, have warmed to you;
But, as things stand, must bid adieu
(Though I am grateful for the rhyme)
And wish you better luck next time.
-- A. D. Hope
(1907-2000)
Another beauty--this one by Williams Wordsworth!
ReplyDeleteThe world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
I like all of those; I've read the two sonnets before, but not "His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvall", and that one is quite clever. Thanks for sharing!
ReplyDelete