Saturday, March 21, 2020


EC729 (4)

TransVerse Poetry
Eso’s Chronicles
(since 1970s/ The Ledger, Brookline, Mass.)

In our soulless times
Reminding the reader of Emily Dickinson’s
“The Soul Selects Its Own Society”

Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—
Pausimg—
At her low Gate—
Unmoved—an Emperor kneeling
Upon her Mat—

I've known her—
from an ample nation—
Choose One
Then—close the Vslves of
her attention—

(Adlib ©  by Anton WendamenĨ)
From “Songs From My Autobiografy”

“You still have
That piece of land
Where
On Midsummer’s Eve
(So I have heard)
Boys go
Count the haystacks
With ladders
Drawn up
Then stand below
And whack themselves
Off
Listening to the
Cries of ecstasy
Up top”

Thursday, March 12, 2020


EC728 (3)

Continuing with
TransVerse Poetry
Eso’s Chronicles
(since 1970s/ The Ledger, Brookline, Mass.)

Reminding the reader of William Blake’s
“The Tyger”
From Songs of Innocense and Experience

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 
In the forests of the night; 
What immortal hand or eye, 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies. 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain, 
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp, 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp! 

When the stars threw down their spears 
And water'd heaven with their tears: 
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 
In the forests of the night: 
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

(Adlib:)

Hand-
Kerchief
Handkerchief
Wet and spongy
On what
Politician’s desk
Would I land
Thee?
Would he or she
Pick thee up?
Or
For a
Migrant
Chambermaid
Call?

Accustomed as we are to vulgar TWEETS and TWITTERS and like, we no longer remember  the civil voice of poetry. Poetry has disappeared from the public arena to the hidden pages of so-called ‘poetry magazines’ and kindergarten limericks.

Handkerchief
Handkerchief
If thou but

Couldst

Plug the
Senate’s
Toilet

Slide
The swamp city
Into
The abyss
And return us to
The
Forest

Korona virus
Corona virus
Sunshine
Bright

If thou but
Couldst

Thursday, February 27, 2020


EC727 (2)

Continuing
Eso’s
Chronicles

Reminding
The reader of
William Blake’s
“The Lamb”
From his
We began this series with the previous blog (EC726) and Blake’s “The Sick Rose”. We continue with “The Lamb”:

Little Lamb. God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
https://www.youtube.com/a?v=izZWdqvEoKA

(Adlib:)
O Little Lamb,
O Little Lamb,
Dost thou in
Sick America
Awhile?

Accustomed as we are to vulgar TWEETS and TWITTERS and like, we no longer remember  the civil voice of poetry. The Levithan of America https://www.google.com/search?q=image+gustave+dore+the+destruction+of+leviathan&client=firefox-b-d&sxsrf=ALeKk02PBPKPKCsUXw3uXvBtzBmxLjw5nQ:1582825478110&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=NiX6SDEIni1iSM%253A%252CZQhNl5bgZZja5M%252C_&vet=1&usg=AI4_-kQQ-rvXTY3oPSU8pvvF8R7rlFluiA&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjbv_SypPLnAhXIvosKHXqmCFsQ9QEwAXoECAoQBw#imgrc=NiX6SDEIni1iSM has swallowed us. Fucked up men and well fucked women seize our attentions and sicken our mind. Poetry has disappeared from the public arena to the hidden pages of so-called ‘poetry magazines’.

O Little Lamb,
Art thou
Dead of
The virus
Incubating in
Its brain?

Thursday, February 20, 2020


EC726


For today
Eso’s
Chronicles
Reminds
The reader of
William Blake’s
“The Sick Rose”
From the poet’s

“O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 
That flies in the night 
In the howling storm: 

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.”

Of course, The sick ‘Rose’ in our time is none other than ‘poetry’.

With all of us accustomed to vulgar TWEETS and TWITTERS and like, the civil voice of poetry has disappeared from the public arena to the hidden pages of so-called ‘poetry magazines’.

Still, as Wm. Blake and Poetry Broadsides of Old prove https://www.biblio.com/book-collecting/what-to-collect/poetry/what-are-broadsides/ , poetry need not disappear from the ring of public hysteria and executions https://www.rt.com/news/481254-hanau-shooting-suspect-dead/  , but may—if it has a will—insert itself

As a
Crumb of bread
In the crack of
The keyboard
Of our
Dusty computer