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© @ http://esoschronicles.blogspot.com/

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”

The Soul selects her own Society—
Then—shuts the Door—
To her divine Majority—
Present no more—

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—

Like Stone—

(Adlib ©  by Anton Wendamenč)

^{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”

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@ http://esoschronicles.blogspot.com/

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