EC729 (4)

© @ 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”

EC728 (3)

@ 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

EC727 (2)

@ http://esoschronicles.blogspot.com/

Continuing

Eso’s

Chronicles

Reminding

The reader of

William Blake’s

“The Lamb”

From his

Songs of Innocense and Experience ^{https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Songs_of_Innocence_and_of_Experience}  :

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

Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:

He is called by thy name
For he calls himself a Lamb
He is meek, and he is mild;
He became a little child
I a child, and thou a lamb
We are called by his name

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?

EC726

@ http://esoschronicles.blogspot.com/

For today

Eso’s

Chronicles

Reminds

The reader of

William Blake’s

“The Sick Rose”

From the poet’s

Songs of Innocense and Experience ^{https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Songs_of_Innocence_and_of_Experience}  :

“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.”

^{https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tyrvE_153lc}

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