Larry’s Pretty Good Journal

For Poetry Monday:

“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,” William Shakespeare

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o’ the great;
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The scepter, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

    No exorciser harm thee!
    Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
    Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
    Nothing ill come near thee!
    Quiet consummation have;
    And renownèd be thy grave!


From Cymbeline, act IV, scene 2, sung as a funeral dirge for Imogen.

---L.

Subject quote from Let’s Go Crazy, Prince and The Revolution.

For Poetry Monday, with a cut for length:

Howl Under a Blue Light Filtered Moon, Elden Locke
(Dedicated to Allen Ginsberg)

I saw the best minds of my generation scrolling themselves to death,
starved for meaning, lit by the blue glow of a thousand screens,
dragged through the feed at 3 A.M. looking for something real.

Angels of burnout, prophets of anxiety,
wired into coffee and code and self-diagnosis,
naked in their rooms, refreshing the apocalypse for updates.

Who texted their prayers into the void and got an emoji in return,
who built their gods out of hashtags and dopamine,
who confessed their sins to algorithms that sold them better ones.

Who wandered suburbia in eternal leases,
tethered to Wi-Fi, dreaming of the open road but afraid of gas prices,
who howled under fluorescent lights of office towers
as their dreams were formatted into PowerPoints.

Who made love to ghosts through pixelated glass,
mouths pressed to screens, hearts buffering,
and cried out for human touch in the language of memes.

( Who believed in justice and were met with comment sections )


Source. Relevant Ginsberg.

---L.

Subject quote from Everything She Wants, Wham!.

For Poetry Monday:

Tokyo, Winter 1946, Samuel Lieberman

The trees shine bare in winter’s sun,
Old bricks lie bruised in frozen mud
And look upon steel beams they once bestrode.
Old women sit among their tangerines and colored cloths
Beside a bridge that holds out broken arms
To grasp each bank.


Lieberman was part of the American Occupation Army after WWII. This was first published in a 1959 anthology of poems by Americans about Japan.

---L.

Subject quote from Come On Eileen, Dexys Midnight Runners (now just Dexys).

For Poetry Monday:

Freight, Andrea Cohen

What weighs
more—

pound
of feathers

or the memory
of thinking

you
might fly?


---L.

Subject quote from Anti-Hero, Taylor Swift.

For Poetry Monday, dipping back a few millenia:

A love song of Shu-Sin, Unknown

Man of my heart, my beloved man, your allure is a sweet thing, as sweet as honey. Lad of my heart, my beloved man, your allure is a sweet thing, as sweet as honey.

You have captivated me (?), of my own free will I will come to you. Man, let me flee with you — into the bedroom. You have captivated me (?); of my own free will I shall come to you. Lad, let me flee with you — into the bedroom.

Man, let me do the sweetest things to you. My precious sweet, let me bring you honey. In the bedchamber dripping with honey let us enjoy over and over your allure, the sweet thing. Lad, let me do the sweetest things to you. My precious sweet, let me bring you honey.

Man, you have become attracted to me. Speak to my mother and I will give myself to you; speak to my father and he will make a gift of me. I know where to give physical pleasure to your body — sleep, man, in our house till morning. I know how to bring heart’s delight to your heart — sleep, lad, in our house till morning.

Since you have fallen in love with me, lad, if only you would do your sweet thing to me.

My lord and god, my lord and guardian angel, my Cu-Suen who cheers Enlil’s heart, if only you would handle your sweet place, if only you would grasp your place that is sweet as honey.

Put your hand there for me like the cover (?) on a measuring cup. Spread (?) your hand there for me like the cover (?) on a cup of wood shavings.

Original text:


Thanks, WikiMedia!

Hat tip. One of the world’s oldest surviving lyric poems, written presumably during the reign of Shu-Sin / Šu-Suen, king of Sumer and Akkad from circa* 2037-2028 BCE. The tablet identifies the speaker as Inana, and it’s generally read as relating to the sacred marriage of the fertility goddess** and the land’s king. That said, it reads to me as a straight-up (i.e. non-ritual) erotic poem — a smoking hot one.*** The translation from Sumerian is a composite created by Graham Cunningham from ones by Krecher & Jagersma and Sefati (source, credits).


* While relative times in Middle Bronze Age Mesopotamia are relatively solid, absolute timestamps have error bars of ±60 years. For context, he ruled two and a half centuries after the death of Sargon of Akkad, the father of Enheduanna.

** Possibly, though this is highly debated, embodied as her high priestess. Not debated: she almost certainly didn’t wear little red panties.

*** I hope those wood shavings (?) don’t catch on fire.

---L.

Subject quote from Semi-Charmed Life, Third Eye Blind.

For Poetry Monday:

“The evening darkens over,” Robert Bridges

The evening darkens over
After a day so bright
The windcapt waves discover
That wild will be the night.
There’s sound of distant thunder.

The latest sea-birds hover
Along the cliff’s sheer height;
As in the memory wander
Last flutterings of delight,
White wings lost on the white.

There’s not a ship in sight;
And as the sun goes under
Thick clouds conspire to cover
The moon that should rise yonder.
Thou art alone, fond lover.


While Bridges was Poet Laureate 1913-30, I confess I mostly think of him as Hopkins’s university friend and literary executor.

---L.

Subject quote from The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, written by Ewan MacColl, sung by Peggy Seeger. (Roberta Flack covered it later.)

For Poetry Monday:

The Llano Estacado, John Poch

How much soil do you plow to soothe a conscience?
If you’re a staked plains, dry-land, long view man:
a sky’s worth. Some even sow the dry playa
mid-summer with sorghum, the cotton plowed under
after early hail. Thus, not every farmer keeps
an old broken homestead sacred as a graveyard.
Today, no Sharpshin on a pivot for an omen,
no stoic farmer on a turn-row changing water.

Among a little wind grit, in a grid on a grid, somewhere
like the crossroads of outer space and Earth, Texas,
a handful of ragged elms withstand a long sway
of heat and wind. These old guards of a home haunt
the field but wither even as ghosts must. Honor them
with a walk among homesick bricks, and prophesy good.


First published in Poetry issue July/August 2009. The Llano Estacado is a large mesa/plateau in west Texas and easternmost New Mexico, extending from Amarillo through Lubbock and down to Odessa. The name is often translated as “staked plain,” with a folk etymologies explaining that its dry grassland is so featureless that Native Americans supposedly put up markers to guide their way (and Coronado famously did find it confusing), but the actual origin is probably “stockaded/palisaded plain,” referring to the escarpments of its eastern and western edges. The sharp-shinned hawk is a common small hawk of the region. The elms, which are not native, would have been grown by a former homesteader by irrigation from wells.

---L.

Subject quote from Dreams, Fleetwood Mac.

For Poetry Monday:

Tired, Langston Hughes

I am so tired of waiting.
Aren’t you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two—
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.


---L.

Subject quote from Vuelvo al Sur, Astor Piazzolla & Fernando Solanas, though I confess I prefer the Gotan Project cover.

For Poetry Monday Tuesday (because spent yesterday hiking in the mountains), another Francis:

Hallelujah: A Sestina, Robert Francis

A wind’s word, the Hebrew Hallelujah.
I wonder they never gave it to a boy
(Hal for short) boy with wind-wild hair.
It means Praise God, as well it should since praise
Is what God’s for. Why didn’t they call my father
Hallelujah instead of Ebenezer?

Eben, of course, but christened Ebenezer,
Product of Nova Scotia (hallelujah).
Daniel, a country doctor, was his father
And my father his tenth and final boy.
A baby and last, he had a baby’s praise:
Red petticoats, red cheeks, and crow-black hair.

A boy has little to say about his hair
And little about a name like Ebenezer
Except that you can shorten either. Praise
God for that, for that shout Hallelujah.
Shout Hallelujah for everything a boy
Can be that is not his father or grandfather.

But then, before you know it, he is a father
Too and passing on his brand of hair
To one more perfectly defenseless boy,
Dubbing him John or James or Ebenezer
But never, so far as I know, Hallelujah,
As if God didn’t need quite that much praise.

But what I’m coming to; Could I ever praise
My father half enough for being a father
Who let me be myself? Sing Hallelujah.
Preacher he was with a prophet’s head of hair
And what but a prophet’s name was Ebenezer,
However little I guessed it as a boy?

Outlandish names of course are never a boy’s
Choice. And it takes some time to learn to praise.
Stone of Help is the meaning of Ebenezer.
Stone of Help; what fitter name for my father?
Always the Stone of Help however his hair
Might graduate from black to Hallelujah.

Such is the old drama of boy and father.
Praise from a grayhead now with thinning hair.
Sing Ebenezer, Robert, sing Hallelujah!

---L.

Subject quote from Don't You (Forget About Me), Simple Minds.

For Poetry Monday, something I think is a repeat but can handle a repost:

Ancient Music, Ezra Pound

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
              Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
              Damn you, sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, ’tis why I am, Goddamm,
              So ’gainst the winter’s balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm.
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.


Parody ofc of the Middle English round “Sumer is icumen in.”

---L.

Subject quote from Baker Street, Gerry Rafferty.