Quotes about steely, page 7
Passaggieta
The great evening passaggieta was upon us.
Crowds of pedestrians thronged the esplanade,
many pushing baby strollers of the indestructible late type.
The sky was filled with pink and gold clouds.
We talked softly, reminiscing. There was alot to reminisce.
'The Past is different, ' I continued. 'It has color. Meaning. Why? '
We were sitting on a park bench after the bake of the day
talking and watching the sunset and watching the river go by;
watching blunt-nosed tugs trail wakes of gold upstream All very Glackens.
'You were young, ' she explained, with a sigh. 'That's why. Everything is better when you're young. The essence of romance, unfortunately,
is wanting what you can't have. And romance is a great colorist.
You know what GBS said-'
'It's wasted on the young. Yes, I know. But if you can't take it for granted, it isn't youth. So, no, it can't be just that. Life was better, then. Absolutely. The city was better, then. It wasn't filled up with....'
'Never mind, ' she said, quickly, reading my mind and fearing the worst.
...baby strollers, ' I finished, a little spitefully, hoping it would make the point.
'You can't blame people for being people, ' she laughed, ruefully.
'But we created it. Everything. And what do we get? Prices! Over-crowding!
Gaucherie! And bourgeois thinking.
'Gaucherie? Why, I'm not even sure what that is, ' she said, bravely.
But I knew she did.
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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Segments Of A Circle
The stained-glass sky flounces and shatters
As the wonder of the night scintillates
Upon the sleeping skin of a promenade
In the circlet roads of a silent ballet
Light perched foots steps trample upon
The maladroit blotches of the porch lights
And beneath the maw of the waxing moon
Was the silhouette of a gaudy woman
She would always be the same woman
In her sapid vagueness, no peculiarities
No sobriquets, no facades, no niceties;
A plummeting ballet herself
She is always in the equipoise of my eyelids
At the beginning and end of rainy days
Quaffing the gray sketches of the atmosphere
Riding the blue winds of tranquilized euphoria
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poem by Norman Santos
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I Have Seen a Fellow
I have known a fellow
With a statuesque threshold
For the flipping jabs
Of kerosene tongues
And I had seen him
In so many nights
Under a farcical lamppost
Reckoning the deluging drought
That had imposed his inebriation
With his sordid fingers latched
Into the waist of desolation,
And he was scarcely available
By the maws of the sun
For he is tethered
To inadequacy
And poverty
Of all squalid kinds.
I have seen this fellow
From a distance and he was fine
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poem by Norman Santos
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Haven-Mother
By ways I know not of they come, wind-swept along the miles,
From the palm-encircled beaches of the jewelled southern isles,
Through stress of gales that shred their sails and split their straining spars,
Through nights of calm unbroken and the wonder of the stars:
And, sliding to their moorings where the harbor beacons shine,
They drop their sullen anchors for a moment, and are mine.
Of their questing grown a-weary, for a moment they abide,
Standing mutely and majestic, where the ripple of the tide
With its lazy lips is lapping in the shadows at their side.
Of the wind and waves beleaguered, and assailed of berg and floe,
To the ends of sea undaunted, these, my errant children, go;
Seeking out the northern waters, it is theirs a way to win
Through the grinding of the ice-pack, threading slowly out and in,
Where the castles of the Frost King in their pride and pallor rise,
Thrusting tower and buttress upward to the steely Arctic skies:
And a deep auroral glory from the white horizon grows,
Mounting swift towards the zenith and reflected on the snows,
Till each pinnacled escarpment turns to amethyst and rose.
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poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1897)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Finis Aeternitatis
Strolling at sunset in my native land,
With fruits and flowers thick on either hand,
I crossed a Shadow flung athwart my way,
Emerging on a waste of rock and sand.
'The apples all are gone from here,' I said,
'The roses perished and their spirits fled.
I will go back.' A voice cried out: 'The man
Is risen who eternally was dead!'
I turned and saw an angel standing there,
Newly descended from the heights of air.
Sweet-eyed compassion filled his face, his hands
A naked sword and golden trumpet bare.
'Nay, 'twas not death, the shadow that I crossed,'
I said. 'Its chill was but a touch of frost.
It made me gasp, but quickly I came through,
With breath recovered ere it scarce was lost.'
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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Widdershins
Edgar woke as the bedside clock
Chimed in with a spate of news,
The Greens were jumping through hoops again
At the culling of Kangaroos,
The Greeks were rioting in the streets
Cut off from their Euro links,
In Egypt, there was a vague report
Of a Spaceship, over the Sphinx!
He yawned, rolled over to kiss his wife
Fell onto the bedroom floor,
He'd always slept on the right of the bed
But not on the left before!
He staggered over and pulled the blinds,
The sun streamed into the room,
He frowned, it never shone round this side
‘Til late in the afternoon!
His wife raced out of the bathroom, slipped
A comb through her auburn hair,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The End Of March
For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury
It was cold and windy, scarcely the day
to take a walk on that long beach
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible,
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken,
seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind
numbed our faces on one side;
disrupted the formation
of a lone flight of Canada geese;
and blew back the low, inaudible rollers
in upright, steely mist.
The sky was darker than the water
--it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed
a track of big dog-prints (so big
they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on
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poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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The Days of the Sun
A spill of crimson engulfs the lusty fringing line
Whilst cobalt and mauve bicker to intertwine
And saturate in a gelid-steely hue to define
The girth and skin of the poignant horizon
As the gloaming dawn close to topple the occasion
How many colors does the dusk possess?
And why these few tarry on my firmament?
The plethora of sunsets I obstinately watched
Cannot descry what destitution beguiles
So I count and gaze, on an on, without a mind
A phalanx can beckon the exodus in His corolla,
Obstruct the panorama and anticipate the doom
As it esplanade through a month of setting suns
Futilely for the sunrise yonder its tawny cape
That never comes around, never fixes me bound
Of His elegiac maladroit songs by crickets and cicadas
Somnolent brewed to regurgitate the pensive calculations
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poem by Norman Santos
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A Knight's Offering
PART I
The lone knight rode upon his horse heading towards the town
A stiff wind cut into his face while rain was streaming down
It soaked his hair as he sat there teeth clenched and bone core cold
On his way to kill a man; A pagan, he was told
It wouldn't be the first one and it wouldn't be his last
The battle scars could prove that earned in wars where faith held fast
Where men were sworn in duty by an oath to live or die
To serve the God Immanuel while holding banners high
And the only single function was to honor and obey
Where word was bond and kinship strong unlike it is today
The Truth was all that mattered, there was little coin to gain
The kings had drained the coffers and the land was run by Danes
But resolute he stayed his course and spurred the stallion on
Repeating to himself again, 'Be swift and then be gone'
PART II
The enemy was in a home he'd raided day before
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poem by Sara Fielder
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The Awful God
Richard Bryce was a mystery,
He lived on a back street lot,
The house was the old half-timbered sort,
Paint peeled on the old wainscot,
The blinds were drawn through the day and night
And the garden a neighbourhood moan,
Full of the bodies of rusting cars
And creepers, all overgrown.
We rarely saw him out in the street
But he'd peep from the side of blinds,
And stories were told in the neighbourhood
That were often more harsh than kind,
There'd been a wife and a daughter once
But they hadn't been seen in years,
Since the echoing raft of arguments,
Doors slammed, and a flood of tears.
Old Grandpa Bryce had lived in the house
Since thirty odd years before,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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