Austin Kleon
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Sorting It Out
At the table she used to sew at,
he uses his brass desk scissors
to cut up his shirt.
Not that the shirt
was that far gone: one ragged cuff,
one elbow through;
but here he is,
cutting away the collar
she long since turned.
What gets to him finally,
using his scissors like a bright claw,
is prying buttons off:
after they've leapt,
spinning the floor, he bends
to retrieve both sizes:
he intends to
save them in some small box; he knows
he has reason to save; if only he knew
where a small box
used to be kept.
- Philip Booth
he uses his brass desk scissors
to cut up his shirt.
Not that the shirt
was that far gone: one ragged cuff,
one elbow through;
but here he is,
cutting away the collar
she long since turned.
What gets to him finally,
using his scissors like a bright claw,
is prying buttons off:
after they've leapt,
spinning the floor, he bends
to retrieve both sizes:
he intends to
save them in some small box; he knows
he has reason to save; if only he knew
where a small box
used to be kept.
- Philip Booth
Blindness
One of the questions at our local Tuesday night pub quiz was about On His Blindness by John Milton. It's been a while since I read it, but it's lost none of its punch.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.
And this before he wrote Paradise Lost. Incredible.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.
And this before he wrote Paradise Lost. Incredible.
(she)
here's one of my all-time favourite poems, by one of my all-time favourite poets: e.e.cummings. it's very naughty (it's pretty much an ode to adultery), but it's very smartly done. i love the way the brackets grope around the paragraphs like the lovers' hot, sweaty hands. (and, of course, the lower case.)
may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she
(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she
(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)
may i stay said he
which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she
may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she
but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she
(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she
(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)
may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she
(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she
(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)
may i stay said he
which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she
may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she
but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she
(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she
(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)
Tailor Elf
Kay Ryan is the Poet Laureate of the United States, and she has some incredible work to her name. Here's one of my favourite of her poems, called Bad Day:
Not every day
is a good day
for the elfin tailor.
Some days
the stolen cloth
reveals what it
was made for:
a handsome weskit
or the jerkin
of an elfin sailor.
Other days
the tailor
sees a jacket
in his mind
and sets about
to find the fabric.
But some days
neither the idea
nor the material
presents itself;
and these are
the hard days
for the tailor elf.
We've all been there, tailor elf.
Not every day
is a good day
for the elfin tailor.
Some days
the stolen cloth
reveals what it
was made for:
a handsome weskit
or the jerkin
of an elfin sailor.
Other days
the tailor
sees a jacket
in his mind
and sets about
to find the fabric.
But some days
neither the idea
nor the material
presents itself;
and these are
the hard days
for the tailor elf.
We've all been there, tailor elf.
Five zombies. Four bullets. Two zombies.
Ernest Hemingway once wrote an entire story in just six words: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." He called it his best work (and it's hard to disagree). To celebrate artistic brevity, Wired magazine ran a collection of six-word stories in late 2006, featuring minor classics like
Kirby had never eaten toes before.
– Kevin Smith
Nevertheless, he tried a third time.
– James P. Blaylock
There were only six words left.
– Gregory Maguire
... and my favourite
Machine. Unexpectedly, I’d invented a time
– Alan Moore
There's an ever-expanding collection up at SixWordStories.net.
Go there. Waste time. Enjoy yourself.
Kirby had never eaten toes before.
– Kevin Smith
Nevertheless, he tried a third time.
– James P. Blaylock
There were only six words left.
– Gregory Maguire
... and my favourite
Machine. Unexpectedly, I’d invented a time
– Alan Moore
There's an ever-expanding collection up at SixWordStories.net.
Go there. Waste time. Enjoy yourself.
If–
It's one of Those days... and in a strangely sappy attempt to get my mojo back, I tried reading Rudyard Kipling's stiff-upper-lip poem If–.
It worked.
And it reminded me of these two videos, which I last watched a long time ago (last time I had one of Those days). First there's Dennis Hopper reciting the poem to camera for a German documentary
and then there's Des Lynam reading it while competing against some naff orchestral music and some brilliant typography.
It worked.
And it reminded me of these two videos, which I last watched a long time ago (last time I had one of Those days). First there's Dennis Hopper reciting the poem to camera for a German documentary
and then there's Des Lynam reading it while competing against some naff orchestral music and some brilliant typography.
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