1. |
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The woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers? — By the Rood
Where are now the warring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie
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2. |
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Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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3. |
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Crazed through much child bearing
The moon is staggering in the sky;
Moon struck by the despairing glances
Of her wandering eye
We grope, and grope in vain,
For children born of her pain.
Children dazed or dead!
When she in all her virginal pride
First trod upon the mountain's head,
What stir ran through the countryside
Where every foot obeyed her glance!
What manhood led the dance!
Fly-catchers of the moon,
Our hands are blenched, our fingers seem
But slender needles of bone;
Blenched by that malicious dream,
They are spread wide that each
May rend what comes in reach!
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4. |
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I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
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5. |
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Wine comes in at the mouth,
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth,
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth.
I look at you, and I sigh.
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6. |
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Come swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still,
That I may stay a sober man
Until I drink my fill.
Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore,
And therefore keep me dancing,
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.
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7. |
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The jester walked in the garden:
The garden had fallen still;
He bade his soul to rise upward
And stand on her window-sill.
It rose in a straight blue garment,
When owls began to call:
It had grown wise-tongued by thinking
Of a quiet and light footfall;
But the young queen would not listen;
She rose in her pale night-gown;
She drew in the heavy casement
And pushed the latches down.
He bade his heart go to her,
When the owls called out no more;
In a red and quivering garment
It sang to her through the door.
It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming
Of a flutter of flower-like hair;
But she took up her fan from the table
And waved it off on the air.
'I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,
'I will send them to her and die’;
And when the morning whitened
He left them where she went by.
She laid them upon her bosom,
Under a cloud of her hair,
And her red lips sang them a love-song
Till stars grew out of the air.
She opened her door and her window,
And the heart and the soul came through,
To her right hand came the red one,
To her left hand came the blue.
They set up a noise like crickets,
A chattering wise and sweet,
And her hair was a folded flower
And the quiet of love in her feet.
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8. |
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The Roaring Tinker if you like,
But Mannion is my name.
And I beat up the common sort,
And think it is no shame.
The common breeds the common;
A lout begets a lout.
So when I take on half a score
I knock their heads about.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
All Mannions come from Manannan,
Though rich on every shore
He never lay behind four walls
He had such character,
Nor ever made an iron red,
Nor soldered pot or pan;
His roaring and his ranting
Best please a wandering man.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
Could Crazy Jane ward off old age
And ranting time renew,
Could that old god rise up again,
We'd drink a can or two,
And out and lay our leadership
On country and on town,
Throw lively couples into bed
And knock the others down.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
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9. |
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Beloved, gaze in my thine old heart.
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colors of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night.
The shaking of its leafy head
Hath given the waves their melody
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the loves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the winged sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care;
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves,
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind;
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
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10. |
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Although I shelter from the rain
Under a broken tree,
My chair was nearest to the fire
In every company
That talked of love or politics
Ere Time transfigured me.
Though lads are making pikes again
For some conspiracy,
And crazy rascals rage their fill
At human tyranny,
My contemplations are of Time
That has transfigured me.
There's not a woman turns her face
Upon a broken tree,
And yet the beauties that I loved
Are in my memory.
I spit into the face of time
That has transfigured me.
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11. |
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A lady, dying of diabetes,
Listened to the radio,
Catching the lesser dithyrambs,
So heaven collects its bleating lambs.
Her useless bracelets fondly fluttered,
Paddling the melodic swirls,
The idea of god no longer sputtered
At the roots of her indifferent curls.
The idea of the Alps grew large,
Not yet, however, a thing to die in.
It seemed serener just to die,
To float off in the floweriest barge.
Accompanied by the exegesis
Of familiar things in a cheerful voice,
Like the night before Christmas and all the carols,
Dying lady, rejoice, rejoice!
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12. |
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The poet striding among the cigar stores,
Ryan's Lunch, hatters, insurance, and medicines,
Denies that abstraction is a vice except
To the fatuous. These are his infernal walls,
A space of stone, of inexplicable base
And peaks outsoaring possible adjectives.
One man, the idea of man, that is the space,
The true abstract in which he promenades.
The era of the idea of man, the cloak
And speech of Virgil dropped, that's where he walks,
That's where his hymns come crowding, hero hymns,
Chorales for mountain voices and the moral chant,
Happy rather than holy, but happy-high,
Day hymns instead of constellated rhymes,
Hymns of the struggle of the idea of god
And the idea of man, the mystic garden and
The middling beast, the garden of paradise
And he that created the garden and peopled it.
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13. |
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He sought an earthly leader who could stand
Without panache, without cockade,
Son only of man and son of men,
The outer captain, the inner saint.
The pine, the pillar, and the priest,
The voice, the book, the hidden well,
The faster's feast and heavy fruited star,
The father, the beater of the rigid drums.
He that at midnight clutches the guitar,
The solitude, the barrier, the Pole
In Paris, celui qui chante et pleure,
Winter devising summer in its breast,
Summer assaulted, thundering, illumed,
Shelter, yet thrower of the summer spear,
With all its attributes, no god but man
Of men whose heaven is in themselves,
Or else whose hell, foamed with their blood,
And the long echo of their dying cry,
A fate intoned, a death before they die,
A race that sings and weeps and knows not why.
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14. |
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Behold the moralist hidalgo
Whose whore is Morning Star
Dressed in metal, silk, and stone,
Syringa, cicada, his flea.
In how severe a book he read,
Until his nose grew thin and taut
And knowledge dropped upon his heart
Its pitting poison half the night.
He liked the nobler works of man,
The gold facades 'round early squares,
The bronzes, liquid through gay light.
He laughed to himself at such a plan.
He sat among beggars wet with dew,
Heard the dogs howl at barren morn,
Sat alone, his great toe like a horn,
The central flaw in the solar morn.
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15. |
I'm Yours
05:12
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I'm yours when I'm yours.
You're mine when you're mine.
I'm yours when you're mine.
You're mine when I'm yours.
I'm not here all the time.
You're not there all the time.
I'm not there when you're yours.
You're not here when I'm mine.
Who's there, then, when you're yours?
Are you yours when you're yours?
Are you hers, then, not mine?
I'll be his, then. That's fine.
Are you here when you're there?
Are you there when you're here?
Were you there over there
When you heard I was here?
I'm his when you're hers.
I'm yours when you're mine.
O what's mine? Whose am I?
Might you one day be mine?
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Denman Maroney Durfort, France
Denman Maroney is known for his "hyperpiano" techniques (playing the keys with one hand and the strings with other using slides and bows of metal, plastic, rubber, and wood) and his “temporal harmonies” (composing and improvising in multiple tempos). He has recorded for Outnow, Porter, Innova, Clean Feed, Nuscope, Kadima, Cryptogramophone, New World, Mutable, Victo, and Erstwhile among others. ... more
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