I’m trying to get to the whole thing
By imagining it (the whole thing)
Really contains everything
And so less of this everything–
That is, by subtraction alone–
Makes an identified thing what it is.
By taking away from the block
We get the sculpture, by breaking the
Sentence, poetry,
By dimming the lights, Romance.
All these small goodbyes
Make our tragic heroes grow in stature
Until they are big enough to watch the play.
We are actors now, going by the ocean.
We are halved, we are useless and longing.
Someone just said, “Just for a walk by the sea,”
Someone called it something else.
The line, the word–look, it’s frightening to itself,
All the confusions, all the sounding odd,
Reconciled by twelve notes–only twelve!
And there was infinity to choose from!–a few of which
Keep repeating so we place a melody (in the mouth? Month?)
And how was it we thought to keep harmony to ourselves
Until we were ready to greet you with it and make you
Sad? Sir? See, it’s HARVARD.
You did very well there.


  1. Ralph Emerson said,

    November 4, 2010 at 3:27 pm


    The Snow-Storm

    Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
    Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
    Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
    Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
    And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
    The steed and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
    Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
    Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
    In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

      Come see the north wind’s masonry
    Out of an unseen quarry evermore
    Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
    Curves his white bastions with projected roof
    Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
    Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
    So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
    For number or proportion. Mockingly,
    On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
    A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
    Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
    Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and, at the gate,
    A tapering turret overtops the work.
    And when his hours are numbered, and the world
    Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
    Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
    To mimic in slow structure, stone by stone,
    Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
    The frolic architecture of the snow.

    Poem of the week on Guardian is this one. I thought I’d post it here because the Eliots and Emersons both begin eith the letter E, which is very interesting..I mean, you know, sort of like, wow man, like please can we have some more doggerel o’er thine eyes and ears.

    Next week’s poem is to be recited by a real Irish poet, Mister Poetry herself, Elaine Mulcak ka ka… so that’s summat to look fuckin foward to, innit, you wankers..sorry, I mean of course, you talented critical bastards being very very fuckin happy about the lovely, lovely famous American poets who don’t do shit but sound boring & go on & on at length about a load of made-up make-believe wank about blah blah blah, on yer blogs, comment-stream turned off, all the web’s a page and you aint got jack shit to be bragging about but some dildo New England imitational disgraces being… don’t make me hit you any more.. put on the jumpsuit, get in the aircraft, get to fuckin Gitmo, Karl Rove, he knows, he’s not fuckin soft.

    C’mon American hard-men poets, lets have it, lets fuckin have it you soppy synthetic wannabe myspace facebook tossers talking…what is it again..

    Think yer fab coz yer do doggerel, coz yer luv it, don’t ya, hey, hey, being nerdy no-mates in a revolution amounting to …ooh, when Eliot said that the soul of economy is the truth-to-thought that speaks from the centre of the wood of the world called bulshit, pal, hey, as in total fuckin persona, as in, aint moi amigo, ames, aim, brain, stain train yeah yeah yeah.

    Drop dead.

    • thomasbrady said,

      November 4, 2010 at 3:59 pm

      Is that the best you can do? Emerson and Eliot both begin with E?

      Emerson and Eliot are very much related, historically…

    • Noochness said,

      November 4, 2010 at 5:51 pm

      What of European countries?
      Men effete and so frail
      That the women marry Muslims
      And a life in the veil.

  2. Coochiness said,

    November 4, 2010 at 6:42 pm

    Nooch was a tit
    Totallly like, rubbish
    Poet, totally talking
    Like a loada wank


  3. Doochiness said,

    November 4, 2010 at 11:49 pm

    Interesting, Coochiness, yr short piece of doggerel.

    Do you come hereoften?

    I only ask because there’s summat about you; something anonymous yet clearly you, Coochy.

    You don’t mind if I call you Coochy, do you please, Coochiness?

    Tho your writing has had a negligible impact on me (and I suspect everyone else also) Coochiness; still, there is a quality to your doggerel that the readers here (if there are any), the committed few pple who have ever responded on Graves’ blog, to whatever it was that got them wanting to do so – for the majority, an acute loathing of him; like you Coochiness, maybe find appealing, because it’s because & not because it’s not, both everything and nothing & light and dark & more and less & this and that & a long, slow, tedious procession of argument, position and countering lobs from the various anonymous actors who bore here because it’s just because and not because it’s you, Coochiness & not Ralph, or me, Doochiness, say, Coochiness, I’m afraid.

    You are not as big a douchebag than oneself is, Coohiness, and I think you write very passionate doggerel; but c’mon, let’s not forget what’s not important here, you and Nooch ….I mean like, yer need a lesson from your Higher, transcended Self in Awareness and Art, Bob Haas maybe, to come round and sort it all out; the propensity to be a big guy, tough, swearing like ‘fuck’ Coochiness, you ‘cunt’.

    Do you even ‘get’ it; I mean, the poetic principles as espoused by your Higher Self of awareness & Art that has been before in the form of bardic lore, written down for a thousand years in a language not your own yet still, neither is Greek or Latin, is it Coochiness, you ‘bastard’ without any discernable talent for ‘owt’ excpet being yourself, Cooch you doggerelist. Have a listen to this Midnight Lightning Flash.

    M.L.F. (SWEENEY/PAK-IN) by pak-in

    • Noochness said,

      November 5, 2010 at 1:14 pm


      (with deepest apologies to Joyce Kilmer)

      I think that I shall never have
      A thing as lovely as a vaj.

      A vaj that opens to quell strife
      A vaj that opens to give life;

      A vaj that winks at God all day,
      And seems with lovely lips to pray;

      That vaj so lovely doth appear
      In cotton, satin, nylon sheer;

      That vaj doth God and nature please;
      When living beings it doth release.

      Surgeons think that they can cadge,
      But only God can make a vaj.

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