Louis XI (3 July 1423 – 30 August 1483), called the Universal Spider (because of his love of scheming), was a monarch of the House of Valois who ruled as King of France from 1461 to 1483. He succeeded his father Charles VII. A devious and disobedient Dauphin of France, Louis entered into open rebellion against his father in a short-lived revolt known as the Praguerie (1440). The king forgave his rebellious vassals, including his son Louis, to whom he entrusted the management of the Dauphiné.:

There has got to be a love

Which doesn’t need poetry and kisses,

Which doesn’t need that which a lover intent on love

In sadness and misery desperately misses.

There has got to be a love

Which doesn’t need new lovers,

Charity, stoicism, gold,

Or the misfortune of others.

There has got to be a love

Without memories—bright, or in shade.

Crushing desire! Of her! Bodily shape

Of moving shadows—which a small religious candle made!

Isn’t there a love

Not helpless, superstitious, or afraid?











Related image

The landscape where she moves is immense.

The tunnel going to another tunnel.

The wall. The towering fence.

Every moment, an exit or an entrance,

Immense vistas which don’t quite make sense

Even to the birds, who fly smoothly through their high distances.

This is the world. This is what it says.

The immensity

Constantly defeats my poetry,

Which is interesting, but small,

And which, if I’m honest,

She really doesn’t care about at all.

She frequents immense places

And smiles on important faces.

She enjoys her queen-like ways.

And all I am to her is a phase

Inside these swooning, immense days.

She smiles, and she’s quite sincere.

Love is something else. That’s not the reason she’s here.

I fell in love. And now I discover my worst fear.

But look, she’s getting old—slowly, slowly.

Soon, she will no longer be a queen, but something more holy.

Soon, her beauty, which arches over me, will be gone.

She will no longer be able to tease me;

Thinking, at last, will make me happy,

And I will love the view that goes on and on.


Sebastiano Ricci - Wikipedia

The truth flashed upon me
When I first wrote poetry.
In that first hour I knew
I was only the avenue.
I am privileged to have inspiration flow
Through me. I am not what I know.
The flood of this inspiration
Is only for me, not for my nation;
My nation stands apart, allowing me
To be humbled by my own poetry.
As a poet, I’m abashed and ashamed—
The one good is that my poetry is blamed.
If I can show you how my poetry is bad
Because I am limited, and endlessly sad,
My poetry has a chance to be
Something slightly better than me.
And so your understanding and pity
Is the point, is the poetry.
The trouble with expediency
Is that the expedient life,
Compared to the innocent life,
Became the criminal life,
And only the innocent life, saved,
Is what this was. And what you craved.


Why babies in medieval paintings look like ugly old men - Vox

Nemo me impune lacessit

Why do we venerate the vulnerable?

Isn’t protection of the vulnerable enough?


Protection (action) requires veneration (moral uplift) as an urge and a guide—otherwise protection, we fear, won’t happen.

This very simple formula, in which action is necessarily accompanied by heightened moral rhetoric, accounts for most of the left/right friction in this country.

What happens is this: heightened moral rhetoric in turn becomes a call for more action, which invites further moral rhetoric, rife with hurt and insult, and soon a common sense cause breeds insult and push back, and the cause becomes a war.

Rhetoric alone, then, easily creates division, hurt and misunderstanding—which is ironic, since rhetoric of a moral kind should be precisely that which explains why something is necessary, and which heals and unites.

When the vulnerable requires a rhetoric which venerates, the problem which arises is that common sense cannot stomach the veneration of vulnerability itself.

That which springs into action to help deserves veneration—but when veneration is showered upon the vulnerable itself, an error in rhetoric occurs—and since action and rhetoric are often found together, this error—which involves mere words, but which impacts principled action—is quite significant.

The unborn is a vulnerable group—and to add heightened moral rhetoric, calling this vulnerable group “life,” is bound to offend those who find the vulnerability of the unborn precisely that which precludes that group from protection.

The pro-abortion position cannot abide the veneration of the unborn—and yet no anti-abortion position were possible without rhetoric which venerates this vulnerable group—even if the tag, “life” is not precisely venerating the vulnerable—to those who are anti-abortion, this is exactly what the anti-abortion rhetoric is doing.

This is always where the sting of disagreement (and insult) is found—in rhetoric which venerates the vulnerable—which common sense finds offensive—for vulnerability itself is, logically, a wrong, and not, in itself, something to be sought, or venerated.

But any vulnerable group which needs protection—to ensure that protection, will be venerated.

And one can see how the philosopher, especially of the Nietzsche or Darwin variety, will severely object to venerating the vulnerable; reality should not be twisted by moral rhetoric—that’s not philosophy’s job.

The vulnerable should not, just because they are vulnerable, be venerated, says many a philosopher.

But doesn’t the assertion of any right contain within it the implicit notion of the vulnerable?

One cannot help but think, in this instance, of the right of the mother to control her own body, which eclipses the right of the unborn—the vulnerability of the mother who is forced to bring a child she does not want, to term, is at the center of the mother’s right to an abortion.

Every right contains within it vulnerability, for otherwise there would be no reason to assert a right, whether the grievance is the vulnerability of the poor who seek happiness, or the vulnerability of the property owner whose property may be taken away.

Veneration of vulnerability, then, is at the heart of human rights.

But should vulnerability be the test?  If a tyrant managed to take over the whole world, wouldn’t we say the tyrant would be highly vulnerable to the world taking it back?

Evil can be highly vulnerable.

Is it the vulnerability of the unborn which is at the heart of any contemplation of the rights of the unborn?

Or is it something else?

Does the whole notion of the veneration of the vulnerable completely cloud our judgment and lead us into radical error?

“Don’t tread on me,” the birth cry of America, sums up vulnerability and its veneration—and perhaps this is why Americans are so quick to build rights upon vulnerability.

It’s not that Americans worship a mighty God—the soul of America is not about God, but about the right for anyone to worship what they want to worship.

But isn’t God the first thing, and the worship follows from that?

And how do we understand “don’t tread on me” if we don’t know who “me” is?  Who are you, and who is stepping on you, and why?

The vulnerable are generally venerated socially these days, since we generally assume that the vulnerable are “sensitive,” and only “mean people” want to hurt, and take advantage of those of us who are vulnerable.

So good people are those who easily take offense, who are easily wounded.

But do we want friends around whom we have to watch what we say, because they are so sensitive?

We commonly say that we respect a person who allows us to speak our minds.

But this is more true: We will have more respect and love for a person—if we can allow them to speak their mind and express their feelings, and they can do so, without us being insulted by them.

The vulnerable cannot be us.

But the vulnerable must be us.

Or so we think.

Someone who has tremendous empathy for others—and yet is thick-skinned.  Is this possible?

Certainly this involves a paradox. If you are too sensitive, you are constantly under attack; you are so vulnerable you can’t be sympathetic towards others, or help others.  So the paradox here is that the truly sympathetic person must be insensitive.  Those who care are the ones who don’t care.

Surely this paradox will confuse many—people will think, “This person must be a psychopath! They never lose their cool about their own issues; so they must be faking their sympathy for me!”

Love. Hate. Love.

Hate. Love. Hate.

A rainstorm of passion inside a statue.

Indifference, filled with tears.




Jan Sanders van Hemessen (Hemessen c. 1504-1556 Antwerp) | Double ...

I gave the dice a shake to see where they would land.
The mathematician told me I didn’t understand—
Where they fall doesn’t matter; the dots on the sides
And their random addition—that’s where your fate resides.
I said, “Excuse me, I’m a poet, and the random is not
What poets need in the construction of their plot.
The dice might fall any which way,
But better they will fall just as I say.”
But the mathematician said the heart won’t ache—
Or hope—if we don’t give the dice a random shake.
I said, “Only the poet speaks of the heart—
Feelings are not the mathematician’s art.
I admit my heart has been broken before—
But not because of a number on the floor.
She could not love me because I could not love her—
Throw the dice again. This will always occur.
I thought I loved her, but then I hated
When I saw what she was. This is fated.”
The mathematician smiled. He threw
The dice. My anxiety grew
As I watched them dance and spin.
Will my poem fail?  Will she—
And the mathematician—win?




Image result for beautiful woman with her hair in a bun in painting

She makes a tower of her hair,

Pinning it quickly and deftly with a simple pin.

Beauty is where the air is thin.

You should have seen how this caught my eye;

That’s when I fell in love with her. When she made her hair fly

So that her handsome neck was seen—

Her neck could be in a magazine.

A lovely magazine photo, however,

Cannot show the charm of a woman’s movement—never!

Many are willing for hours to sit

In a dark cinema. Not me. The movie isn’t worth it if she’s not in it.

She wraps and pins her hair,

And slowly, slowly I walk up that brown stair.

For hours I look down on the world below.

The world runs and falls, but I won’t go.

From her hair, I gaze deeply at the world below,

Where things move and things age,

And everything they record and stage

Ends up old, or sad, or in a tiny rage.

But not her! Not her hair!

You can see me living there.
















Dutch Landscapes and Seascapes of the 1600s

With the rainy fog recently gone,
Three and a half hours before dawn,
Let me see what you look like—please, here,
Where the light is just right,
Next to this wise tree,
Wise from its immensity,
With the moon presaging a new time of year,
Dropping its beams through trees tonight.

Famous birthdays crowded the calendar today,
But history now seems far away.
Hulking ruins are ruined by shadows, tiny and thin,
Where both the moon and your face have been.
Look at us, as we sit ourselves down, here,
As the world moves on. Kiss me, dear.


SCARRIET POETRY BASEBALL STATS Woody Allen wearing a baseball uniform Photo Print (24 ...

The first place LA Gamers were in last place when they signed Woody Allen (7-2).


Rimini Broadcasters  Owner, Fellini, Manager Claudius, Motto, “Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name.”  50-62, Fifth

Maurice Ravel 4-1
Samuel Coleridge 8-6
George Orwell 10-7
Jacques Lacan 6-5
Vladimir Nabokov 9-15
Giacomo Leopardi 6-10
Paul Valery 3-7
Alfred Hitchcock 1-5

Corsica Codes Owner, Napoleon Bonaparte, Manager, Alexander the Great, Motto “Let the more loving one be me” 57-55 Second

William Logan 3-1
Homer 13-6
Hegel 13-7
Kant 8-9
Balzac 8-11
Cicero 7-11
Hesiod 3-7
Edmund Wilson 2-3
Wislawa Szymborska 0-0

Madrid Crusaders  Owner, Philip II of Spain, Manager Christopher Columbus, Motto “If in my thought I have magnified the Father above the Son, let Him have no mercy on me.” 57-55 Second

Beethoven 9-2
Handel 14-4
Mozart 5-4
Thomas Aquinas 9-13
GK Chesterton 4-5
St. John of the Cross 4-5
George Berkeley 5-7
Plotinus 3-7
Scarlatti 2-2
Joan of Arc 1-0
Tolkien 1-2
Lisieux 0-3

Paris Goths Owner, Charles X, Manager, Arthur Schopenhauer, Motto “Every great enterprise takes its first step in faith.” 60-52 First

Francois Chateaubriand 16-7
Oscar Wilde 13-6
Johann Goethe 12-8
Goya 7-8
Thomas de Quincey 2-0
AW Schlegel 3-4
Gautier 2-4
Dostoevsky 1-1
Camille Paglia 0-2
Baudelaire 3-13

Rome Ceilings  Owner, Pope Julius II, Manager Cardinal Richelieu, Motto “They also serve who only stand and wait.” 60-52 First

GE Lessing 6-3
John Milton 12-7
Ludovico Ariosto 12-8
JS Bach 10-7
Augustine 10-9
John Dryden 8-10
Octavio Paz 1-1
George Gascoigne 1-4
Vivaldi 0-1

Berlin Pistols  Owner, Eva Braun, Manager Randolph Churchill, Motto “A life subdued to its instrument.” 49-63 Fifth

TS Eliot 12-10
William James 11-9
Richard Wagner 7-5
Rufus Griswold 4-3
George Santayana 4-9
Ezra Pound 3-4
Ernest Hemingway 3-8
Horace Greeley 3-6
Hugh Kenner 1-2
Wyndham Lewis 1-6

London Carriages  Owner, Queen Victoria, Manager, Prince Albert, Motto “Ours but to do and die.” 57-55 Third

Andrew Marvell 13-7
Henry James 11-10
Virginia Woolf 11-11
William Hazlitt 9-13
Charles Lamb 3-1
Descartes 3-2
Charlotte Bronte 3-2
Jeremy Bentham 3-9

Florence Banners Owner, Lorenzo de Medici, Manager, Erasmus, Motto “The One remains, the many change and pass.” 60-52 Second

Percy Shelley 15-7
Virgil 13-8
Leonardo da Vinci 10-8
Dante 11-10
Marsilio Ficino 2-1
Boccaccio 5-6
Sandro Botticelli 2-4
William Rossetti 1-3
Bronzino 0-2

The Devon Sun  Owner, PM Lord Russell, Manager, Winston Churchill, Motto “A good indignation brings out all one’s powers.” 51-61 Fourth

John Ruskin 7-3
Bertrand Russell 7-3
Aldous Huxley 11-9
Ralph Emerson 10-12
JS Mill 6-9
Thomas Carlyle 8-15
Henry Thoreau 2-6
Christopher Ricks 0-3

Dublin Laureates Owner, Nahum Tate, Manager, President Ronald Reagan, Motto “Luck is bestowed even on those who don’t have hands.” 64-48 First

Jonathan Swift 16-3
Livy 10-5
Pascal 6-2
Robert Louis Stevenson 9-3
Samuel Johnson 8-8
JD Salinger 2-1
Dana Gioia 2-1
Hans Christian Anderson 1-0
Robert Boyle 4-5
Thomas Peacock 2-7
Edmund Burke 3-9
Arthur Conan Doyle 0-0

Westport Actors  Owner, Harvey Weinstein, Manager, Johnny Depp, Motto “I am no hackney for your rod.” 48-64 Fourth

Chaucer 11-7
Petronius 10-10
Sade 8-8
George Byron 7-7
Norman Mailer 4-7
Richard Rorty 2-3
Henry Beecher 3-7
Andre Gide 1-4
Flaubert 0-6
Hugh Hefner 0-0
Erich Fromm 0-0

Virginia Strangers  Owner, David Lynch, Manager, Bram Stoker, Motto “So still is day, it seems like night profound.” 43-69 Fifth

Alexander Pope 11-9
HP Lovecraft 5-3
Franz Kafka 5-5
Robert Bloch 2-2
Friedrich Nietzsche 7-12
Salvador Dali 3-7
Samuel Beckett 3-9
Shirley Jackson 2-5
Albert Camus 2-11
Philip K Dick 1-3
Luis Bunuel 0-2
Antonin Artaud 0-3
Jean-Luc Godard 0-0

Connecticut Animals  Owner, PT Barnum, Manager, Walt Disney, Motto “Majesty and love are incompatible.” 60-52 Second

Amy Lowell 16-4
Jules Verne 14-9
Ovid 13-8
A.A. Milne 5-4
Melville 7-15
Robert Bly 2-5
Jose y Ortega Gasset 2-0
Gerard de Nerval 1-6
Christopher Hitchens 0-0

The New York War Owner, JP Morgan, Manager, Machiavelli, Motto “The fire-eyed maid of smoky war all hot and bleeding will we offer them.” 60-52 Second

Jack London 5-1
Erich Remarque 15-8
Walter Scott 12-6
William Shakespeare 11-7
Julius Caesar 4-4
Giordano Bruno 2-2
David Hume 9-13
Edward Gibbon 1-4
Richard Aldington 1-6

Boston Secrets Owner, Ben Franklin, Manager, George Washington Motto “We come in the age’s most uncertain hour and sing an American tune.” 71-41 First

Plato 18-6 -leads league
Pushkin 13-4
Edgar Poe 11-8
Moliere 10-9
Thomas Jefferson 5-1
James Monroe 4-2
James Madison 2-1
F Scott Fitzgerald 2-2
Alexander Hamilton 1-1
F Scott Key 4-7

Kolkata Cobras Owner, Satyajit Ray, Manager Rupi Kaur, Motto “Is it true that your love traveled alone through ages and worlds in search of me?” 58-54 Second

Gandhi 14-10
Rumi 13-8
Rabindranith Tagore 13-12
Hermann Hesse 8-10
Kabir Das 4-5
Nissim Ezekiel 2-0
Raja Rao 1-0
Faiz A Faiz 1-1
Krishnamurti 1-1
Kannada 1-2
Ramavtar Sarma 1-2
Acharya Shivapujan Sahay 0-1
Hoshang Merchant 0-1
Suryakant Tripathi 0-0
Sri Ramakrishna 0-0

The Tokyo Mist Owner, Kurosawa, Manager Eiji Yoshikawa, Motto “In Kyoto, hearing the cuckoo, I long for Kyoto.” 45-67 Fifth

Yukio Mishima 12-10
Yone Noguchi 9-9
Issa 10-14
Basho 7-11
Haruki Murakami 3-3
Kobe Abe 2-7
Takaaki Yoshimoto 1-1
Heraclitus 1-2
Murasaki Shikibu 1-3
DT Suzuki 0-5
Mitsuyo Kakuta 0-2

Beijing Waves Owner, Chairman Mao, Manager Jack Dorsey, Motto “Death gives separation repose.” 58-54 Second

Lao Tzu 15-7
Voltaire 14-9
Confucius 8-4
Lucretius 12-11
Rousseau 8-13
Lu Xun 1-0
Lenin 1-0
Khomeini 1-4
Friedrich Engles 0-1
Ho Chi Minh 0-3

Santa Barbara Laws Owner, Dick Wolf, Manager Moshe Rabbenu, Motto “In poetry everything is clear and definite.” 57-55 Third

Francis Bacon 13-11
Aristotle 11-10
Horace 10-12
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. 8-9
Ferdinand Saussure 5-3
Mark Van Doren 4-2
Quintilian 3-3
Ring Lardner Jr. 1-0
Yvor Winters 1-1
ML Rosenthal 1-2
Frank Stella 0-1
Frederick Law Olmstead 0-1

Los Angeles Gamers, Owner Merv Griffin, Manager, Bob Hope, Motto “He thought he saw an elephant that practiced on a fife” 60-52 First

Menander 11-4
Woody Allen 7-2
Democritus 10-6
Lewis Carroll 11-10
Charlie Chaplin 5-3
James Tate 5-5
Christian Morgenstern 3-3
Clive James 2-1
EE Cummings 1-0
Muhammad Ali 1-0
Garrison Keillor 1-2
Derrida 1-7
Antoine de Saint Exupery 0-1
Charles Bernstein 0-4

Arden Dreamers Owner, Pamela Digby Churchill Harriman, Manager, Averell Harriman Motto  “Not the earth, the sea, none of it was enough for her, without me.” 50-62 Fifth

Mary Wollstonecraft 8-4
Margaret Atwood 11-10
Anais Nin 10-13
Jane Austen 4-2
Floyd Dell 4-4
bell hooks 2-1
Helene Cixous 2-1
Michael Ondaaatje 1-0
Jean-Paul Sartre 2-3
Louise Gluck 1-3
Simone de Beauvoir 2-6
Germaine Greer 2-8
William Godwin 1-4
Frida Kahlo 0-0
Diego Rivera 0-0

Manhattan Printers Owner, Andy Warhol, Manager, Brian Epstein, Motto “The eye, seeking to sink, is rebuffed by a much-worked dullness, the patina of a rag, that oily Vulcan uses, wiping up.” 52-60 Fourth

Hans Holbein (the Younger) 10-2
John Cage 6-2
Marcel Duchamp 7-7
Marjorie Perloff 8-13
Hilton Kramer 4-3
Toulouse Lautrec 3-2
Paul Klee 6-7
Guy Davenport 1-1
F.O. Matthiessen 3-4
RP Blackmur 2-4
Stephanie Burt 1-6
Mark Rothko 1-8

Chicago Buyers Owner, John D. Rockefeller, Manager, Charles Darwin, Motto “Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion?” 61-51 First

Paul Engle 13-11
Mark Twain 12-7
Sigmund Freud 12-10
Walt Whitman 9-11
Helen Vendler 5-4
Judith Butler 3-2
J.L. Austin 2-3
WK Wimsatt 1-2
Monroe Beardsley 1-2
Thomas Hart Benton 0-0

The Philadelphia Crash, Owner, AC Barnes, Manager Cezanne, Motto “But for some futile things unsaid I should say all is done for us.” 55-57 Third

John Crowe Ransom 12-7
Pablo Picasso 7-3
John Dewey 12-10
Ludwig Wittgenstein 10-11
Walter Pater 8-11
Jackson Pollock 4-6
Walter Benjamin 1-0
Clement Greenberg 1-2
IA Richards 0-3
Kenneth Burke 0-1
Roger Fry 0-1

The Phoenix Universe, Owner Steven Spielberg, Manager, Billy Beane, Motto “I know why the caged bird sings.” 59-53 Second

Jean Cocteau 8-1
Raymond Carver 8-3
Czeslaw Milosz 7-2
Harriet Beecher Stowe 9-10
Martin Luther King Jr 5-4
Michel Foucault 4-3
Harold Bloom 5-6
Lucien Freud 4-5
Marge Piercy 3-5
Lionel Trilling 2-3
Eric Said 2-3
Randall Jarrell 3-6
Timothy Leary 0-0



Robert Burns Broadcasters 20
Anne Sexton Broadcasters 16
Rainer Maria Rilke Broadcasters 16
Jim Morrison Broadcasters 10
Mick Jagger Broadcasters 6
Gregory Corso Broadcasters 6

Victor Hugo Codes 29
WH Auden Codes 25
Jean Racine Codes 21
Wole Soyinka Codes 12
Derek Walcott Codes 8
Jules Laforgue Codes 6

Anne Bradstreet Crusaders 23
Aeschylus Crusaders 23
Mary Angela Douglas Crusaders 15
Joyce Kilmer Crusaders 10
Phillis Wheatley Crusaders 9
Saint Ephrem Crusaders 8

Sophocles Goths 25
Heinrich Heine Goths 21
Torquato Tasso Goths 14
Madame de Stael 8
Friedrich Holderlin Goths 7
Thomas Chatterton Goths 6
Dan Sociu Goths 3

Euripides Ceilings 20
Edmund Spenser Ceilings 14
William Blake Ceilings 8
Michelangelo Ceilings 8
John Milton Ceilings 7
Tulsidas Ceilings 5


Yeats Pistols 29
James Joyce Pistols 22
Ted Hughes Pistols 18
John Quinn Pistols 12
DH Lawrence Pistols 9
Alistair Crowley Pistols 8
Ford Maddox Ford Pistols 5
T.S. Eliot Pistols 5

Henry Longfellow Carriages 22
Alfred Tennyson Carriages 18
Robert Browning Carriages 15
GB Shaw Carriages 11
Paul McCartney Carriages 11
Sylvia Plath Carriages 6
Elizabeth Barrett Carriages 5

Friedrich Schiller Banners 29
DG Rossetti Banners 19
John Keats Banners 14
Ben Mazer Banners 10
Stefan George Banners 9
Christina Rossetti Banners 8
Dante Banners 5
Glyn Maxwell Banners 4

William Wordsworth Sun 26
Matthew Arnold Sun 16
Rudyard Kipling Sun 16
Horace Walpole Sun 13
HG Wells Sun 11
Ralph Emerson Sun 8
Margaret Fuller Sun 5

Alexandre Dumas Laureates 24
Charles Dickens Laureates 24
Aphra Behn Laureates 18
JK Rowling Laureates 13
Sarah Teasdale Laureates 12
Ghalib Laureates 12
Boris Pasternak Laureates 8
Oliver Goldsmith Laureates 6
John Townsend Trowbridge Laureates 6


Thomas Nashe Actors 22
Hafiz Actors 19
Amiri Baraka Actors 10
Gwendolyn Brooks Actors 7
Leonard Cohen Actors 6
Johnny Rotten Actors 4
Marilyn Hacker Actors 3
Audre Lorde Actors 3

Francois Rabelais Strangers 22
Arthur Rimbaud Strangers 22
Theodore Roethke Strangers 18
Knut Hamsun Strangers 7
Mary Shelley Strangers 3

Edward Lear Animals 16
Wallace Stevens Animals 14
Seamus Heaney Animals 10
Lawrence Ferlinghetti Animals 8
Marianne Moore Animals 8
Jack Spicer Animals 7

Stephen Crane War 16
Harry Crosby War 15
Phillip Sidney War 11
Wilfred Owen War 11
Apollinaire War 10
James Dickey War 9
William Shakespeare War 5
Robert Graves War 5
Howard Nemerov  War 5

Robert Frost Secrets 24
Emily Dickinson Secrets 20
Woody Guthrie Secrets 13
Kanye West Secrets 10
Nathaniel Hawthorne Secrets 8
Cole Porter Secrets 6
Stephen Cole Secrets 5
Paul Simon Secrets 4
Edgar Poe Secrets 4


Vikram Seth Cobras 22
Jadoo Akhtar Cobras 21
George Harrison Cobras 20
Gajanan Muktibodh Cobras 10
Anand Thakore Cobras 9
Allen Ginsberg Cobras 8
Kalidasa Cobras 4
Jeet Thayil Cobras 4
Adil Jussawala Cobras 4
Daipayan Nair Cobras 3

John Lennon Mist 19
Hilda Doolittle  Mist 18
Sadakichi Hartmann Mist 16
Yoko Ono Mist 8
Haruki Murakami Mist 6
Gary Snyder Mist 5
Natsume Soseki  Mist 5

Li Po Waves 26
Tu Fu Waves 18
Karl Marx Waves 18
Li He Waves 6
Bertolt Brecht Waves 4

John Donne Laws 22
Thomas Hardy Laws 17
Martial Laws 13
Donald Hall Laws 7
Jane Kenyon Laws 6
Reed Whitmore Laws 6
Antonio Machado Laws 6
Walter Raleigh Laws 5

Eugene Ionesco Gamers 26
Billy Collins Gamers 25
Thomas Hood Gamers 17
Joe Green Gamers 8
Ernest Thayer Gamers 4
John Betjeman Gamers 4


Sharon Olds Dreamers 24
Edna Millay Dreamers 22
Louis MacNeice Dreamers 20
Jack Gilbert Dreamers 10
Stevie Smith Dreamers 9
Richard Lovelace Dreamers 8
Louise Bogan Dreamers 5
Carolyn Forche Dreamers 4

Aristophanes Printers 24
John Updike Printers 24
Garcia Lorca Printers 11
John Ashbery Printers 10
Andre Breton Printers 9
Lou Reed Printers 7
Hart Crane Printers 6
Christopher Isherwood Printers 5
Marcel Duchamp Printers 5
James Baldwin Printers 5

Elizabeth Bishop Buyers 30 —leads  league
Dylan Thomas Buyers 25
Robert Lowell Buyers 17
Edgar Lee Masters Buyers 8
Kenneth Rexroth Buyers 8
Walt Whitman Buyers 6
Robert Penn Warren Buyers 5
Duke Ellington Buyers 5

Allen Tate Crash 20
Stephen Spender Crash 19
Franz Werfel Crash 11
Donald Davidson Crash 8
Archilochus Crash 8
John Gould Fletcher Crash 6
John Crowe Ransom Crash 6
WC Williams Crash 3
Stanley Kunitz Crash 3

Bob Dylan Universe 24
Juvenal Universe 22
Paul Celan Universe 14
Anthony Hecht Universe 10
Delmore Schwartz Universe 9
Chuck Berry Universe 7
Maya Angelou Universe 7



I have seen too much of your angry, mesmerizing face

That has been beautiful, and how it knows its disgrace

Today, in a sadder and slower pace. How can I love you in innocence

When this is not innocent? Not innocent in any way?

Too much has come before: the many-smudged window,

Colleagues, friendships, train tickets. Pretending this is new

Is more than my love of innocence can possibly do.

The hours are confused, not knowing which ones they should be now

As we try and talk—what should we talk about, anyhow?

Many longing hours belong to the unknown past.

Our present sighs, and conversation

Cannot know why this moment cannot even for a moment last.

Innocence—inescapable—flees from desire for innocence too fast.

I should have told you a secret, like you see people in soap operas do,

With unsettling music in the background. Was there a flower

I could have offered? A ring? A necklace? A poem, fresh and new?




51 Best The Beloved Disciple: St. John the Evangelist images ...

You understand this
Problem when you understand it less:
Don’t believe the words a poet says,
But if this poet is honest,
Love is really about sex—
The reason I was
In love with her, looking back, was
In those years, she was
My sole sex object.
The composer thought he had failed;
His first stab at orchestration
Presented but one theme—
One melody for half an hour?
Yes. This was why his first symphony
Had the sweet urgency of a dream.
In failure, he found his musical success—
You understand the problem
When you understand it less.
Isn’t the pleasure of love
When the heart of wisdom beats
Not for many, but for one?
When I pressed against her heart,
My beloved, my beloved alone,
I burned with happiness.
You understand a problem
When you understand it less.


There is a certain slant of light | liz west | Flickr

The sun becomes a single being
As autumn advances.
In summer the sunlight just sits there.
In autumn, it dances.
In summer, the sun is way
Above our heads
And clouds steal its glory
At the end of the day.
The autumn sun on my shoulder
Is sadder and older.
The angle of autumn sunlight dapples the sea
In the most beautiful way—
This didn’t mean that much to me,
Until I saw the sun as a single being,
Hovering above the murmuring sea.



Mayor Calvin Pebley and Bob Hope on their way to California Angels ...

Bob Hope’s Gamers are on fire in the Peoples Division

Here’s what the Peoples Division in the Scarriet Poetry Baseball League looked like at the All Star Break:

Kolkata Cobras 47 33 –
Santa Barbara Laws 41 39 6
Beijing Waves 39 41 8
Tokyo Mist 36 44 11
LA GAMERS  35 45 12

Here’s what it looks like now!

LA GAMERS 60 52 –
Beijing Waves   58 54 2
Kolkata Cobras  58 54 2
Santa Barbara Laws  57 55 3
Tokyo Mist       45 67 15

“The minor, melancholy poets who haunt the bench, staring and moving slowly, in the shadows of the dugout—this inspires me more than the throaty crowds,” Gamers third baseman Joe Green said, almost in a trance, after he homered to lead the Gamers to their 14th win in 16 games.

In the beginning of the year, the starting pitchers for Merv Griffin’s Gamers were Lewis Carroll, E.E. Cummings, James Tate, and Jacques Derrida.

The starting rotation is now Carroll, Democritus, Charlie Chaplin, and Woody Allen.

Manager Bob Hope and Jacques Derrida didn’t get along from the start. Derrida’s fancy pitching was too often completely out of the strike zone, or right over the plate–there wasn’t enough painting of the corners. Antoine de Saint Exupery was brought in to replace Derrida, but his uncanny and charming delivery didn’t work, either, and he was replaced by Woody Allen (7-2).

James Tate was a .500 hurler who didn’t get along with the manager, either—Garrison Keillor was brought in, a good fast ball, a good knuckle curve, but he and Bob Hope had issues, too, and when Charlie Chaplin became available Merv Griffin got out his checkbook—the silent comedian is 5-3.

Democritus began in the bullpen, and is 8-4 since replacing E.E. Cummings in the starting rotation.

Lewis Carroll, the one starter still there, has found his groove, tossing back to back shutouts in his last two starts—his curve is now sharper than ever.

The Gamers were a circus of errors in the beginning of the year, but a sense of humor has helped the team not to get down on itself and they’re fielding much better lately.

When Carroll out-dueled Aristotle 3-2, Billy Collins fielding a double neatly off the wall, relaying to Green—whose throw just beat John Donne at the plate for the win—something stirred in the Gamer “team soul.”

The Gamers were 26 and 38 when Lewis Carroll beat the Laws in that game, and they’ve been 33 and 14 since.

“We have 3 teams right beyond us in the standings,” Hope reminded the press, “so we have to stay as relaxed as we were when we were in last place.” And he grinned.

Hope’s managing style is not all fun and games, however. Off-the-field tensions are an everyday thing for the Gamers, a team of poets who don’t take themselves too seriously, but nonetheless want to win.

Menander, the Gamers bullpen work horse, put it this way: “When Bob [Hope] doesn’t like you, he lets you know right away. A good joke from you is the only thing that can save you,”

Menander is 5-0 in relief during the Gamers’ successful run. The Gamers have recently welcomed MC Ecsher and Muhammad Ali into the bullpen as relief specialists.

“We really want to win this thing,” Joe Green said.

Here’s what the other divisions look like.

The Laureates are not quite as hot as the Gamers, but they now have a four game lead over the Dante-Shelley-Virgil Banners, who were the team to beat in the first half of the season. Starters Blaise Pascal, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Jonathan Swift—none with the Laureates when the season began—are the reason for the Dublin’s success, along with the hitting of Alexandre Dumas and Charles Dickens.

Dublin Laureates 64 48 –
Florence Banners 60 52 4
London Carriages 57 55 7
Devon Sun           51 61  13
Berlin Pistols       49 63  15


In the Modern Division, it’s still a close race between Rockefeller’s stable Buyers and Steven Spielberg’s every-changing Universe. The Philadelphia Crash has moved into third place, with starting pitchers Ransom, Dewey, and Wittgenstein finally starting to pile up wins. The Buyers’ Elizabeth Bishop, who cooled off a bit in July, still leads the league with 30 home runs. Bob Dylan leads the Universe with 24.

New York Buyers 61 51 –
Phoenix Universe 59 53 2
Philadelphia Crash 55 57 6
Manhattan Printers 52 60 9
Arden Dreamers 50 62 11


In the Society Division, Ben Franklin’s Boston Secrets continue to dominate, with the best record in the league—71 wins!  Poe is finally looking like an ace—and Plato is already an 18 game winner; both the Secrets starting pitching and clutch-hitting have been unmatched. Boston catcher Emily Dickinson (20 homers) recently missed two weeks, and Stephen Cole (5 homers) filled in admirably. The Secrets’ Robert Frost 24 homers leads the Society Division.

Boston Secrets 71 41 –
New York War  60 52 11
Connecticut Animals 60 52 11
Westport Actors  48 64 23
Virginia Strangers  43 69 28


The Ceilings, with Milton as their ace, Bach as their stopper (and they just added Vivaldi as a middle reliever) are tied with the Goths—who just added Dostoevsky as their stopper, and feature Goethe as their ace. The Crusaders, the devout team from Madrid, are close behind in second, tied with Napoleon’s Codes.  Madrid now has Scarlatti in their bullpen, and since they added Mozart and Beethoven as starters, they are stellar contenders; the Corsica Codes featuring Homer, Cicero, and Hegel as starters, and Kant in the bullpen, round out the four clubs which look good to win the Emperor division. The Broadcasters, with George Orwell used as starter and reliever as needed, and Coleridge and Nabokov in the starting rotation, are 10 back in fifth place. Victor Hugo of the Codes leads the division with 29 homers; Sophocles leads the first-place Goths in long balls with 25.

Paris Goths  60 52 –
Rome Ceilings 60 52 –
Madrid Crusaders 57 55 3
Corsica Codes  57 55 3
Rimini Broadcasters 50 62 10


Scarriet Baseball Poetry reporting



Good vs Evil | Renaissance paintings, Angel art, Renaissance art

You came to know me
And discovered I wasn’t entirely good.
You looked past my smile,
Kissed me, and observed me for a while—
For this I am grateful.
I was sometimes bad
To make it easier to be sad
That life makes us speak
In two voices: truth to ourselves
And comfort to the weak.
When you found my comfort a lie,
You still understood why
I loved you as I did:
The wrong gets inside the good.
I loved you, Rosalinda, as well as I could.


Rembrandt van Rijn - St Peter in Prison, 1631 at The Israe… | Flickr

Of course you want it—
The exciting and new,
And you will have it—
But only the old is true.
Her life was a prison,
And she was counting on you—
She came to you with the sweetest smile—
But only the old is true.
Stay inside your prison, you told her—
It’s nice. Nice prisons are few.
For a moment, she was exciting—
But only the old is true.
I heard the prophet say:
Not every debt comes due—
You can wait on this a while.
Only the old is true.


One Dot At A Time, Lichtenstein Made Art Pop : NPR

Can you, when we get in these situations, step back?
Can you, when we love, love on the same track?
Can you realize this is love, and not a dare?
Can you?

Can you, when you see me, not make faces?
Can you, when you see me, not be off to the races?
Can you, when you find yourself next to me, not switch places?
Can you?

Can you, when the day is gray, not feel such gloom?
Can you, when you are stuck, make a little room?
Can you, when you think of me, not assume?
Can you?

Can you, when I compliment you, compliment me back?
Can you, when I hold you, not have a heart attack?
Can you, when I think of you, think of me?
Can you be somewhat kind to my poetry?








Hidden Self-Portraits in Paintings, from the Renaissance to Today ...

Before you write to them, write to me.
Before you write to the public, write privately
To the one who loves you: me.
Before you give to the public, give privately
To the one who loves you privately—me.
Understand the public. But love me.

And when you love the public, love me—
This is important—-even more publicly.

You may love the public privately—
Of course you will—but do not confuse that love
For love of soul and beauty and me.

The public has no soul. It is only what you see
When you think you see something. It’s not me.

The public has no privacy; it is a jealousy
Which thinks crude thoughts about you and me.

The public exists only as a lying excitability.
The public is a poor fiction. It’s not even a mirror. Trust me.


Olive Oil, by the Workshop of Giovannino de Grassi, painter http ...

There’s an industry for every need,
An efficiency for every type of greed.
I always thought the businessman was full of vice.
But he’s just like me. He’s smart. He’s nice.
The lonely guy who dreamed on the fjord
Is the novelist who wrote The Thrill Who Roared.
The thrill is a man of appetites like me.
The thrill’s girlfriend dies of an accident on page one hundred and thirty-three.
It could have happened on page three hundred and four.
I really don’t care that much anymore.
I could make a killing on box wine
Or olive oil. Where do I sign?
You’ve got to be presentable. You’ve got to care. And be nice.
No. It’s not me. It’s the poetry that’s the vice.


Highlights Archives | Page 5 of 21 | Council on Recovery

It seems to us there are three truths to life worth knowing.

The first is the truth of efficiency—the one thing everyone wants and needs, and this is divided into two: first, efficiency in practical matters, such as a house with a convenient number of bathrooms, living close to where we work, a life of peace and quiet, if that is what we want, a life of excitement, if that is what we want, in terms that make it easier, not more difficult, to obtain whatever we happen to want at any given time.

Second, efficiency in non-practical matters: beauty, poetry, art, with the understanding that a well-built house and a well-built poem are similar, with the only difference being a house is practical, and a poem is not.

Every issue comes down to efficiency: how quickly can happiness be obtained? All other matters are extraneous and vain.

This leads us to the third truth. Efficiency belongs to human manipulation and effort; happiness, however, is a given, and belongs to nature, or what we might call God, or, if we prefer, chance or accident.

If we lose sight of this: that efficiency is all, and think instead that we can create happiness—the final goal of our efficient actions—if we mistakenly believe that the happiness is what we create; when instead, happiness already exists for our enjoyment, we fall into the error of inefficiency and bad taste.

If what we seek to obtain is a manufactured pleasure, rather than pleasure as it already exists, we violate the Efficiency principle; we do extra work to manufacture what is already obtainable in its raw form. We dress up the lady who is more beautiful naked. We witness this principle all the time— in the tasteless and gaudy parade of our fellow human beings, who distort and make ugly the human body with unnatural eating habits, tattoos, garish clothing, tasteless jewelry, cheap perfume or cologne, ape-like manners, grunts, grimaces, loud laughter, ostentatious displays of attention-getting—all of this, when not due to illness or accident, is because the vanity of the deluded man or woman mistakes efficiency in obtaining a good for the good itself. They wear a tattoo on their leg because they think putting a tattoo on a leg makes that leg better. Words don’t exist to explain why a tattoo is in bad taste, but it has something to do with the effort made by the tattoo artist to improve the human body, an effort which, in the grand scheme of things, is inefficient. The person of good taste recognizes this immediately; the person of bad taste does not, and here we see how the efficiency law continues to operate, even in matters in which its own principle becomes manifest. Immediacy, such as when beauty immediately strikes our eye, is efficiency in operation, so that efficiency and beauty are the same, though we are conscious of the beauty, not the efficiency.

Once effort has been exerted, pride takes over, and convinces us the effort was worth it; after the tattoo is done, the tattoo artist and the tattoo wearer will defend their act of bad taste—because for the time being it is efficient to do so. The same principle is involved when we finish a long book, or travel to a nice place, or attend a popular music concert: we are forced to say our experience was “wonderful!” It is too late to remove the tattoo. The check is cashed and the moment has been converted to pride. Now it will take even more effort to remove the effort’s work. This is why we cannot admit wrong; it violates the Efficiency Principle; and so error rules the world.

This is why the true artistic genius is lazy; they never make effort where none is required; they study, in fact, to be lazy, to make no effort where none is required; this is their secret, and why they seem so odd to the world; and then, of a sudden, after they have watched and studied in great solitude, contemplating the strange greatness of the world, they amaze us with their energy as they bring effort to where, previously, effort never seemed necessary at all. They have not discovered effort; nor have they discovered novelty, but only joy as it already existed. And this is how we recognize joy—it was already there, but the genius helped us see it.

And this is how we reject it, or appreciate it:

If we have good taste, we appreciate it. If we have bad taste, it offends us and we reject it.

If it is Beethoven’s music, for example, we need no knowledge of music—none—to appreciate it, and if we bend our ear to decipher profound music, we will miss it, because what Beethoven discovered and gave to us is joy, not the rules of music or any other technicality.

If we reject Beethoven, we make up some excuse, like, “I don’t enjoy classical music,” which is a lie a person tells to themselves; the truth is, they are a person of bad taste, a person who has bought and practiced the lie that effort is all; the truth is that Beethoven offends them by showing up their efforts as comparatively useless.

Effort’s pride is offended by joy too easily obtained.

The laziness of the genius offends the dullard’s meandering devotions.

The brief poem of genius, written in an afternoon, offends the novelist who traveled the world to write that lengthy and complex work.

Like a tyrant, that novel demands respect, and professors the world over will flock to serve the tyrant’s wishes; children are killed by tyrants, who are offended by the beauty of children not their own—a beauty created too quickly and too easily.

On the other hand, raising children requires a great deal of effort, which justly and appropriately protects them in the commonplace world where effort alone is sacred.

Effort without efficiency still demands our respect; sweat and care, even if it is clumsy, has to be applauded, even to the point where the world says it was Beethoven’s sweat alone which produced the music: yet how can divine music be sweat? Yet this is how the effort-mongers think! If one can call it thinking—it is really pride, the pride of the creature who merely sweats and therefore profoundly and desperately resents all that Beethoven is.

To love Beethoven requires no special genius; to love Beethoven does not require we be Beethoven or even know or feel anything Beethoven knew or felt: it is the perfect relationship, because it is free of all obligation; it is the purest gift. But it is refused, purely and absolutely refused, by the sweating mud dweller for one reason—pride. The pride of mud, the pride of sweat and mud, is the highest and most horrific kind of pride, for it is ignorance denying a gift, the only gift possible for the creature—even in its ignorance—to receive.

Now it is true there are musical and cultural qualities which belong to tribes—if people existed purely in vacuums, then Beethoven’s music would impact them immediately, but the truth is, they might be Muslims immersed in Islamic culture, or youth immersed in youth music, which connects them to their friends, and therefore it is their culture which makes them reject Beethoven’s music, not their individual existence as a proud slave to effort. We grant this.

But here again, even as we use the fancy and significant term, ‘culture,’ and include thousands of individuals, we are still talking of a tattoo placed on a person by a tattoo artist and the pride which defends the tattooing effort against a kind of action which is not aware of any effort at all—because it is beauty, efficiency itself, which is the essence of its action. A mistake is a mistake, whether it is practiced by one person or ten million.

Efficiency belongs to human perfection, and pleasure is the mere result; there are no shortcuts to pleasure, as we all know. Efficiency, and its manifestation, beauty, is the means, not the end, to joy and pleasure—the end (pleasure) belongs already to pure Being, to God, to Nature, so the highest achievement cannot be in the realm of pleasure (this realm is beyond human reach) but only in the realm of Efficiency. The rose cannot pick itself: we cannot take pleasure up in our hand; effort is made towards something—happiness, we hope, but as much as our effort is efficient, only then will we experience joy; otherwise we will be like those who work hard, but in despair that “no one appreciates us;” our effort, even if we vaguely sense it is doing “some good” for someone, seems to us tedious or a “waste.” Effort is a curse; it bores us and wears us down. Efficiency, which perfects effort, is the only joy we ourselves can possibly effect.

Now of course Beethoven was embroiled “in effort” even as we maintain here that effort is an odious thing. Efficiency is the only thing which makes it less odious.

This can be reduced to a simple formula, obviously: how much pain for how much pleasure? Are we merely saying this is the only formula worth knowing to the creature who experiences pain and pleasure? Are we doing nothing but elaborating a truism?

In practical matters, nothing interesting can be said, and the truism just alluded to is the formula par excellence. We are adding this caveat: pain belongs to us (effort) but pleasure does not. Effort, which is tedious, belongs to pride and ignorance, and efficiency is the secret source of not only intelligence and material skill, but beauty and good taste; we are removing pleasure from the formula, not in any Puritan effort, but rather to extol efficiency in obtaining pleasure as the ultimate pleasure. So we alter the truth this way: not “how much pain for how much pleasure,” but rather “how much efficiency?” Efficiency is all ye know and all ye need to know. This is where Keats’ Beauty and Truth meet: in Efficiency.

And now we reach that realm in which interesting things can be said: Aesthetics—precisely because here we escape the practical. Or, we think we escape it. We really do not. The fool thinks the practical can be escaped, that the principle of efficiency can be escaped, that the pleasure from art is different from the pleasure from life, but it is not, and the illusion qua illusion of art is that very thing which has this one purpose only: to hit the fool in the face with morality which cannot be escaped. We ‘show up’ the fool with art; art is a show—that is all it is: a ‘showing’ in the context of a reality which continually demands efficiency. Work is efficient—or not—in the practical world; art is beautiful—or not—in the (apparently) impractical world. Practicality, by its very nature, will manifest itself more strongly in terms of how far-reaching it is; but practicality must also be felt by the individual, who, by nature, is guided less by practicality than the millions are; but since Efficiency is a universal law, it must operate in the individual qua individual, as well, and it does so aesthetically. The aesthetic is nothing more than the perfection of efficiency as it applies to the individual.

We say of the perfected poem: not one word more, not one word less.

What other standard is there? What standard but this intimates beauty and truth, or our new term: efficiency?

It is the peculiar law of Efficiency that it is the more itself the less necessary it is, for after all, Efficiency finally belongs more to beauty than to necessity, even as it facilitates everything practical and necessary. This is because efficiency can always be improved upon, and what is necessary cannot—or else it would not, as itself, before it was improved, be what it is: necessary

Because the poem is less necessary, the well-built poem is more efficient than the well-built house. This might seem naive to say in the vastness of a volatile world—in which sometimes it seems poems have no reason to belong. Yet how often does efficiency seem absent? How often does efficiency not seem to belong to the world, either? How often are we aware of delays and sorrow, the chief reason being inefficiency?

The poem and efficiency—both are equally absent from the world. There are attempts at poetry, attempts at efficiency in practical matters, but the thinking person is reminded constantly how often the result falls short of the blissful ideal.

We have little control of how efficient the greater world is—there is perhaps nothing more than this which makes us feel helpless and futile; and we should also add that efficiency is not in everyone’s interest—the criminal rejoices in the inefficiency of the police department, for instance. And this leads us to a further point: we find in every instance that it is morality which finally figures into the whole efficiency trope: this should not surprise us: it is easy to see that Beauty/Truth (Efficiency) is concerned with good in the highest sense. This is not to say that a criminal avoiding the police cannot write a wonderful poem: the poem as a just act in itself is certainly within the purview of this essay.

This is precisely what we mean by the highest good. The aesthetic allows the individual to be efficient in a radically efficient way—since the practical world demands efficiency (often without getting it) as a matter of course. The aesthetic makes no such demand, and the demand, or lack of one, in this case, applies to the very important inner life of the individual, the dreams one has at night, for example; are not dreams a manifestation of everyone’s unconscious aesthetic? Yet who would ever think of demanding dreams be more efficient? Yet if we follow our general argument, here is what we do “demand.”

The more efficient dream would simply be one more densely packed with meaning and pleasure. Dreams, in as much as they move us, make us feel nostalgic, and fill us with longing and poignancy upon waking, attempt to do this already, or we would not be aware of them as dreams—oh beautiful dreams!—that we ourselves are having.

There is more complexity in one of our more interesting dreams than in the lives of the population at large as they go about their dreary existence, pushed about by necessity.

And this is precisely why a well-built poem (which is like a dream) is more efficient (or has the potential to be more efficient) than a well-built house.

Ultimately we are talking about the same thing in both cases: efficiency.

For the house, we can debate as to which is more efficient: three bathrooms, or two? And all sorts of contingencies which change over time will determine the answer, so what is most efficient will most likely never be known. But the practical world keeps demanding, at least ideally, efficiency, forever.

The poem differs only in this: it is impractical and belongs to the vast complexity of the inner dreaming individual, where the principle of efficiency operates just as it would anywhere else, but here provides the opportunity for the individual to practice efficiency and find, therein, happiness. There is nothing more practical than happiness effected by efficiency—here then, and here alone, is how aesthetics—in the realm of the “selfish” individual—works its practical and societal good.

Philosophers have long wrestled with the notion of how art justifies itself: the dilemma is: art either exists profoundly for itself, and is cut off from all practical affairs (with this being art’s whole point) or art is endowed with all sorts of attributes which turns it into either 1) a piece of propaganda or 2) a useful item—such that it no longer has any aesthetic qualities at all. And hovering over the whole enterprise is the Platonist critique that art does not tell the truth, and is immoral.

The Platonist critique is so morally powerful that it threatens to destroy even our thesis: a pickpocket is bad, and yet a pickpocket can be “efficient.” How, then, can we make efficiency our ultimate measure?

The answer is, that since efficiency is a happiness in itself, but does not necessarily lead to happiness, we don’t need to assert that  efficiency in pick-pocketing leads to more happiness; and further, the more efficient the pickpocket, the more efficient we have to be to catch the pickpocket; so we still feel confident that we can rest on Efficiency as the greatest ideal.

The efficient face is the beautiful face, the kind of face one falls in love with, but falling in love with a beautiful face is certainly no guarantee of happiness; in fact, there is a good chance the efficiency of that face will make you miserable. True happiness is reserved for the lucky; the efficiency of someone else is no guarantee of your happiness. Think of our example of Beethoven. We may assert with great conviction that his music is the glory of the world; but earlier we discussed how he is resented— the glory of Beethoven, to millions who suffer from bad taste, equals annoyance or pain. Just so: how does the existence of magnificent mansions ease the burden of the poor in their hovels? Or the poor in their novels? On the other hand, how does it help the poor to resent the rich? How is that efficient in any sense? It is never efficient to resent Beethoven. It is never efficient to envy.

It is efficient to love efficiency, however. There is nothing more efficient—in terms practical or aesthetic.

Poetry, when it was known as verse, once held forth on all sorts of practical matters—Virgil on beekeeping, Lucretius on the universe, Shakespeare on history and human nature, Pope on Criticism, and to this day, poetry which amuses us, that is, poetry which belongs to the world of practical affairs, is called Light Verse.

But critically esteemed poetry, as opposed to mere verse, in our day, is completely removed from the practical, almost by definition; it belongs to Pater’s “hard, gem-like flame,” to T.S. Eliot’s “pure vision,” and it all began with Coleridge saying poetry has as its immediate object, pleasure, while truth belongs to works of science.

Valery wrote that philosophy has no place in poetry. Prose has clipped the wings of Coleridge by taking away all the science, and even all fiction of any length, from poetry, to the consternation of many a critic and poet. The poet is told: you cannot be Shakespeare; that is no longer done; today you are trivial. ‘But can’t I be Coleridge, at least?’ the poet asks, but the verse of Coleridge is no longer practiced either; so, no.  And the modern poet appears more trivial, still. It is as if there were a conspiracy against the poet. But not really. It is simply efficiency working its will.

Beekeeping is learned from bee keepers; is it efficient that bee keepers be poets—in order that they might teach us about beekeeping? No, and for the simple reason that it is easier to become an expert in one field than two; we shouldn’t have to ask that beekeepers also be poets; this is not efficient, plain and simple.

It would be a lovely thing if all bee keepers were poets.

This is a crucial point: it is not that there is something about poetry itself which keeps poetry from addressing bee keeping.

The critics anxious to reserve for poetry a special vision, or a place for poetry alone, belonging only to itself, removed from practical matters entirely, would deny poetry and beekeeping a place together for the wrong reason: they diminish poetry and beekeeping both—but we have already shown how it is merely the efficiency principle which keeps the two apart.

Poetry can be learned from the ancient models, but the ability of the would-be poet to inhabit that kind of Vast Practical Knowledge with his or her poetic wit is something which cannot be purchased or learned—and this is the reason why the great poet is rare.

So, yes, it would indeed be a lovely thing if all beekeepers were poets. But now, because of our Efficiency principle, we see the true reason why such a thing is impossible.  It isn’t because poetry and beekeeping themselves are at odds.

Prose is more efficient than poetry, not from any reason pertaining to the nature of prose itself; prose is more efficient as a tool of general use because of a real lack in the material skills of human beings, who do not have the time to practice to be the kind of poets who can write on beekeeping.

Poetry does belong to the practical world as much as anything, but poetry is prevented from belonging to it for two reasons: the false theory of its irrelevance perpetrated by the art for art’s sake school, and the efficiency principle which finds it too difficult a demand that all beekeepers be poets.

Edgar Poe is correct that a long poem does not exist, but there is no reason why treatises on beekeeping could not be broken up into small poem-like essays.

Poe’s narrowing of poetry’s definition, following the trend of the moderns to move away from verses on beekeeping towards a definition more purely ‘poetic,’ owed more to the efficiency principle than we might realize. It is unlikely that a businessman, a person in the trades, a busy and responsible citizen, such as a beekeeper, will have the temperament to pursue poetry. A gentleman mourning the death of a beautiful woman is merely Poe’s way of saying in a very practical sense: the poet is most likely to be a lover simply because those who have the leisure to learn poetry will likely have the temperament and position in society to love beauty and court women with philosophy, with words, with what me might call poetry—while (from purely practical reasons, mind you) the businessman will pursue women and beauty (if this interests them) in the typically busy and distracted pursuit of wealth.

The whole matter of Poe’s well-known poetic theories (hijacked by the art for art sake crowd in a radical error) is a perfectly practical one, based on the higher efficiency principle as it pertains to society and its mundane necessities. The lover is the poet for a simple, efficient reason. The beekeeper doesn’t have time to be a poet. The lover does, and this fact generates all that follows.

We have hinted already at what allows us to call the impractical poem efficient: if naked is good, don’t add dress; if dress is necessary, add just enough. We should say something about the mean: a poem ought to balance less with more, the balance determined by the poem’s own measure. An efficient house requires x number of bathrooms, and this always signifies a mean: just the right number. The principle should likewise always be present in the construction of the poem.

The building of the poem and the house are radically similar.

The reason for the house is self-evident.

The poem for this reason must also be self-evident.

The poet comes up with a theme—a moral/practical theme–and all that follows obeys the law of measurement governed by the most efficient (or most immediate) unfolding of the theme. Brevity is what the poem traditionally does well. But too much brevity leads to inefficiency, as with too much length. A dense, excessive, meandering may be called for, and even this, as every great artist knows, must be expressed—efficiently. There is efficient torture, there is efficient pain, there is efficient madness, there is efficient roaming to where, in perfect composure, efficiency waits, bound, in the most gentle manner possible, by a golden string.





The waters, the pink-in-blue sky, the moss covered rocks, nature, old, and looking perfectly new.
No one around. Flat nature simply lying around. Late spring. I’d like to be there with you.

No mountains to climb. No struggle, in thin air, climbing, to look for a view.
The waters, almost politely, in silence nudge the land. I’d like to be there with you.

No people. Animals? There might be birds. One, or two, singing softly, the notes far between, and few.
The soft wind over the soft waters. I’d like to be there with you.

We have time to get there and time to return; tomorrow we can go there, too.
Was that a dream? Did we go there? I’d like to go there with you.


Portrait of a Young Girl (Christus) - Wikipedia

Beauty? Virtue? No.
These work insidiously and slow.
Beauty’s a disguise and virtue’s hard to know.
A sense of disgust
Is what I trust.
A sense of disgust
Is what rescues us
From the brain tricked by the heart.
Disgust teaches us the taste of art.
When my daughter told me she was getting a tattoo,
I remembered when I was single,
With tactful you.



We think it is the bad, but the bad is innocent and sweet,

Compared to the envy eating at the good, compared to the envy felt by friends.

Envy comes from everywhere; envy, more than anything, can defeat

Love; envy’s back-stabbing is eternal; envy’s betrayal never ends.

Envy’s slander wrecks the world, and keeps the good enslaved.

Envy is why no one is ever truly loved; envy is why even the good cannot be saved.

When your poetry is recognized, you’ll start writing novels.

When you become rich, you’ll wish again, you were poor.

Success imminent, that night, in the garden, he kissed her. The next day,

I think he may have kissed her again. Or maybe he waltzed away.


Action and Engagement — St. Francis, Giotto, and the Seeds of the ...

Those subtle insights by the corrupt priests led me astray.
Poetry’s a rare thing, for the sensitive poet
As sensitive as he is, still must be a beautiful creature,
And physically experience the joy of love
Without qualification or jealousy. Poets
Who are too subtle, and prove in their poems
How everything is relative, and holy days and God
Don’t matter, must be asked, “If it’s all relative,
Why does your poetry matter?” Only the beautiful
Can renounce the flesh in a way that pleases the gods.
And yet there are ugly priests. official, and praised,
Who do not renounce the flesh, and with tireless audacity
Assume the ugly is not ugly.
These are the only insights required for poetry.





Pardon me that this love is not sincere, or pure.

All I know of love is what has gone before.

If I seem to love you, oh, be sure I do,

But love cannot love one, nor can it stop at two.

So what loves you? Not love. Not love, casual and free.

My indifference! What seems not to love you!

What turns away, confused, is what loves you, passionately.





Jean Cocteau s'adresse... à l'an 2000 (1962) - IMDb

Jean Cocteau has fooled everyone. He’s the new bullpen ace for the Universe.

Ben Franklin’s Boston Secrets have a commanding 9 game lead to go with their league-leading 61 wins in the Society Division.

The Kolkata Cobras owned the second best record in the league at the all-star break, but the Peoples Division is now led by the Santa Barbara Laws.

In the Modern Division, Steven Spielberg’s Universe have caught Rockefeller’s Buyers—both have 51 wins.

The Florence Banners are stunned to find themselves trailing the Dublin Laureates in the Glorious Division.

And over in the Emperor Division, the surging Paris Goths have overtaken the once-mighty Rome Ceilings.

Emperor Division

Paris Goths 54 42 —
Rome Ceilings 52 44 (2)
Corsica Codes 51 45  (3)
Madrid Crusaders 47 49  (7)
Rimini Broadcasters 40 56 (14)

Glorious Division

Dublin Laureates 54 42 —
Florence Banners 53 43  (1)
London Carriages 50 46  (4)
Devon Sun 44 52  (10)
Berlin Pistols 40 56  (14)

Society Division

Boston Secrets 61 35 —
New York War  52 44 (9)
Connecticut Animals 49 47 (12)
Westport Actors 42 54 (19)
Virginia Strangers 38 58 (23)

Peoples Division

Santa Barbara Laws 52 44 —
Kolkata Cobras 51 45 (1)
Beijing Waves  48 48  (4)
LA Gamers      46 50   (6)
Tokyo Mist      41 55   (11)

Modern Division

Phoenix Universe 51 45 —
New York Buyers 51 45 —
Manhattan Printers 47 49 (4)
Philadelphia Crash 45 51  (6)
Arden Dreamers    43 53  (8)

Most of the owners of these 25 teams know that pitching wins pennants.

The Secrets were carried by starters Plato and Pushkin. Now Poe is 4-0 in his last 5 starts and Moliere has won 6 of his last 8 starts. The starting pitching of Poe, Plato, Pushkin, and Moliere is why the Secrets are playing better than anyone, not only in the Society Division, but in the whole league.

The Emperor Division-leading Goths replaced Baudelaire (who couldn’t win) with Goya, but the real story are starters Goethe, Chateaubriand, and Wilde—neither one has lost since the middle of July!

Why are the Dublin Laureates in first place? They added Pascal to the starting rotation, and he’s 5-2 in his last 8 outings. Robert Louis Stevenson, Samuel Johnson, and Jonathan Swift are pitching above .500 and Livy continues to dominate in relief. Hans Christian Anderson, a lefty relief specialist, and the side-armed J.D. Salinger have been added to the Laureates bullpen. But don’t count out the Florence Banners in the Glorious Division: Dante, Shelley, Virgil, and da Vinci are still their starters, though Dante and Virgil have suffered from some arm weariness.

The Santa Barbara Laws, owned by TV producer Dick Wolf, now lead the Kolkata Cobras in the Peoples Division by one game—Starters Aristotle, Francis Bacon, Horace, and Oliver Wendell Holmes have all been solid, and when they give it to the new bullpen ace Ferdinand Saussure or Quintilian, the Laws win.  The Waves are in striking division in the Peoples Division, and they’ve patiently stuck with Voltaire, Lucretius, Rousseau, and Lao Tzu as their starters, with Confucius, Ho Chi Minh and Khomeini in the bullpen.  The second-place Cobras still have Tagore, Rumi, Gandhi and Hesse as their big four starters with Kabir Das as their bullpen ace.  Merv Griffin’s LA Gamers, who added Charlie Chaplin and Woody Allen to their starting rotation, are quietly staying close (6 games out).

Finally, in the Modern Division, the Universe now share first place with Rockefeller’s Buyers. Why? Jean Cocteau (5-0), their new bullpen ace, has been lights out in relief.  Recent additions Lucien Freud, Raymond Carver, and Martin Luther King jr have been effective as starters. Steven Spielberg has been making moves! And the Buyers have slumped. Starters Mark Twain and Paul Engle are no longer winning consistently. Whitman and Freud continue to struggle in the middle innings. Andy Warhol’s third-place Printers, the fourth-place Crash of A.C. Barnes, and Pamela Harriman’s fifth-place Dreamers, who just added Jane Austen to the starting rotation, are still in striking distance. Every club in the Modern Division is still in this thing!

Scarriet Poetry Baseball reporting.





Gloucester's Own: Fitz Henry Lane - A Collection at the Cape Ann ...

Nothing is a painting,
Though it may look like one,
Or a photograph of one
Might seem like one.
Nothing moves inside your house,
And the clouds don’t move, lying at ease
Above the surrounding hills.

Nothing is a painting,
Not because away from your painting
You age, or make changes in your house.
The painting doesn’t know this.
The painter has done things already
To age the trees, the water, the sky,
In the way they are painted.
Nothing is a painting.
The technique of the painter tells you why.

Nothing is a painting.
Who would have thought a painting was a clock,
Like everything else?
I do.
Because I remember you.


Why Boston's Brutalism Is Back in a Big Way

Finding out what it can do,
It keeps doing it,
Until it becomes a good—
Compared to what it goes on to do.
This disgusting pleasure is a gift to you.
Desperation hardens into tradition;
Horror is now horror with a smile.
It made me uneasy, I’ll admit,
As I loved you all the while.

Flab is always sensitive;
It knows it is not loved;
Sensitivity is found with beauty,
But sensitivity can be ugly.
Heavy-footed, I march
To the bathroom, unable to sleep.
Flab is able to smell, and feel
The delicate humidity creep.
My delicate hands feel
Everything, even my fat arms.
How sensitive am I?
Sensitive is what harms.

It feels blunt, blunted,
But the pain is sharper,
The criminals, smarter,
Than any time before this.
A polite, chuckling invasion
Becomes brutalist.

If nothing needs protecting,
If randomly specters come and go,
Protection disappears.
(The necessity of protection was evil.)
Rhyme is banned,
And melody. That’s how you’ll know.



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