Epiphany
If the heart is like Don Quixote in its belief in fictions as verities, its companion, the soul, surely must be like the hopeful squire, Sancho Panza, as it sallies forth like a true believer on a donkey, not doubting that it will be bestowed the governorship of an insula. And if nothing tangible is gained after such ardors, it too can say this:
"I'll just tell you this, in passing: there's nothing nicer in the world for a man than being the honored squire of a knight errant seeking adventures. Even though it is true most don't turn out well as the man would like, because out of a hundred that you find, ninety-nine tend to turn out wrong and twisted. I know this from experience, because in some I've been tossed in a blanket, and in others I've been beaten, but even so, it's a fine thing to be out looking for things to happen, crossing the mountains, searching forests, climbing peaks, visiting castles, and staying in inns whenever you please and not paying a devil's maravedi for anything."1
[1] Sancho Panza to his wife Juana, from First Part, Chapter LII of Edith Grossman's translation of "Don Quixote"
Book Posts
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Orpheus - Fergus Allen
Crammed into packing cases, wrapped in plastic,
the limbs of dismembered masculine deities
are out of sight and do not call for tears.
Screaming and bitching fill the olive grove
and everyone is high on triviality.
The offered lips, the immaculate skin- so you prefer the smell of own-sex sweat to that of lion, do you? Well, so be it, but I am dazzled by other illusions, vision shifted into another clef.
Serial-ism occupies my thoughts and I foresee the ivy-berry trance in which the raving maenads will disjoint me because I've wept too hotly and too long. So let it be done quickly, while I dance,
my remains serving to fatten the kites, while my bare head floats singing down the stream. You will be one of the caring and sensitive; there will be many prizes to be won and enough testicled slaves in the field.
Big Book Of Poetry
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Tongueless
Leaving, she praised the skill
of his tongue in giving her
song for the nights they met in
a starless arena, as if those notes
were all that traveled in the traffic
between mouth and body under eyes
that roved like helium-lights.
Now it is dark. The stage is empty. Beatrice in her hurry seems to have left a play behind. Time is yet to press it into the strata of myth. Orpheus is yet to begin his singular wailing descent. In this version, I heard it told, he will not return for Beatrice takes two tongues down with her.
My Poems
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