Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.
Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.
-A.E. Housman
The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air–The edge
cuts without cutting
meets–nothing–renews
itself in metal or porcelain–
whither? It ends–
But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry–
Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica–
the broken plate
glazed with a rose
Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses–
The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end–of roses
It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits
Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness–fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching
What
The place between the petal’s
edge and the
From the petal’s edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact–lifting
from it–neither hanging
nor pushing–
The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
-William Carlos Williams
A young spring-tender girl
combed her joyous hair
‘You are very ugly’ said the mirror.
But,
on her lips hung
a smile of dove-secret loveliness,
for only that morning had not
the blind boy said,
‘You are beautiful’?
-Spike Milligan
Frogs sit more solid
than anything sits. In mid-leap they are
parachutists falling
in a free fall. They die on roads
with arms across their chests and
heads high.
I love frogs that sit
like Buddha, that fall without
parachutes, that die
like Italian tenors.
Above all, I love them because,
pursued in water, they never
panic so much that they fail
to make stylish triangles
with their ballet dancer’s
legs.
-Norman McCraig
What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Into my mouth do crush their wine
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach
Stumbling on melons, as I pass.
Insnar’d with flowers, I fall on grass.
-Andrew Marvell
Objector
In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon
to ward off complicity–the ordered life
our leaders have offered us. Thin as a knife,
our chance to live depends on such a sign
while others talk and The Pentagon from the moon
is bouncing exact commands: “Forget your faith;
be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face
annihilation unless all citizens get in line.”
I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere
other citizens more fearfully bow
in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state.
Our signs both mean, “You hostages over there
will never be slaughtered by my act.” Our vows
cross: never to kill and call it fate.
-William Stafford
Launch yourself on every wave.
-Henry David Thoreau
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
-Arthur William Edgar O’Shaughnessy