When all the earth is undersea, all of Babel's voices come to silence.

[grammarfight.livejournal.com]

Where grateful goats had grazed along the grass,
the squat sea-lions sprawl and undersea,
the Nereids, amazed, stare hard at cities
and homes and groves; through woodlands, dolphins roam;
they bump against tall branches, knock and shake
oak trees. The wold now swims among the sheep;
the waves bear tawny lions, carry tigers;
the boar is swept along — his lightening force
is useless; and the stag's swift legs can't help;
the bird that searched so long for land where he
might rest, flight-weary, falls into the sea.

—from Allen Mandelbaum's translation of the flood story in Ovid's The Metamorphoses



Where kids had frisked, now seal, walrus, and sea calf lolled.
Nereids swam in wonder through gateways, over towers,
and in and out of the windows of deserted buildings of men.
Dolphins romped in the woods and darted like huge birds
from branch to branch of trees, above which, in the flood,
desperate wolves were swimming alongside helpless sheep.
Lions and tigers, living and dead, drifted at random,
with the swift stags and sturdy boars...all swept away.
From black skies the weary birds, scouting a perch,
fell exhausted at last into that endless sea...

—from David Slavitt's "translated freely" version of the flood story in Ovid's The Metamorphoses


cross-posted at grammarfight

An Expurgated Whitman Poem

[lucretius.livejournal.com]

Sometime before the Spring of 1859, Walt Whitman wrote a series of 12 manuscript poems that have been gathered by Fredson Bowers under the title "Live Oak With Moss." They seem to tell the story of a disappointing romantic relationship.

In 1860, Whitman took those poems out of their original order, and placed them in a new section of his Leaves of Grass entitled "Calamus," where in their new context they took on a  less autobiographical, more programmatic meaning.

After the 1860 edition, he dropped three poems, never to reprint them again.  They are not included in most modern editions of Whitman's poems.  This was one:

9.

HOURS continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted,

Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome

         and unfrequented spot, seating myself, leaning

         my face in my hands;

Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth,

         speeding swiftly the country roads, or through

         the city streets, or pacing miles and miles, sti-

         fling plaintive cries;

Hours discouraged, distracted—for the one I cannot

         content myself without, soon I saw him content

         himself without me;

Hours when I am forgotten, (O weeks and months are

         passing, but I believe I am never to forget!)

Sullen and suffering hours! (I am ashamed—but it

         is useless—I am what I am;)

Hours of my torment—I wonder if other men ever

         have the like, out of the like feelings?

Is there even one other like me—distracted—his

         friend, his lover, lost to him?

Is he too as I am now? Does he still rise in the morn-

         ing, dejected, thinking who is lost to him? and

         at night, awaking, think who is lost?

Does he too harbor his friendship silent and endless?

         harbor his anguish and passion?

Does some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a

         name, bring the fit back upon him, taciturn and

         deprest?

Does he see himself reflected in me? In these hours,

         does he see the face of his hours reflected?

The Iceberg Theory // Gerald Locklin

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.
you'd think romaine was descended from
orpheus's laurel wreath,
you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional
benefits attributed to it by popeye,
not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
verlaine and debussy.
they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.

I guess the problem is
it's just too common for them.
it doesn't matter that it tastes good,
has a satisfying crunchy texture,
holds its freshness,
and has crevices for the dressing,
whereas the darker, leafier varieties
are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
it just isn't different enough, and
it's too goddamn american.

of course a critic has to criticize.
a critic has to have something to say.
perhaps that's why literary critics
purport to find interesting
so much contemporary poetry
that just bores the shit out of me.

at any rate, I really enjoy a salad
with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
the more the merrier,
drenched in an italian or roquefort dressing.
and the poems I enjoy are those I don't have
to pretend I'm enjoying.

Cellar Stairs -- Thomas Lux

[prairiesong.livejournal.com]

(Apologies if a repost -- I havn't been here too long).

Cellar Stairs.

It's rickety down to the dark.
Old skates, long-bladed, hang by leather laces
on your left and want to slash your throat,
but they can't, they can't, being only skates.
On a shelf above, tools: shears,
three-pronged weed hacker, ice pick,
poison-rats and bugs-and on the landing,
halfway down, a keg of roofing nails
you don't want to fall face first into,

no, you don't. To your right,
a fuse box with its side-switch-a slot machine,
on a good day, or the one the warden pulls,
on a bad. Against the wall,
on nearly every stair, one boot, no two
together, no pair, as if the dead
went off, short-legged or long, to where they go,
which is down these steps,
at the bottom of which is a swollen,

humming, huge white freezer
big enough for many bodies—
of children, at least. And this
is where you're sent each night
for the frozen bag of beans
or peas or broccoli
that lies beside the slab
of meat you'll eat for dinner,
each countless childhood meal your last.

Niagra by Adelaide Crapsey

[roguewords.livejournal.com]

Niagra
Seen on a Night in November

How frail
Above the bulk
Of crashing water hangs
Autumnal, evanescent, wan,
The moon.

--Adelaide Crapsey


(one of my mother's students tried to plagiarize this. I thought I'd share it.)