“... and all the people you took advantage of, and all the faces that tried to give you love.”

[exilian.livejournal.com]

Lord Randall


Oh, where have you been,
Lord Randall, my son?
Oh, where have you been,
my handsome young man?

I have been to the wildwood.
Mother, make my bed soon,
for I'm weary with hunting,
and I fain would lie down.

Where'd you get your dinner,
Lord Randall, my son?
Where'd you get your dinner,
my handsome young man?

Oh, I dined with my true love.
Mother, make my bed soon,
for I'm weary with hunting,
and I fain would lie down.

And what did she give you,
Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you,
my handsome young man?

I had eels boiled in broth.
Mother, make my bed soon,
for I'm weary with hunting,
and I fain would lie down.

What became of your bloodhounds,
Lord Randall, my son?
What became of your bloodhounds,
my handsome young man?

Well, they swelled and they died.
Mother, make my bed soon,
for I'm weary with hunting
and I fain would lie down.

Oh, I fear you are poisoned,
Lord Randall, my son,
Oh, I fear you are poisoned,
my handsome young man.

Oh, yes I am poisoned.
Mother make my bed soon,
for I'm sick at my heart,
and I fain would lie down.

What'll you leave your old father,
Lord Randall, my son?
What'll you leave your old father,
my handsome young man?

My castles and lands.
Mother, make my bed soon,
for I'm sick at my heart,
and I fain would lie down.

What'll you leave your old mother,
Lord Randall, my son?
What'll you leave your old mother,
my handsome young man?

My silver and gold.
Mother make my bed soon,
for I'm sick at my heart,
and I fain would lie down.

What'll you leave your own true love,
Lord Randall, my son?
What'll you leave your own true love,
my handsome young man?

Oh, I leave her hellfire!
Mother, make my bed soon,
for it's now I'm a-dyin',
and I got to lie down.




Ω

Arrows // Tony Hoagland

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

When a beautiful woman wakes up,

she checks to see if her beauty is still there.

When a sick person wakes up,

he checks to see if he continues to be sick.

He takes the first pills in a thirty-pill day,

looks out the window at a sky

where a time-release sun is crawling

through the milky X ray of a cloud.

   * * * * *

I sing the body like a burnt-out fuse box,

the wires crossed, the panel lit

by red malfunction lights, the pistons firing

out of sequence,

the warning sirens blatting in the empty halls,

and the hero is trapped in a traffic jam,

the message doesn’t reach its destination,

the angel falls down into the body of a dog

and is speechless,

tearing at itself with fast white teeth;

and the consciousness twists evasively,

like a sheet of paper,

       traveled by blue tongues of flame.

   * * * * *

In the famous painting, the saint

looks steadfastly heavenward,

             away from the physical indignity below,

the fascinating spectacle

    of his own body

                     bristling with arrows;

he looks up

as if he were already adamantly elsewhere,

    exerting that power of denial

         the soul is famous for,

that ability to say, “None of this is real:

Nothing that happened here on earth

and who I thought I was,

and nothing that I did or that was done to me,

was ever real.”

Sheep in Fog, Sylvia Plath

[moireach.livejournal.com]

Sheep in Fog
Sylvia Plath

The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the colour of rust,

Hooves, dolorous bells -
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,

A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.

They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.