I cannot bring a world quite round,
Although I patch it as I can.
I sing a hero's head, large eye
And bearded bronze, but not a man,
Although I patch him as I can
And reach through him almost to man.
If to serenade almost to man
Is to miss, by that, things as they are,
Say it is the serenade
Of a man that plays a blue guitar.
from Wallace Stevens' "The Man with the Blue Guitar"
things as they are are changed on the blue guitar! Have a lovely Sunday...
ReplyDelete-R
The last line of your poem is a definite "yup."
ReplyDeletein honor of Spain and sangria..and continuing the guitar theme:
The Guitar
by Federico García Lorca
Translated by Cola Franzen
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.
and one written by a good friend the other day:
Apollo tunes his lyre
...or assholes writing poems
because they think they can,
and all I want to do is leave it alone
but can’t
because of the rolling drum
and bruises that you get
from all the personal shit;
a dirty snow
pushed to the side of the road.
My lover wants a poem.
some space cadets
at a star port,
discussing form--
a fairy in a fury
over the absence of leaves.
Something,
whereas there is nothing
but discarded words,
personal things,
the stink of old loves
heaped in the corner;
meandering days
cluttered with mortality,
ailments
that grow stale with recitation
accompanied
by rollicking meter
that neither of us gives a damn about--
personal shit
from the trunk in the attic,
that street
that finds you all alone.
i like the sangria photo -- juicy it is.