Sunday, January 4, 2009

Blue Sunday

Blue Sunday. Sky blue, water blue, blue man. A quiet, peaceful life, internal, rich, the forces that resist. Sangria and coffee. To market for flowers. Books, art, a feral cat domesticated, in love.


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"

2 comments:

  1. things as they are are changed on the blue guitar! Have a lovely Sunday...

    -R

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  2. The last line of your poem is a definite "yup."

    in honor of Spain and sangria..and continuing the guitar theme:

    The Guitar

    by Federico GarcĂ­a 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.

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