The Cento Generator has been occupying much of my free time over the last couple of days and has produced some gems, so in what may become a semi-regular thing, I hereby declare that from now on Thursday will be Cento Day, and will be accompanied by an assortment of interesting fragments churned out by the ever-growing generator.
Inadvertently hilarious lines of the week:
I sing of May-poles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes,
Desiring this man’s art, or that man’s scope,
In doubt his Mind or Body to prefer.
Unorthodox collaborations of the week: Byron/Barrett Browning,
And for the future – but I write this reeling
With my lost saints, – I love thee with the breath,
As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling –
I shall but love thee better after death.
Though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Brilliant opening of the week:
I met a traveller from an antique land,
When winter reigned in bleak Britannia’s air –
The massive weight of Uncle’s wedding band
The city now doth, like a garment, wear –
Who said ‘Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Earth has not anything to show more fair,
And wander roads unstable, not their own;
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.’
Brilliant conclusion of the week (thank you, Byron):
Like shades in love and death’s oblivion lost,
Who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
My friends forsake me like a memory lost,
And so – for God’s sake – hock and soda-water!
Weirdly oblique but you’re sure it must mean something poem of the week:
The tigers in the panel that she made
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy,
Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy.
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
Its first desire is spent. The star’s impulse,
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
And love arrived may find us somewhere else.
Unhappy narrator of the week:
I am – yet what I am none cares or knows,
Except the Will which says to them ‘Hold on!’
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
To serve your turn long after they are gone;
I cannot say what loves have come and gone.
Haiku of the week:
say can you see by the dawn’s early my
The grass below – above the vaulted sky.
The strangest whim has seized me … After all
There are no fortunes to be told, although
I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall).