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Cento Thursday

January 7, 2010

Another Thursday, another complement of poetical fragments.

Tomorrow is the time I get my pay,
After such years of change and suffering!

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise;
For nothing now can ever come to any good
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys.

Though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster,
Having got drunk exceedingly today,
The art of losing’s not too hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster,
The art of losing’s not too hard to master.

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
Do not go gentle into that good night:
Show that its sculptor well those passions read.

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.

Great Death has made all his forevermore,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain;
‘Yet many a better one has died before.’
And when we meet at any time again,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie;
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Upon the glass and listen for reply.

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
Sees hardened steeds desert the stony town.

When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands shall lie
Open unto the fields and to the sky.

They rise and vanish in oblivious host
While in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.

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One Comment leave one →
  1. Seamus permalink
    January 7, 2010 9:35 pm

    I’m definitely beginning to detect a preponderance of death in the database. I particularly like that couplet beginning “When Aunt is dead”. “what arms have lain / Over the mountains, on that northern shore” is a lovely image too. And I can imagine that first one as the opening of a play.

    The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
    The tigers in the panel that she made
    Lose something every day. Accept the fluster,
    But thine eternal summer shall not fade.
    Even losing you, the joking voice, the gesture
    Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.
    When it is autumn do we get spring weather?
    It is enough that we once came together.

    These Norfolk lanes recall lost innocence
    To serve your turn long after they are gone;
    Exploring hands encounter no defence,
    Except the Will which says to them ‘Hold on!’
    Dragging a stick along the wooden fence,
    I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
    Chaos of Thought and Passion, all confus’d,
    Still by himself abus’d, or disabus’d.

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