I think you should have left the pants in without comment, we all would have assumed they where an enigmatic piece of surrealist art of profound but hidden meaning
"Poetrywise it's still a bust, bankrupt.
You haven't scribbled a syllable of it.
You're a nowhere man misfiring
the very essence of your life, flustering
nothing from nothing and back again.
The hereafter may not last all that long.
Radiant childhood sweetheart,
secret code of everlasting joy and sorrow,
fanciful pen strokes beneath the eyelids:
all day, all night meditation, knot of hope,
kernel of desire, pure ordinariness of life
seeking, through poetry, a benediction
or a bed to lie down on, to connect, reveal,
explore, to imbue meaning on the day's extravagant labor.
And yet it's cruel to expect too much.
It's a rare species of bird
that refuses to be categorized.
Its song is barely audible.
It is like a dragonfly in a dream--
here, then there, then here again,
low-flying amber-wing darting upward
then out of sight.
And the dream has a pain in its heart
the wonders of which are manifold,
or so the story is told."
I'm sorry I stole so much space. Ignore me if you have to. I won't mind.
I think you should have left the pants in without comment, we all would have assumed they where an enigmatic piece of surrealist art of profound but hidden meaning
too late now though
Posted by: Robin B | June 09, 2007 at 10:38 AM
You still haven't said what makes the pants lucky. I want to know. I wish I had lucky pants. Or luck.
Posted by: la fille | June 09, 2007 at 09:04 PM
Dream On- James Tate (Part of it anyway)
"Poetrywise it's still a bust, bankrupt.
You haven't scribbled a syllable of it.
You're a nowhere man misfiring
the very essence of your life, flustering
nothing from nothing and back again.
The hereafter may not last all that long.
Radiant childhood sweetheart,
secret code of everlasting joy and sorrow,
fanciful pen strokes beneath the eyelids:
all day, all night meditation, knot of hope,
kernel of desire, pure ordinariness of life
seeking, through poetry, a benediction
or a bed to lie down on, to connect, reveal,
explore, to imbue meaning on the day's extravagant labor.
And yet it's cruel to expect too much.
It's a rare species of bird
that refuses to be categorized.
Its song is barely audible.
It is like a dragonfly in a dream--
here, then there, then here again,
low-flying amber-wing darting upward
then out of sight.
And the dream has a pain in its heart
the wonders of which are manifold,
or so the story is told."
I'm sorry I stole so much space. Ignore me if you have to. I won't mind.
Posted by: Victoria(who is either vivacious or just likes alliteration) | June 23, 2007 at 03:59 PM