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Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

~ Contemporary Poetry and Literary Classics from Cleveland to Infinity

Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

Monthly Archives: October 2008

Berenice (by Edgar Allan Poe)

30 Thursday Oct 2008

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1800s, American, Poe (Edgar Allan), Short Stories

≈ 6 Comments


Poe



Berenice
by Edgar Allan Poe (1835)


    Dicebant mihi sodales, si sepulchrum amicae visitarem,
    curas meas aliquantulum fore levatas.
                                                                –Ebn Zaiat.


MISERY is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch, –as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness? –from the covenant of peace a simile of sorrow? But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been.

My baptismal name is Egaeus; that of my family I will not mention. Yet there are no towers in the land more time-honored than my gloomy, gray, hereditary halls. Our line has been called a race of visionaries; and in many striking particulars –in the character of the family mansion –in the frescos of the chief saloon –in the tapestries of the dormitories –in the chiselling of some buttresses in the armory –but more especially in the gallery of antique paintings –in the fashion of the library chamber –and, lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the library’s contents, there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant the belief.

The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that chamber, and with its volumes –of which latter I will say no more. Here died my mother. Herein was I born. But it is mere idleness to say that I had not lived before –that the soul has no previous existence. You deny it? –let us not argue the matter. Convinced myself, I seek not to convince. There is, however, a remembrance of aerial forms –of spiritual and meaning eyes –of sounds, musical yet sad –a remembrance which will not be excluded; a memory like a shadow, vague, variable, indefinite, unsteady; and like a shadow, too, in the impossibility of my getting rid of it while the sunlight of my reason shall exist.

In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking from the long night of what seemed, but was not, nonentity, at once into the very regions of fairy-land –into a palace of imagination –into the wild dominions of monastic thought and erudition –it is not singular that I gazed around me with a startled and ardent eye –that I loitered away my boyhood in books, and dissipated my youth in reverie; but it is singular that as years rolled away, and the noon of manhood found me still in the mansion of my fathers –it is wonderful what stagnation there fell upon the springs of my life –wonderful how total an inversion took place in the character of my commonest thought. The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn, –not the material of my every-day existence-but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself.

Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my paternal halls. Yet differently we grew –I ill of health, and buried in gloom –she agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy; hers the ramble on the hill-side –mine the studies of the cloister –I living within my own heart, and addicted body and soul to the most intense and painful meditation –she roaming carelessly through life with no thought of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the raven-winged hours. Berenice! –I call upon her name –Berenice! –and from the gray ruins of memory a thousand tumultuous recollections are startled at the sound! Ah! vividly is her image before me now, as in the early days of her light-heartedness and joy! Oh! gorgeous yet fantastic beauty! Oh! sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim! –Oh! Naiad among its fountains! –and then –then all is mystery and terror, and a tale which should not be told. Disease –a fatal disease –fell like the simoom upon her frame, and, even while I gazed upon her, the spirit of change swept, over her, pervading her mind, her habits, and her character, and, in a manner the most subtle and terrible, disturbing even the identity of her person! Alas! the destroyer came and went, and the victim –where was she, I knew her not –or knew her no longer as Berenice.

Among the numerous train of maladies superinduced by that fatal and primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind in the moral and physical being of my cousin, may be mentioned as the most distressing and obstinate in its nature, a species of epilepsy not unfrequently terminating in trance itself –trance very nearly resembling positive dissolution, and from which her manner of recovery was in most instances, startlingly abrupt. In the mean time my own disease –for I have been told that I should call it by no other appelation –my own disease, then, grew rapidly upon me, and assumed finally a monomaniac character of a novel and extraordinary form –hourly and momently gaining vigor –and at length obtaining over me the most incomprehensible ascendancy. This monomania, if I must so term it, consisted in a morbid irritability of those properties of the mind in metaphysical science termed the attentive. It is more than probable that I am not understood; but I fear, indeed, that it is in no manner possible to convey to the mind of the merely general reader, an adequate idea of that nervous intensity of interest with which, in my case, the powers of meditation (not to speak technically) busied and buried themselves, in the contemplation of even the most ordinary objects of the universe.

To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention riveted to some frivolous device on the margin, or in the topography of a book; to become absorbed for the better part of a summer’s day, in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry, or upon the door; to lose myself for an entire night in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a fire; to dream away whole days over the perfume of a flower; to repeat monotonously some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind; to lose all sense of motion or physical existence, by means of absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in; –such were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to anything like analysis or explanation.

Yet let me not be misapprehended. –The undue, earnest, and morbid attention thus excited by objects in their own nature frivolous, must not be confounded in character with th
at ruminating propensity common to all mankind, and more especially indulged in by persons of ardent imagination. It was not even, as might be at first supposed, an extreme condition or exaggeration of such propensity, but primarily and essentially distinct and different. In the one instance, the dreamer, or enthusiast, being interested by an object usually not frivolous, imperceptibly loses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestions issuing therefrom, until, at the conclusion of a day dream often replete with luxury, he finds the incitamentum or first cause of his musings entirely vanished and forgotten. In my case the primary object was invariably frivolous, although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance. Few deductions, if any, were made; and those few pertinaciously returning in upon the original object as a centre. The meditations were never pleasurable; and, at the termination of the reverie, the first cause, so far from being out of sight, had attained that supernaturally exaggerated interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a word, the powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with me, as I have said before, the attentive, and are, with the day-dreamer, the speculative.

My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to irritate the disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in their imaginative and inconsequential nature, of the characteristic qualities of the disorder itself. I well remember, among others, the treatise of the noble Italian Coelius Secundus Curio “de Amplitudine Beati Regni dei”; St. Austin’s great work, the “City of God”; and Tertullian “de Carne Christi,” in which the paradoxical sentence “Mortuus est Dei filius; credible est quia ineptum est: et sepultus resurrexit; certum est quia impossibile est” occupied my undivided time, for many weeks of laborious and fruitless investigation.

Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial things, my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of by Ptolemy Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of human violence, and the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds, trembled only to the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And although, to a careless thinker, it might appear a matter beyond doubt, that the alteration produced by her unhappy malady, in the moral condition of Berenice, would afford me many objects for the exercise of that intense and abnormal meditation whose nature I have been at some trouble in explaining, yet such was not in any degree the case. In the lucid intervals of my infirmity, her calamity, indeed, gave me pain, and, taking deeply to heart that total wreck of her fair and gentle life, I did not fall to ponder frequently and bitterly upon the wonder-working means by which so strange a revolution had been so suddenly brought to pass. But these reflections partook not of the idiosyncrasy of my disease, and were such as would have occurred, under similar circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind. True to its own character, my disorder revelled in the less important but more startling changes wrought in the physical frame of Berenice –in the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal identity.

During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely I had never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings with me, had never been of the heart, and my passions always were of the mind. Through the gray of the early morning –among the trellised shadows of the forest at noonday –and in the silence of my library at night, she had flitted by my eyes, and I had seen her –not as the living and breathing Berenice, but as the Berenice of a dream –not as a being of the earth, earthy, but as the abstraction of such a being-not as a thing to admire, but to analyze –not as an object of love, but as the theme of the most abstruse although desultory speculation. And now –now I shuddered in her presence, and grew pale at her approach; yet bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate condition, I called to mind that she had loved me long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke to her of marriage.

And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when, upon an afternoon in the winter of the year, –one of those unseasonably warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon*, –I sat, (and sat, as I thought, alone,) in the inner apartment of the library. But uplifting my eyes I saw that Berenice stood before me.

*For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice seven days of warmth, men have called this clement and temperate time the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon —Simonides.

Was it my own excited imagination –or the misty influence of the atmosphere –or the uncertain twilight of the chamber –or the gray draperies which fell around her figure –that caused in it so vacillating and indistinct an outline? I could not tell. She spoke no word, I –not for worlds could I have uttered a syllable. An icy chill ran through my frame; a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul; and sinking back upon the chair, I remained for some time breathless and motionless, with my eyes riveted upon her person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige of the former being, lurked in any single line of the contour. My burning glances at length fell upon the face.

The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and the once jetty hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the hollow temples with innumerable ringlets now of a vivid yellow, and Jarring discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the reigning melancholy of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless, and lustreless, and seemingly pupil-less, and I shrank involuntarily from their glassy stare to the contemplation of the thin and shrunken lips. They parted; and in a smile of peculiar meaning, the teeth of the changed Berenice disclosed themselves slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld them, or that, having done so, I had died!

The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found that my cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the disordered chamber of my brain, had not, alas! departed, and would not be driven away, the white and ghastly spectrum of the teeth. Not a speck on their surface –not a shade on their enamel –not an indenture in their edges –but what that period of her smile had sufficed to brand in upon my memory. I saw them now even more unequivocally than I beheld them then. The teeth! –the teeth! –they were here, and there, and everywhere, and visibly and palpably before me; long, narrow, and excessively white, with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very moment of their first terrible development. Then came the full fury of my monomania, and I struggled in vain against its strange and irresistible influence. In the multiplied objects of the external world I had no thoughts but for the teeth. For these I longed with a phrenz
ied desire. All other matters and all different interests became absorbed in their single contemplation. They –they alone were present to the mental eye, and they, in their sole individuality, became the essence of my mental life. I held them in every light. I turned them in every attitude. I surveyed their characteristics. I dwelt upon their peculiarities. I pondered upon their conformation. I mused upon the alteration in their nature. I shuddered as I assigned to them in imagination a sensitive and sentient power, and even when unassisted by the lips, a capability of moral expression. Of Mad’selle Salle it has been well said, “que tous ses pas etaient des sentiments,” and of Berenice I more seriously believed que toutes ses dents etaient des idees. Des idees! –ah here was the idiotic thought that destroyed me! Des idees! –ah therefore it was that I coveted them so madly! I felt that their possession could alone ever restore me to peace, in giving me back to reason.

And the evening closed in upon me thus-and then the darkness came, and tarried, and went –and the day again dawned –and the mists of a second night were now gathering around –and still I sat motionless in that solitary room; and still I sat buried in meditation, and still the phantasma of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy as, with the most vivid hideous distinctness, it floated about amid the changing lights and shadows of the chamber. At length there broke in upon my dreams a cry as of horror and dismay; and thereunto, after a pause, succeeded the sound of troubled voices, intermingled with many low moanings of sorrow, or of pain. I arose from my seat and, throwing open one of the doors of the library, saw standing out in the antechamber a servant maiden, all in tears, who told me that Berenice was –no more. She had been seized with epilepsy in the early morning, and now, at the closing in of the night, the grave was ready for its tenant, and all the preparations for the burial were completed.

I found myself sitting in the library, and again sitting there alone. It seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and exciting dream. I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware that since the setting of the sun Berenice had been interred. But of that dreary period which intervened I had no positive –at least no definite comprehension. Yet its memory was replete with horror –horror more horrible from being vague, and terror more terrible from ambiguity. It was a fearful page in the record my existence, written all over with dim, and hideous, and unintelligible recollections. I strived to decypher them, but in vain; while ever and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed to be ringing in my ears. I had done a deed –what was it? I asked myself the question aloud, and the whispering echoes of the chamber answered me, “what was it?”

On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little box. It was of no remarkable character, and I had seen it frequently before, for it was the property of the family physician; but how came it there, upon my table, and why did I shudder in regarding it? These things were in no manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at length dropped to the open pages of a book, and to a sentence underscored therein. The words were the singular but simple ones of the poet Ebn Zaiat, “Dicebant mihi sodales si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas aliquantulum fore levatas.” Why then, as I perused them, did the hairs of my head erect themselves on end, and the blood of my body become congealed within my veins?

There came a light tap at the library door, and pale as the tenant of a tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were wild with terror, and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky, and very low. What said he? –some broken sentences I heard. He told of a wild cry disturbing the silence of the night –of the gathering together of the household-of a search in the direction of the sound; –and then his tones grew thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violated grave –of a disfigured body enshrouded, yet still breathing, still palpitating, still alive!

He pointed to garments;-they were muddy and clotted with gore. I spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand; –it was indented with the impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some object against the wall; –I looked at it for some minutes; –it was a spade. With a shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the box that lay upon it. But I could not force it open; and in my tremor it slipped from my hands, and fell heavily, and burst into pieces; and from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled with thirty-two small, white and ivory-looking substances that were scattered to and fro about the floor.

Bhagavad-Gita (Chapter 1)

30 Thursday Oct 2008

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in BC, Bhagavad-Gita, Indian, Religion

≈ 3 Comments



Krishna and Arjuna
Krishna and Arjuna on the battlefield at Kurukshetra


Bhagavad-Gita, chapter 1
“Of the Distress of Arjuna”
Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold (1885)


Dhritirashtra. Ranged thus for battle on the sacred plain-
On Kurukshetra- say, Sanjaya! say
What wrought my people, and the Pandavas?
Sanjaya. When he beheld the host of Pandavas,
Raja Duryodhana to Drona drew,
And spake these words: “Ah, Guru! see this line,
How vast it is of Pandu fighting-men,
Embattled by the son of Drupada,
Thy scholar in the war! Therein stand ranked
Chiefs like Arjuna, like to Bhima chiefs,
Benders of bows; Virata, Yuyudhan,
Drupada, eminent upon his car,
Dhrishtaket, Chekitan, Kasi’s stout lord,
Purujit, Kuntibhoj, and Saivya,
With Yudhamanyu, and Uttamauj
Subhadra’s child; and Drupadi’s;- all famed!
All mounted on their shining chariots!
On our side, too,- thou best of Brahmans! see
Excellent chiefs, commanders of my line,
Whose names I joy to count: thyself the first,
Then Bhishma, Karna, Kripa fierce in fight,
Vikarna, Aswatthaman; next to these
Strong Saumadatti, with full many more
Valiant and tried, ready this day to die
For me their king, each with his weapon grasped,
Each skilful in the field. Weakest- meseems-
Our battle shows where Bhishma holds command,
And Bhima, fronting him, something too strong!
Have care our captains nigh to Bhishma’s ranks
Prepare what help they may! Now, blow my shell!”


Then, at the signal of the aged king,
With blare to wake the blood, rolling around
Like to a lion’s roar, the trumpeter
Blew the great Conch; and, at the noise of it,
Trumpets and drums, cymbals and gongs and horns
Burst into sudden clamour; as the blasts
Of loosened tempest, such the tumult seemed!
Then might be seen, upon their car of gold
Yoked with white steeds, blowing their battle-shells,
Krishna the God, Arjuna at his side:
Krishna, with knotted locks, blew his great conch
Carved of the “Giant’s bone;” Arjuna blew
Indra’s loud gift; Bhima the terrible-
Wolf-bellied Bhima- blew a long reed-conch;
And Yudhisthira, Kunti’s blameless son,
Winded a mighty shell, “Victory’s Voice;”
And Nakula blew shrill upon his conch
Named the “Sweet-sounding,” Sahadev on his
Called “Gem-bedecked,” and Kasi’s Prince on his.
Sikhandi on his car, Dhrishtadyumn,
Virata, Satyaki the Unsubdued,
Drupada, with his sons, (O Lord of Earth!)
Long-armed Subhadra’s children, all blew loud,
So that the clangour shook their foemen’s hearts,
With quaking earth and thundering heav’n.
Then ’twas-
Beholding Dhritirashtra’s battle set,
Weapons unsheathing, bows drawn forth, the war
Instant to break- Arjun, whose ensign-badge
Was Hanuman the monkey, spake this thing
To Krishna the Divine, his charioteer:
“Drive, Dauntless One! to yonder open ground
Betwixt the armies; I would see more nigh
These who will fight with us, those we must slay
To-day, in war’s arbitrament; for, sure,
On bloodshed all are bent who throng this plain,
Obeying Dhritirashtra’s sinful son.”


Thus, by Arjuna prayed, (O Bharata!)
Between the hosts that heavenly Charioteer
Drove the bright car, reining its milk-white steeds
Where Bhishma led, and Drona, and their Lords.
“See!” spake he to Arjuna, “where they stand,
Thy kindred of the Kurus:” and the Prince
Marked on each hand the kinsmen of his house,
Grandsires and sires, uncles and brothers and sons,
Cousins and sons-in-law and nephews, mixed
With friends and honoured elders; some this side,
Some that side ranged: and, seeing those opposed,
Such kith grown enemies- Arjuna’s heart
Melted with pity, while he uttered this:
Arjuna. Krishna! as I behold, come here to shed
Their common blood, yon concourse of our kin,
My members fail, my tongue dries in my mouth,
A shudder thrills my body, and my hair
Bristles with horror; from my weak hand slips
Gandiv, the goodly bow; a fever burns
My skin to parching; hardly may I stand;
The life within me seems to swim and faint;
Nothing do I foresee save woe and wail!
It is not good, O Keshav! nought of good
Can spring from mutual slaughter! Lo, I hate
Triumph and domination, wealth and ease,
Thus sadly won! Aho! what victory
Can bring delight, Govinda! what rich spoils
Could profit; what rule recompense; what span
Of life itself seem sweet, bought with such blood?
Seeing that these stand here, ready to die,
For whose sake life was fair, and pleasure pleased,
And power grew precious:- grandsires, sires, and sons,
Brothers, and fathers-in-law, and sons-in-law,
Elders and friends! Shall I deal death on these
Even though they seek to slay us? Not one blow,
O Madhusudan! will I strike to gain
The rule of all Three Worlds; then, how much less
To seize an earthly kingdom! Killing these
Must breed but anguish, Krishna! If they be
Guilty, we shall grow guilty by their deaths;
Their sins will light on us, if we shall slay
Those sons of Dhritirashtra, and our kin;
What peace could come of that, O Madhava?
For if indeed, blinded by lust and wrath,
These cannot see, or will not see, the sin
Of kingly lines o’erthrown and kinsmen slain,
How should not we, who see, shun such a crime-
We who perceive the guilt and feel the shame-
O thou Delight of Men, Janardana?
By overthrow of houses perisheth
Their sweet continuous household piety,
And- rites neglected, piety extinct-
Enters impiety upon that home;
Its women grow unwomaned, whence there spring
Mad passions, and the mingling-up of castes,
Sending a Hell-ward road that family,
And whoso wrought its doom by wicked wrath.
Nay, and the souls of honoured ancestors
Fall from their place of peace, being bereft
Of funeral-cakes and the wan death-water.
So teach our holy hymns. Thus, if we slay
Kinsfolk and friends for love of earthly power,
Ahovat! what an evil fault it were!
Better I deem it, if my kinsmen strike,
To face them weaponless, and bare my breast
To shaft and spear, than answer blow with blow.


So speaking, in the face of those two hosts,
Arjuna sank upon his chariot-seat,
And let fall bow and arrows, sick at heart.



HERE ENDETH CHAPTER I OF THE
BHAGAVAD-GITA,
Entitled “Arjun-Vishad,”
Or “The Book of the Distress of Arjuna.”



* * *

Other translations:

  

Monday or Tuesday (by Virginia Woolf)

30 Thursday Oct 2008

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Short Stories, Woolf (Virginia)

≈ 8 Comments



Virginia Woolf

Monday or Tuesday
by Virginia Woolf (1921)

Lazy and indifferent, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing his way, the heron passes over the church beneath the sky. White and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers, moves and remains. A lake? Blot the shores of it out! A mountain? Oh, perfect­ the sun gold on its slopes. Down that falls. Ferns then, or white feathers, for ever and ever­ —

Desiring truth, awaiting it, laboriously distilling a few words, for ever desiring — ­(a cry starts to the left, another to the right. Wheels strike divergently. Omnibuses conglomerate in conflict)­ — for ever desiring­ — (the clock asseverates with twelve distinct strokes that it is mid-day; light sheds gold scales; children swarm)­ — for ever desiring truth. Red is the dome; coins hang on the trees; smoke trails from the chimneys; bark, shout, cry “Iron for sale” — ­and truth?

Radiating to a point men’s feet and women’s feet, black or gold-encrusted — ­(This foggy weather — ­Sugar? No, thank you — ­The commonwealth of the future)­ — the firelight darting and making the room red, save for the black figures and their bright eyes, while outside a van discharges, Miss Thingummy drinks tea at her desk, and plate-glass preserves fur coats­ —

Flaunted, leaf-light, drifting at corners, blown across the wheels, silver-splashed, home or not home, gathered, scattered, squandered in separate scales, swept up, down, torn, sunk, assembled — ­and truth?

Now to recollect by the fireside on the white square of marble. From ivory depths words rising shed their blackness, blossom and penetrate. Fallen the book; in the flame, in the smoke, in the momentary sparks — ­or now voyaging, the marble square pendant, minarets beneath and the Indian seas, while space rushes blue and stars glint­ — truth? or now, content with closeness?

Lazy and indifferent the heron returns; the sky veils her stars; then bares them.




* * * * *


   

The Wandering White (by d.a. levy)

29 Wednesday Oct 2008

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Cleveland, levy (d.a), Writing

≈ 2 Comments



d.a. levy, Cleveland poet
d.a. levy
(10/29/1942 – 11/24/1968)


the wandering white

Tulips burst their languid lips
Riveras Lenin leaps up to world chaos of fresco
shattering        HAMMERS
Sombre ugly tongue of protest

if it is too tired to yell
or put it down on paper
slap it in the coughing crib
or laugh it silently
who hears it anyway?
except snakes rippling knives of grass

the blasphemy of your necessity
nigger – jew – faggot – wop
indian squaw we conned the country from your innocence
raped you with cut glass and catholic beads

We Learned So Fast
We Forgot The Weight
Of Lions Eyes

Spic don’t lay my sister
Chink dont poison my eggroll
Brother dont look me face to face
the color never washes out but the HATE of it IS
ivy entwining limestone
CRUMBLES

of our death
We Learned So Fast
to forget the scars

We are only clouds that darken
and rains of suffering on ourselves
cast urgent shadows in our paths
we pile our precious gems
they SPARKLE – reflect a melange of
color in the sand    our dreams wash
away with the brutal surf
we understand            yet
Build Our Dams anyway

We Learned So Fast
We Forgot The Weight
Of Lions Eyes


* * * * *

taken from ukanhavyrfuckinciti bak
originally collected and edited by rjs and
published by t.l. kryss, GHOST PRESS CLEVELAND, 1967

since d.a. levy rejected copyright as “copyrot,” you may freely reproduce and pass on his work

* * * * *

To view an inspired video of Jesus Crisis reading levy’s work please visit
http://crisisblog.crisischronicles.com/2008/07/25/jesus-da-levytates-on-video.aspx

For more d.a. levy, check out the page clevelandmemory.org has devoted to him.
Another excellent resource can be found at www.clevelandpoetryarchive.com

for even more by or about d.a. levy, please check out these:

   

to jim lowells goldfish (by d.a. levy)

29 Wednesday Oct 2008

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Cleveland, levy (d.a), Writing

≈ 2 Comments



d.a. levy, Cleveland poet
d.a. levy
(10/29/1942 – 11/24/1968)


to jim lowells goldfish

there is little or nothing
of the minds nightwork
so there is pretending & amusement
a goldfish in a toilet bowl
a piece of the captured sun
the heart of a melons wisdom

if of the Spanish marauders
a ripping up of alabaster by its iron roots
carries this treasure off to store in a
galleon that is to die young

instead, i anchor him with old memories
and change his water by day
he thinks it is the tide



* * * * *

taken from ukanhavyrfuckinciti bak
originally collected and edited by rjs and
published by t.l. kryss, GHOST PRESS CLEVELAND, 1967

since d.a. levy rejected copyright as “copyrot,” you may freely reproduce and pass on his work

* * * * *

To view an inspired video of Jesus Crisis reading levy’s work please visit
http://crisisblog.crisischronicles.com/2008/07/25/jesus-da-levytates-on-video.aspx

For more d.a. levy, check out the page clevelandmemory.org has devoted to him.
Another excellent resource can be found at www.clevelandpoetryarchive.com

for even more by or about d.a. levy, please check out these:

   

Kisses (by d.a. levy)

29 Wednesday Oct 2008

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Cleveland, levy (d.a), Writing

≈ 6 Comments



d.a. levy, Cleveland poet
d.a. levy
(10/29/1942 – 11/24/1968)


kisses
we tried to save
pressed in books
like flowers from
a sun warmed day
only
years later to
open yellowing pages
to find those same
kisses – wilted and dry



* * * * *

taken from ukanhavyrfuckinciti bak
originally collected and edited by rjs and
published by t.l. kryss, GHOST PRESS CLEVELAND, 1967

since d.a. levy rejected copyright as “copyrot,” you may freely reproduce and pass on his work

* * * * *

To view an inspired video of Jesus Crisis reading levy’s work please visit
http://crisisblog.crisischronicles.com/2008/07/25/jesus-da-levytates-on-video.aspx

For more d.a. levy, check out the page clevelandmemory.org has devoted to him.
Another excellent resource can be found at www.clevelandpoetryarchive.com

for even more by or about d.a. levy, please check out these:

   

Lady A (by d.a. levy)

29 Wednesday Oct 2008

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Cleveland, levy (d.a), Writing

≈ 6 Comments



d.a. levy, Cleveland poet
d.a. levy
(10/29/1942 – 11/24/1968)


Lady A

lady a
something of you
catches in my throat
on a sunday afternoon
it is raining silence
i could scream
                        when
something of you
miles away dances
into my mind
and i wonder
what you are thinking
in the back of your head
miles away
that makes me wonder
Lady A
Lady A
the silence is soft
as kissing your cheek
in the dark of our mind
something of you
needs the miles away
to remember
something of us
reaches out in the
silence



* * * * *

taken from ukanhavyrfuckinciti bak
originally collected and edited by rjs and
published by t.l. kryss, GHOST PRESS CLEVELAND, 1967

since d.a. levy rejected copyright as “copyrot,” you may freely reproduce and pass on his work

* * * * *

To view an inspired video of Jesus Crisis reading levy’s work please visit
http://crisisblog.crisischronicles.com/2008/07/25/jesus-da-levytates-on-video.aspx

For more d.a. levy, check out the page clevelandmemory.org has devoted to him.

Another excellent resource can be found at www.clevelandpoetryarchive.com

for even more by or about d.a. levy, please check out these:

   

THE river (by d.a. levy)

29 Wednesday Oct 2008

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Cleveland, levy (d.a), Writing

≈ 3 Comments



d.a. levy, Cleveland poet
d.a. levy
(10/29/1942 – 11/24/1968)


THE river

a hanging of valley
    shadows itself
and tortures its unknown

springs its hunger forth
    and flames into its
        fasting cup.

makes love to its ancestors
in the grace of a tombstone
            caress.

worries a leap of shale
    with its winding
        tongue

plunges down a ravine
    of afterthought-
shudders its ribs on rock;

then gasps and carries itself 
            away.




* * * * *

taken from ukanhavyrfuckinciti bak
originally collected and edited by rjs and
published by t.l. kryss, GHOST PRESS CLEVELAND, 1967

since d.a. levy rejected copyright as “copyrot”
you may freely reproduce and pass on his work


* * * * *

To view an inspired video of Jesus Crisis reading levy’s work please visit
http://crisisblog.crisischronicles.com/2008/07/25/jesus-da-levytates-on-video.aspx

For more d.a. levy, check out the page clevelandmemory.org has devoted to him.

Another excellent resource can be found at www.clevelandpoetryarchive.com

for even more by or about d.a. levy, please check out these:

   

First Fig (by Edna St. Vincent Millay)

28 Tuesday Oct 2008

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Millay (Edna St. Vincent), Writing

≈ 3 Comments




photo of the poet by Carl Van Vechten (1933)


First Fig
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
from A Few Figs from Thistles (1920)


My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends–
It gives a lovely light!




* * *


   

Translations from the Spanish, “El Romancero” (by W.C. Williams)

28 Tuesday Oct 2008

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Williams (William Carlos), Writing

≈ 2 Comments


young William Carlos Williams


Translations from the Spanish, “El Romancero”
by William Carlos Williams
[from The Tempers (1913)]


                            I

Although you do your best to regard me
With an air seeming offended,
Never can you deny, when all’s ended,
Calm eyes, that you did regard me.

However much you’re at pains to
Offend me, by which I may suffer,
What offence is there can make up for
The great good he finds who attains you?
For though with mortal fear you reward me,
Until my sorry sense is plenished,
Never can you deny, when all’s ended,
Calm eyes, that you did regard me.

Thinking thus to dismay me
You beheld me with disdain,
But instead of destroying the gain,
In fact with doubled good you paid me.
For though you show them how hardly
They keep off from leniency bended,
Never can you deny, when all’s ended,
Calm eyes, that you did regard me.


                            II

Ah, little green eyes
Ah, little eyes of mine,
Ah, Heaven be willing
That you think of me somewise.

The day of departure
You cam full of grieving
And to see I was leaving
The tears ‘gan to start sure
With the heavy torture
Of sorrows unbrightened
When you lie down at night and
When there to you dreams rise,
Ah, Heaven be willing
That you think of me somewise.

Deep is my assurance
Of you, little green eyes,
That in truth you realize
Something of my durance
Eyes of hope’s fair assurance
And good premonition
By virtue of whose condition
All green colors I prize.
Ah, Heaven be willing
That you think of me somewise.

Would God I might know you
To which quarter bended
And why comprehended
When sighings overflow you,
And if you must go through
Some certain despair,
For that you lose his care
Who was faithful always.
Ah, Heaven be willing
That you think of me these days.

Though never a moment
I’ve known how to live lest
All my thoughts but as one pressed
You-ward for their concernment.
May God send chastisement
If in this I belie me
And if it truth be
My own little green eyes.
Ah, Heaven be willing
That you think of me somewise.


                            III

Poplars of the meadow,
Fountains of Madrid,
Now I am absent from you
All are slandering me.

Each of you is telling
How evil my chance is
The wind among the branches,
The fountains in their welling
To every one telling
You were happy to see.
Now I am absent from you
All are slandering me.

With good right I may wonder
For that at my last leaving
The plants with sighs heaving
And the waters in tears were.
That you played double, never
Thought I this could be,
Now I am absent from you
All are slandering me.

There full in your presence
Music you sought to waken,
Later I’m forsaken
Since you are ware of my absence.
God, wilt Thou give me patience
Here while suffer I ye,
Now I am absent from you
All are slandering me.


                            IV

The day draweth nearer,
And morrow ends our meeting,
Ere they take thee sleeping
Be up–away, my treasure!

Soft, leave her breasts all unheeded,
Far hence though the master still remaineth!
For soon uptil our earth regaineth
The sun all embraces dividing.
N’er grew pleasure all unimpeded,
N’er was delight lest passion won,
And to the wise man the fit occasion
Has not yet refused a full measure:
Be up–away my treasure!

If that my love thy bosom inflameth
With honest purpose and just intention,
To free me from my soul’s contention
Give over joys the day shameth;
Who thee lameth he also me lameth,
And my good grace builds all in thy good grace;
Be up–away!  Fear leaveth place,
That thou art here, no more unto pleasure,
Be up–away, my treasure!

Although thou with a sleep art wresting,
‘Tis rightful thou bringst it close,
That of the favor one meeting shows
An hundred may hence be attesting.
‘Tis fitting too thou shouldst be mindful
That the ease which we lose now, in kind, full
Many a promise holds for our leisure;
Ere they take thee sleeping;
Be up–away, my treasure!



* * *


    

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