Poem of the Day A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island by: Frank O'Hara
The Sun woke me this morning loud and clear, saying "Hey! I've been trying to wake you up for fifteen minutes. Don't be so rude, you are only the second poet I've ever chosen to speak to personally
so why aren't you more attentive? If I could burn you through the window I would to wake you up. I can't hang around here all day."
"Sorry, Sun, I stayed up late last night talking to Hal."
"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was a lot more prompt" the Sun said petulantly. "Most people are up already waiting to see if I'm going to put in an appearance."
I tried to apologize "I missed you yesterday." "That's better" he said. "I didn't know you'd come out." "You may be wondering why I've come so close?" "Yes" I said beginning to feel hot wondering if maybe he wasn't burning me anyway.
"Frankly I wanted to tell you I like your poetry. I see a lot on my rounds and you're okay. You may not be the greatest thing on earth, but you're different. Now, I've heard some say you're crazy, they being excessively calm themselves to my mind, and other crazy poets think that you're a boring reactionary. Not me.
Just keep on like I do and pay no attention. You'll find that people always will complain about the atmosphere, either too hot or too cold too bright or too dark, days too short or too long.
If you don't appear at all one day they think you're lazy or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.
And don't worry about your lineage poetic or natural. The Sun shines on the jungle, you know, on the tundra the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting for you to get to work.
And now that you are making your own days, so to speak, even if no one reads you but me you won't be depressed. Not everyone can look up, even at me. It hurts their eyes." "Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!" "Thanks and remember I'm watching. It's easier for me to speak to you out here. I don't have to slide down between buildings to get your ear. I know you love Manhattan, but you ought to look up more often.
And always embrace things, people earth sky stars, as I do, freely and with the appropriate sense of space. That is your inclination, known in the heavens and you should follow it to hell, if necessary, which I doubt.
Maybe we'll speak again in Africa, of which I too am specially fond. Go back to sleep now Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem in that brain of yours as my farewell."
"Sun, don't go!" I was awake at last. "No, go I must, they're calling me." "Who are they?"
Rising he said "Some day you'll know. They're calling to you too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.
Picture of the Day
Movie of the Day
The Fall (2006)
In a hospital on the outskirts of 1920s Los Angeles, an injured stuntman begins to tell a fellow patient, a little girl with a broken arm, a fantastic story of five mythical heroes. Thanks to his fractured state of mind and her vivid imagination, the line between fiction and reality blurs as the tale advances.
"We are so arrogant, aren't we? So afraid of age, we do everything we can to prevent it. We don't realize what a privilege it is to grow old with someone. Someone who doesn't drive you to commit murder or doesn't humiliate you beyond all repair."
-P.S I love you
Poem of the Day
Rhapsody on a Windy Night by T.S Eliot
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."
The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
The last twist of the knife.
Picture of the Day
Perhaps the movie of the day could be The Princess Bride? Just a thought :)
[Vizzini has just cut the rope The Dread Pirate Roberts is climbing up]
Vizzini:
HE DIDN'T FALL? INCONCEIVABLE. Inigo Montoya:
You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
Ok, here is the plan Stan. Starting October 1, 2013 I am
starting a classic horror movie marathon. After each movie I will blog about
what I/my cat thought of each movie. Feel free to join in/or make any movie suggestions.
September is a magical month. It embodies both Summer and
Fall. August is set firmly in Summer and October is set firmly in Fall. There isn't any other month out of the year where this is so. An interesting thought, isn't it?
Song of the Day
Quote of the Day
Poem of the Day
Elegiac Stanzas by: William Wordsworth
Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, From the dread summit of the Queen Of mountains, through a deep ravine, Where, in her holy chapel, dwells "Our Lady of the Snow."
The sky was blue, the air was mild; Free were the streams and green the bowers; As if, to rough assaults unknown, The genial spot had 'ever' shown A countenance that as sweetly smiled-- The face of summer-hours.
And we were gay, our hearts at ease; With pleasure dancing through the frame We journeyed; all we knew of care-- Our path that straggled here and there; Of trouble--but the fluttering breeze; Of Winter--but a name.
If foresight could have rent the veil Of three short days--but hush--no more! Calm is the grave, and calmer none Than that to which thy cares are gone, Thou Victim of the stormy gale; Asleep on ZURICH'S shore!
O GODDARD! what art thou?--a name-- A sunbeam followed by a shade! Nor more, for aught that time supplies, The great, the experienced, and the wise: Too much from this frail earth we claim, And therefore are betrayed.
We met, while festive mirth ran wild, Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, A sea-green river, proud to lave, With current swift and undefiled, The towers of old LUCERNE.
We parted upon solemn ground Far-lifted towards the unfading sky; But all our thoughts were 'then' of Earth, That gives to common pleasures birth; And nothing in our hearts we found That prompted even a sigh.
Fetch, sympathising Powers of air, Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, Herbs, moistened by Virginian dew, A most untimely grave to strew, Whose turf may never know the care Of 'kindred' human hands!
Beloved by every gentle Muse He left his Transatlantic home: Europe, a realised romance, Had opened on his eager glance; What present bliss!--what golden views! What stores for years to come!
Though lodged within no vigorous frame, His soul her daily tasks renewed, Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings High poised--or as the wren that sings In shady places, to proclaim Her modest gratitude.
Not vain is sadly-uttered praise; The words of truth's memorial vow Are sweet as morning fragrance shed From flowers 'mid GOLDAU'S ruins bred; As evening's fondly-lingering rays, On RIGHI'S silent brow.
Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay Fit obsequies the Stranger paid; And piety shall guard the Stone Which hath not left the spot unknown Where the wild waves resigned their prey-- And 'that' which marks thy bed.
And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, Lost Youth! a solitary Mother; This tribute from a casual Friend A not unwelcome aid may lend, To feed the tender luxury, The rising pang to smother.
