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Transpositional Poetry

   B. A. Ramsey
R, ‘E, P, ‘O, S, ‘E

T’, R’, ‘A, ‘N’, ‘S, ‘P, ‘O, ‘S, ‘I, T’, ‘I, O, ‘N, ‘A, ‘L, ‘P, O, ‘E, ‘M, ‘S!

This was the Doctrine of Pythagoras…, that no Real Entity perishes

in Corruptions, nor is produced in Generations, but only new

Modifications and Transpositions made.


Cudworth, 1678.


Dedicated to: My Friends At The Rivoli - Queen St., Toronto



To a young boy that was perhaps approaching puberty, such as once was the author, B. A. Ramsey, the suggestion of the seventies' glam rock generation that satellites, which nowadays are taken for granted, but then perhaps a "wagon wheel", that we were not quite sure of, except 'spoke-spoke' might have a say about something of this "Thin White Duke" - if a friend could be acknowledged - if, moreover, a fantasticor could be now- who is found in his right mind, and "mere imagination", a bias of Oxford University no less, might well have informed a generation, inspite of the fact that western governments are launching satellites into space that only naturally fall down after they serve to 'transform' (and never should be more proper to say 'transpond') a New York conversation, "rattling in my head." So, what’s space debris? Just what falls back to the earth. Then, goodnight Ladies, because its Saturday Night - and, in some respects "Fever", anyway.

    Or, after all, a synonym of "palimpsest"; if mathematically speaking, a transform is accurately an expression derived from another by tranformation. Indeed, if it were ever going to be a 'satellite of love', a gang of us peanuts would certainly know that it was less about the English Channel, and all future transpondence, to say the least.

     Poor David Bowie felt that fans my age just wanted television and the future of his performance was at stake, but it didn't take much for me or my own generation to say that we were more or less heroes, anyway.  So David, let's face it, if "television channel" is too hard to sing in blues chord progression, it must just be this TVC with a number attached to it. And, believe it or not, B. A. Ramsey's present room, is blue, and electric, because he's wired for sound, finally.

    If television can "transform", why must a satellite 'transpond'. A few of us wondered then, and why they were always right; then what happened, did B. A. Ramsey like the Doors too much when he discovered great sex in high school, and ask "Who scared you?" San Francisco genocide? Or just some Rocky Horror? Or a legislature throughout the world that has to understand a Lex Regina rather than the less sinister, Lex Rex.

    What is a transponder? "The unit in the IFF [Identification, Friend or Foe] system that receives the challenge, and automatically transmits the reply." [Army and Navy Journal, 1945.]

   "I've been told that you've been bold with Harry, Mark, and John/ Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, to Thursday, with Harry, Mark, and John" - or T-Rex, I only know.

    Or, perhaps B. A. Ramsey is ghost writer for the 'Black Spider Papers', because that Prince of Wales said that shall suffice.

   But how can I ever get Olivia Newton John into bed when Sandy's skin tight trousers in Grease were only a special effect and no fashion like that then existed?

    Tell me more...

B. A. R.

13 Apr. 2015


   (And as for you Kid-dos, it was always Café au Lait in a bowl, and all the style I tag, anyhow.)



Often one has added to their words another meaning, the nature of which has alluded the hearer and the speaker all together; yet, has, in its meaning, discovered unto itself, that words contain phrases, and phrases contain poems, though oftentimes it is said to be the other way around. In Truth! The other way, though it is off the beaten road, has a nearer place Transpositionally. That I have considered both, shall, with some consideration, in a few moments, become evident: As, with reflection, comes the idea perceived, to any who reflect, on their perception. Yet, nearer to this ‘p, ‘os, i, ‘t, i’, on! comes another word. This word, though it is used across positions, may not, in its place, connote, though near, a separate, area: : Though a work of art be without a frame, the position of said art, is defined. It is with this in mind, that we read these poems, ‘My, last.’


To Summon the blast from a Cannon,

To Vouch Applause, a burst;

A wonderful word in safety,

I Vouchsafe this Poem to You.

I condescend to Give to You,

From the black box in the wall,

A few measured lines of solitude,

My Pledge, my Promise, my Oath.

When Night descends on solitude,

When Day becomes the Sun,

Take up these words in serpentine,

And Carve out Meaning, Lavender, and, Green.

In quiet Dedication,

I Repose in You, Dear Reader;

That, I may repose.

A, ‘L, W’, A, Y, S.


S’, u’, m, ‘m, ‘e, r, show, ‘er, ‘o, L’, o, ‘s, t!

H’, o, p’, e, s’, u’, m, ‘m, ‘e, r, show, ‘er, ‘o, L’, o, ‘s, t!


H’, o, p’, e, ‘a, ‘l, ‘l, w, ‘ay, ‘s, ‘r, ‘em, ‘em, ‘b, ‘e, r.

‘A, ‘l, ‘l, w, ‘ay, ‘s.

C, ‘Raw, ‘L.

‘Ou, ‘T!


‘Craw, ‘l!

‘Ou, ‘t.

‘E, ‘ar, ‘w, i’, g, ‘c, ‘raw, ‘l, ‘ou, ‘t!

‘O, f.

M’, y, ‘e, ‘ar, y’, ou, ‘a, ‘re, t’, he, ni, ‘ght, s’, ou, ‘nd, ‘s.

I’, do, n’, ot, ‘w, i, sh!


‘T, o, ‘he, ‘ar.

F’, r, ‘om, ‘und, ‘er, ne, ‘at, ‘h, m’, y, c’, ov’, er’, s, d’, raw, ‘n, ‘u, p!

‘A, n’, d, ‘ov, ‘er, m’, y, ‘h, ‘ead.

‘Craw, ‘l, ‘ou, ‘t, ‘E, ‘ar, ‘w, i’, g, t’, h, ‘ough.

I’, s’, leep, y’, ou, ‘r, wor, ‘l, d.


I’, s, d’, ead, ‘Ni, ‘ght, ‘s, C’, o, ‘mf, ‘or, ‘t, c’, all, ‘s, t’, o, y’, ou?

O’, ut, ‘side, t’, he, w’, i, nd, ‘o, ‘w?

T’, he, b’, re, ‘eze?

C’, o’, ol.

I’, n, September!

F’, all, craw’, l, ou, ‘t, Sir?

M’, ad’, am?



‘Craw, ‘l, ‘ou, ‘t, ‘E, ‘ar, ‘w, i’, g, ‘c, ‘raw, ‘l, ‘ou, ‘t.

T’, h, ‘ough, I, ‘w, e, ‘e, p, y’, ou, a’, re, n’, ot!

‘S, a’, fe, i’, n, he, ‘re, I’, c, ‘raw, ‘l.

O’, ut!

T’, i’, l, l, I’, s, ‘l, e, ‘e, p!

‘W, At, ‘Ching, W, ‘Or, D, S!

` 1.

‘W, at, ‘ching, w, ‘or, d, s, f’, all, ‘ing, ‘o, n, t’, he, p’, age.

W’, as, ‘tel, ‘es’, s.

W’, or, d, s, dim, ‘in, u, ‘end, ‘o.

T’, o, a, ‘ton, ‘gue, less, v’, o, ‘i, ce, a, s’, ound, n’, ot, ‘un, ‘he, ‘ar, d, yet, n’, ot, ‘he, ‘ar, d,

[a’, h’, um.

A, ‘wh, ‘i, r, r, n’, ot.

A, ‘wh, ‘i, s, per, ‘b, ut, a, breath.


‘In, c’, oh, ‘e, r, ‘ant, mean, ‘ing, ‘less, ‘such, ‘w, ‘o, ‘u, l, d, b’, e.

N’, o.

S’, m, ‘all, ‘h, ‘e, ro, ‘ic, ‘f, ‘eat!

T’, he, IDIOT , ‘sp, ‘ews, t’, he, ‘des, pair, ‘ing.

F’, E, ‘A, RS, WHAT .

T’, he, poet, ‘s, e, ‘e, k, s.



D’, o, e, s, THEE ?


B’, roke, ‘n, l’, e, ‘tt, er, k’, e, ‘y.

M’, ean, ‘o, ‘nl, ‘y! B’, y, i’, t, ‘s, w, ‘or, k’, ing, ‘t, eam.

O’, n’, l, y, b’, y, i’, ts, pal’, ate, ‘we, touch;

IT , t’, hough, IT , s’, peaks!

“Through its members we touch the BROKENLETTERKEY .

‘T, ‘ear, ‘s, S’, Hall.

O’, Ut, L’, Ast, ‘T, ‘His, P’, Ow, Er, Ful, R, ‘hyme.


‘T, ‘ear, ‘s, ‘s, ‘hall!

O’, ut, ‘last, ‘t, his, p’, ow, ‘er, ful, r’, hyme, r’, unning.

D’, own, t’, he, ‘m, on, ‘u, ment;

‘U, p, ‘on, t’, he, l’, i, ‘mb, ‘s, o’, f, t’, he, b’, ody;

O’, f, t’, he, e’, lm!

U’, p, ‘on, g, ‘reat, l’, eaves, t’, hat, h’, i’, de.

T’, he, d’, ew;

T’, his, r’, hyme;

P’, re, ‘serves, a’, nd, f’, all, ‘s, ‘s, hort, i’, n, i’, t, ‘s, t’, ime?


W’, or, ‘th, ‘i, s, n’, ot, ‘a, ‘cat, ‘e, pillar;

‘U, ‘p, ‘on, t’, he, c’, ool, leaf!

S’, en, ‘se, ‘i, ‘s, n’, ot;

T’, he, l’, imbs, t’, hat, up’, hold, ‘s, t’, he, w’, or, ‘ds;

E’, t, ch, ‘ed, i’, n, t’, he, c’, old, a, ‘nd, ‘h, ‘ar, ‘d, m, ‘on, ‘u, ment, t’, hat,

[w, ‘eep, ‘s, n’, ot, n’, or, do, ‘es, i’, t, speak!

Chapter 2

M’y T’he’Y ‘Ar’e D’i’spe’rs’ed

M’ye’yes’a’re‘a thou’s’an’d’ birds

M’y thou’ghts’the’ir’hu’ng’ry mo’uths,





























Do I act

If my actions

Are my own my’st’e’r’y?


















T’ha’t ‘i’n’ac’qu’i’e’scen’ce’i’s’m’y’wi’ll.




Spi’n. Mea’sure. C’ut.

Sh’es’sh’all’me’te’wh’at’I’ se’w.


My Eyes Are Not Satisfied With Seeing


satisfied, with seeing

The wash of tears.

My eyes are not satisfied with, seeing,

The dew of redemption.

Even manna incarnated:

My eyes, darken;

Sight, in, a falling, tear.


Trouble without,

Inward the scent.

Outward the wilderness,

Inside the hearth.

The food tastes good.

Without, we walk

Without, fear.

The food tastes good:

The scent in the wilderness.

Tears Shall Outlast This Powerful Rhyme

Tears shall outlast this powerful rhyme

Running down the monument.

On the limbs of the body of the elm,

On great leaves that hide the dew,

This rhyme preserves and falls short

In its time.

Worth is not a caterpillar on the cool leaf:

Sense is not the limbs;

That upholds the words, etched,

In the cold;

And, hard, monument,

That weeps not,

Nor does it speak.

Gander Not The Things Up High

Gander, not:

The things up high,

My hooting friend.

With perusing eyes

There is little in the sun.

For you, there,

Is more precisely,


Fly, by your tree,

In the moonlit sky;

And, down;

Face, down.

That significant, mouse?

Very Quickly It Will Be Over With Thee

Very quickly it will be;

Over with thee!

Here here!

Your love is in forgetfulness

Of things to come, and soon,

Like day, it passes away.

Think, not, of what tommorow

May bring, but, know, in every action,

Is the consummation of death.

The setting sun,

The night sky.

A red or clear dawn.

What hope will do

For you when you are gone:

It soon falters like the memories.

You leave behind,

Your love is,

In forgetfulness,

Of things to come,

And those,

Which pass away.

Ah happy death:

To know.

Each night shall be my last.

To know, my earthly covers,

My eyes,

Toward heaven.

My heart,

A bird:

I know not

Where it flies.


From expectancy;

A long life.

And in a moment,

A breath.

A happy death.

Rest now, my eyes, this earthly sphere,

Rest now, my troubled, thoughts,

For my solvent is prepared;

Drink. I cease, it. Leave.

Do Not Ask What Time Of Day

Do not ask what time of day,

Our hour is with us,

We two,

Riding its wave,

Unknown to the world,

Unknown of time,

In Grace,

And when we rise,

Between eve and break of day,

Between twilight and dark, sun and rain,

It shall be,

And we shall,

Know the time of day.

Crawl Out

Crawl out, Earwig, crawl out:

Of my ear, you are the night,

Sounds I do not, wish to hear.

From underneath, my covers,

Drawn up, and over, my head,

Crawl out, Earwig, though you sleep,

Your world is dead.

Night’s comfort calls,

To you, outside the window,

The breeze, cool, in September,

Fall. Crawl out, Sir, Madam, please.

Crawl out, Earwig, crawl out,

Though I weep, you are not safe in here,

I crawl out, till I sleep.

Of Greatness

What is in this, Ness?

Is that who is Great,

An instance of Greatness,

Or Greatness, an instance of Great?

An instance of Great,

An instance,

A moment is perpetuated,

Relentlessly, is set

As a standard,

Of which good, and bad deeds, is beaten

Into surmission,

Called greatness.

And where do we fall?

From deeds done, and posthumously recorded,

An instance, in time, forever, to be repeated,

Cherished, by all, but none, so few,

A woman, decorously dressed,

A woman, with primate servants, holding heirlooms,.

Fanning herself, concealing a smile,

As she gazes, a way,

From a marble rendering, unashamed in its nakedness,

A bearded man, with the fruit of his laurels,

Immune, to the elements, a man, cherished, greatness,

By all, but none, so few:

“I,”, saying the woman, “Want tears to flow from his                                                                                                                                                                                        pupilless eyes,

Remorse of a soulless automan,

Without motion; but, greatness, none:

So few have heard my sombre beginning,

My recapitulation of that beginning,

Nor do they hear my tale.

None, greatness,

So few.”

Ist Ex



Or that?

Thing of space,

To that which is beyond.


Beyond, is, beyond, is, iis.

Does Sky And Earth Make Water


Have fallen,

They fall like the sun.

The earth

Is their lair,

The earth and their sons.

What, this sky?

Water, water, everywhere,

Land has shadowed,

And the gods, never.

Not, ever.

(At any time,

By any chance,

In any case,

At all time,

All ways.)

She gathers grain, root by root.

Men That Laugh A Man Kind.

What is the sole fuss about,

Solely, on the basis of banter,

The rest, you know, weep.

The full realization of the gentle disturbing spirit,

Enough to talk the words,

Only talk. The rest,

You know,


Complete appreciation of the two-legged wonder,

Suffice to say, the rest weep.

The rest, now, speak.


To summon the blast from a cannon,

To vouch applause a burst,

A wonderful word in safety,

I vouchsafe this poem to you.

I condescend to give to you,

From the black box in the wall,

A few measured lines of solitude,

My pledge my promise my oath.

When night descends on solitude,

When day becomes the moon,

Take up these words in serpentine,

And carve out meaning, turquoise or green.

In quiet dedication

I repose in you, dear reader,

That I may repose.

That, I, may repose?

Toward Leave



To your self, there is no other,



Elude until you’re one,




I was.


In the great wide,

Shopkeepers, new.

My name, was,




Of the fire we made,

Last summer tro.

Tried to forget,

But could,


W’ll (ie) Evermore.



She spoke, “Forget!”

All was said.

It came,

To aught.

Last love.


A thin strip,

Fore the paper:

Holds up plaster.


You, known.


In the setting,

Sun, I see

The moonlit night,


The moon, a glimpse.

Of the dawn:

The dawn is the colour

Of pale yellow.

The setting sun,

Is the colour, red?

The moon is some kind

Of green-yellow.

A reflection

Of the day.

That glows deep, blue.

Outside, the red.

Around, the night.

Beside, the stars,

In, the sky.

I Followed The Voice

I followed the voice,

Which led me to follow the trail,

Upon my bike in September.

The sun was just out,

And it was threatening rain,

Though by the sky it was hard to tell.

I wore a rain jacket all the way,

I wore sunglasses at first,

In the twilight of late summer, weather.

Not yet sun, not yet rain,

I peddled, not yet hard, nor slow,

Though the sound was not unliked.

A vacuum cleaner doing its job well.

I knew if I peddled this way,

My legs may tire,

But I would never be out of breath.

The voice was my companion,

Through so much leading to this moment,

And so much falling away.

How long I would be riding,

I knew not.

Some landmarks upon the way:

A number of bridges to go over and under;

Within, the valley surrounded by the metropolis;

An old French school, a campus;

Cardinal, points; of the compass, I wish, I possessed.

I have removed my sunglasses,

In the thickening foliage,

Around a treacherous trail.

I am passed by, a filthy thrill-seeker,

He asks, “Does this trail lead anywhere?”

“I don’t know.” I reply, “He chortles.".

The voice said, “Do not let him pass,”

“Or the dirt shall be on you.”

I am tossed, between, fallen trees.

I dismount. I am lost. I am hot.

I want rain. A drop on my shoulder.

That is all. Flies in my face.

I keep to the right and am safe.

I am out on a familiar road again,

I have been over and under many bridges,

I have not found the campus or the old French School.

Rain, come now, I wish,

Darkening, with no relief,

I am almost home.

If I had persevered,

If I had taken more time,

By the old French school,

It may have rained.


Tell me what is troubling you,

Repose on your burdens,

Repose on fretful memory,

Relinquish desire,


My days are past, my purposes

are broken off, even the thoughts of

my heart.

Job 17:5

The Want Of All Consolation

Ah deep chaotic,

Tossed between trees,

Ah treacherous, murk

Thickening, stew;

I dare not eat,

Am driven,


To unending views.

Good patience,

Until I see your face again,

And the consolation, of your shadow.

Decaying Sense

With the senses, freely or obscured?

Perception alters, when it alteration finds.

Senses freely interact like the orange and the rind.

Arranged in layers, sections, seeds,

The new ideas spring to mind.

Obscured by new fancy,

Of what proceeding, forth:

Comes new imaginings,

As clouds over the sun;

Comes, new light,

A memory of an old sky.

Obstructed vision of the still,

As new rain falls.

These two brethren, counterparts, called:

By the names, appearance and memory,

Are yoked in fancy,

The commingling, of the object and the mind.

Springs, forth imagination,

Imagination of changing, presents,

Imagination, of decaying past.

It would be the same to eat the orange

In a sense and not disturb the rind.

For I am still and keen of sight,

And inward look on inward light,

And objects vanish before my eyes,

Disturbed by none, soon, reappear,


Transfigured as a memory is fancy’s ghost,

I obstruct new objects with my imagination of the past.

What appears I’ve seen before,

All here is now,

And future, past,

And what of,


First, imagination.

From which all fancy follows.

Will I say, I’ve seen before the unobstructed vision of the still night,

I’ve seen before, the unobstructed vision, of the still night.

The Cat

“I want that mouse!”

Said the cat with the tail.

The long tale,

Perfect and pointed,

‘Ears back,

Poised for an assault.

“I want that mouse!”

A stiffening of the legs,

A raised rump,

A movement of the eyes,

A stretch,

To live.

I peep,

I sweep,

I weep.

Something From The Ground

Bird the moon shines upon your closed and thrown back feathers,

While you perch on dead wood with leaves of brown beside a tree,

Beneath a canopy of leaves and the green night sky.

In view your mate, a yellow bird, flies in with outstretched wings, soon to be joined,

Lest you join, among the canopy of leaves.

Something from the ground loves a sky,

From the sky: the wet grass, the damp wood, looks, green:

The perch you make, is, from a great, distance, your mate; is far away,

Is far from sea to shore; is far from wave to keel; is far from summit to cliff;

As far from tree to tree.

In, the great, distance: you gaze, you watch, your approaching mate; your eyes are far

Away; you perch, withoutstretched, wings.

The Star

If I alone see you,


We see the star,

And the star is our witness,

Of you seeing me,

Of me seeing you,


What is that star doing

While I observe your observation,

While you observe my initiation,

And, we, neither of us, look at the sky, save what is around us, between us,

Our bodies, our minds, our eternal gaze on the external,

Our external gaze on the eternal?

What is that star doing, while we rehearse, while we see

Only? What is front of us and the star? Is our eyes?

Clock Chimes And Faces

There were clock chimes

And faces, once,

Long and round, telling,

Once, time,

It was, they told,

Now they fortell,


There were towers,

Once, now houses,

Beneath them,

There were,

Houses and towers.


There are

Clock Chimes.

Death And The Maiden

This is the music I want played when I die,

She said with a sigh, she sighed with a smile.

And the everlasting drew a breath,

And all trace was blown with a tear.

The dust around her body, the flower in the earth,

The earth in syncopated cusps, beneath her arched and tip-toed feet.

Her silent reverie, her note,

Her vow,

Her in,

A shaded cemetary,

Amid grieving friends,

And mourners, amid,

The watchful eyes.

“Of a priest,” she sighed with a smile, she said with a sigh,

"That is all I want when I die. When I die I want, that. I want, that, only, when I die.”

IS Ray = EL LE

Her is good. She shines like the sun. To maugh, look, to the, the, it is, Identica, Le, to, ray.

I S Ray = EL LE

Any thing, all, is Aught. Naught is, all, anything. At all, most, in the maught of the castle.

I S Ray = EL LE

And now it's time to say Good Aught! Ought Naught? Ought Naught?

Let All men come and fill with rhyme! Time, Good Night! Gentlemen, all night, time!

I Cannot Seed The Ox From The Grain.

This everlasting come to be,

The four shall make three,

Giants lived and falled, faked,

The Alpha, the Beta, and all, in be, and all, in between.

To Feel This Sunrise

To feel this! Sunrise!

Cold, on a winter day.

Over a sheet; of glass

On ice, that. Stands. In soldiers,

From the lattice, and the roof.

May I Rose

May I rose shaking the dust of a light November frost, shaking myself through winter,

Back to spring, it is in reverse my thinking.

Not reflection, but something else, I rose, dispelling my dream,

Of some unheard monologue, reaching for my dressing gown, and then dismay.

Something in my pocket made me think of cigarettes,

And I climbed the stairs to the breakfast table, lay me down, over, a pot of coffee,

The morning news, lingering, it has not yet appeared.

Reaching out for a light, I, clutched in my hand, a match will do, fire, burn a cigarette, or two, loitering, smoke.

The news came: Bombs Over London. I am a maid.

I Weaved The Season In My Arms

In spring the leaves are green,

Toward seasons. The arms spread wide.

In summer, the fruit,

Leaves, on a bough of arms.

In autumn, gone; bough, fruit;

Leaves, the colour of fruit.

In winter, bough and leaf, fruit in baskets,

Weaved. In the green, within the arms, of Nurture.

There Was A Summer Shower

There was,

A summer shower, on a cloudless sky,

You could look.

Four rainbows, for eternity.

There was a summer shower,

Where my heart lies, and, eternity lies.

In her eyes.

There was a summer shower, that clouded over, and turned to rain, until, everything was,

red, gold, never green, but fighting in its gray.

But soon the winds went blowing,

And stars full blown went hiding,

And the cold weather brought us down.

Now, in this cold weather, you told me, how, great walls enshrine me,

Til the soil, until the soil, ‘til its ready to dig.

Ode: To, Tetherball.

Around She Pours And She Scribbles.

I move out quickly from my tether,

He wraps around the ball, the pole,

I stab at air, now water swells,

The flight is too high for either you or I.

Once, twice, the cord is long,

Again, again, and back again.

She rests in play, on the sandy beach,

Holding the prize, a krater of wine,

Sunday a beard, and Monday she please

Say the word about the tiny globe.

On a glassy lawn beside water,

She dances like the ball and pole.

Pours the soon be gone rain from sea,

While weeping like a rag the rope,

In ghostly white the volleys cease,

In respect, decency, humble team.

She throws her breasts to the sand,

And like glace, the sea wears out.

And in. The master's circle calls forth

The sphere of super string which knit

The captured game. Well and good.

The ball shall leap and bound

If misplaced, silence from the sand,

The stars in the sky of another hemisphere.

Scribbles scrimmage at the pole of weather,

The flood shall wash each shore,

And games, both played, are won and lost,

Shall shatter into comfort, and a tower.

She is arched upon her comely legs,

And gazes long and round each way.

Variably, the rain circle, the together,

The sea, the globe, the change,

The stars, the shore, drifting

About each pole of yellow and blue.

The ring on the top no god dare touch,

The falling into clusters groups and rank.

The pole scribbles at scrimmage of weather,

From out, my move, I quickly tether,

The variably circle, the rain, together.

Hee's like a Zani to a Tumbler,

That tries tricks after him to make men laugh.

1599.Ben Jonson.

TwentyFirst Century Goddess

The flower lightly pressed,

And folded like an apricot,

Between the fingers,

Of a TwentyFirst century goddesss,

Who walks in the night,

Overlooking her downtown dominion,

Beneath the invsible stars,

Is dying.

Hope cannot prevent, it.

Virtue cannot point the way.

Love is out of tender.

Nature is busy.

The water is dry:

And the sun is hidden;

And the soil is dead;

And the birds are sleeping.

Like the lesser god,

Who wished for immortality,

But did not ask for eternal youth,

Whom was doomed to age forever,

Observing beauty.

She watches, and wonders, as she walks through the streets,

Will my true Love see my flower,

Know that somewhere, someone, has done, a kind of gesture,

Before hee ages in beauty, and dies..


Hours for my fading flower,

Hours for the flower dress,

And beers I've had, to count the hours,

For my formless beauty, all.

Notes for all the wasted hours,

On pasted bits of paper now.

Notes in ink, that never fades,

Fail to capture? The inconstant beauty,

Of my fading flower,

In the perfect, formless, fading, dress.

Poems never tell you all,

In the hands of amateurs:

There is little in the world,

Or an idea, that,

Wasted words on pasted paper,

Can fulfill.

And in the ultimate hour,

When dregs are all that stare at you

From the bottom of a glass.

Hour that runs down quickly,

The last few grains within the hourglass.

Pressed between your fingers,

Petals dying in the midnight air.

Hours gone and seconds faster,

Press, the heart, to capture,

Thee idea, of,

A single, fading, flower,

Formless, in a fading dress.

Or how when you’re drunk,

I cannot help but to digress.

My Soul Is Covered In A Moss

My soul is covered in a moss,

The dead man whispered low,

But I can still remember loves,

I loved so long ago.

There's beauty in these words of me,

There's beauty in the soil,

So I shall learn to love again,

In my house beneath the snow.


The Model

Slightly flushed,

She wonders,

What is it,

The artist,



Under strokes,

Of violent hues,

We sense acceptance,

And mistake it for,

The lighting in the room.

Which Fair Woman

Which fair woman,

Rose At her fingertips,

The stem slightly pressed,

Green like the beginning,

Would not entreat,

Would she not entreat,

Like a stone with no anchor,

Like a ship with no harbour,

The innocence of laughter,

And the Applause of the half-done.

In The Absence Of Feeling

In the absence of feeling,

I move this hand toward you,

Through the darkness,

To find a way,

To express,

And signify.

In the absence of feeling,

This hand toward you,

Through the darkness,

To express,

And signify.

In the absence of feeling,

I move this hand toward you,

Through the darkness,

To find, away,

To caress,

And nullify.

In the absence of Love.

Rose Why Do You Live, For Whom Do You Live?

Ah Rose! Why do you live? For whom, do you live?

I live for the slumber

Of an August afternoon, I live

For Beauty,frail beauty,

That sleeps in the winter, and rises in June:

I would worship beauty, if she were a goddess, and immortal!

I live for the symbol,

For that I stand,

As when I see myself in the passing clouds,

Or sometimes sway in the wind, like the clouds, the clouds,

The wind, is, all so beautiful, though she destroys.

My stem is green and graceful in the raging wind,

It is fierce, yet I rest, like the head of a woman, on a pillow,

And like a sleeping, golden, stone,

Like a stone on God's green earth.

Naughty flower, what makes you think that God exists?

Because he gives me a thorn,

In my side that pierces

The bird as she crawls on my vine,

Because I am the union of all young love:

Young beauties engrave their bodies with my image,

I am the unction of love,

And the love for the departed,

Placed on the earth to engender

And conceal. As when I am in some young lover's secret book,

And she presses me between her layers,

Engenders, feelings first,

After, then, bitter-sweet, remorse.

Ah Rose, your god is merciless.



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