Yeux Glauques
Gladstone was still respected,
When John Ruskin produced
'King's Treasuries'; Swinburne
And Rossetti still abused.
Foetid Buchanan lifted up his voice
When that faun's head of hers
Became a pastime for
Painters and adulterers.
The Burne-Jones cartons
Have preserved her eyes;
Still, at the Tate, they teach
Cophetua to rhapsodize;
Thin like brook-water,
With a vacant gaze.
The English Rubaiyat was still-born
In those days.
The thin, clear gaze, the same
Still darts out faun-like from the half-ruin'd face,
Questing and passive. . . .
;Ah, poor Jenny's case' . . .
Bewildered that a world
Shows no surprise
At her last maquero's
Adulteries.
poem by Ezra Pound
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Related quotes
Hugh Selwyn Mauberly (Part I)
"Vocat aestus in umbram"
Nemesianus Es. IV.
E. P. Ode pour l'élection de son sépulchre
For three years, out of key with his time,
He strove to resuscitate the dead art
Of poetry; to maintain "the sublime"
In the old sense. Wrong from the start --
No, hardly, but, seeing he had been born
In a half savage country, out of date;
Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn;
Capaneus; trout for factitious bait:
"Idmen gar toi panth, os eni Troie
Caught in the unstopped ear;
Giving the rocks small lee-way
The chopped seas held him, therefore, that year.
His true Penelope was Flaubert,
He fished by obstinate isles;
Observed the elegance of Circe's hair
Rather than the mottoes on sun-dials.
Unaffected by "the march of events",
He passed from men's memory in l'an trentiesme
De son eage; the case presents
No adjunct to the Muses' diadem.
II.
The age demanded an image
Of its accelerated grimace,
Something for the modern stage,
Not, at any rate, an Attic grace;
Not, not certainly, the obscure reveries
Of the inward gaze;
Better mendacities
Than the classics in paraphrase!
The "age demanded" chiefly a mould in plaster,
Made with no loss of time,
A prose kinema, not, not assuredly, alabaster
Or the "sculpture" of rhyme.
III.
The tea-rose, tea-gown, etc.
Supplants the mousseline of Cos,
The pianola "replaces"
Sappho's barbitos.
Christ follows Dionysus,
Phallic and ambrosial
Made way for macerations;
Caliban casts out Ariel.
All things are a flowing,
Sage Heracleitus says;
But a tawdry cheapness
Shall reign throughout our days.
Even the Christian beauty
Defects -- after Samothrace;
We see to kalon
Decreed in the market place.
Faun's flesh is not to us,
Nor the saint's vision.
We have the press for wafer;
Franchise for circumcision.
All men, in law, are equals.
Free of Peisistratus,
We choose a knave or an eunuch
To rule over us.
A bright Apollo,
tin andra, tin eroa, tina theon,
What god, man, or hero
Shall I place a tin wreath upon?
IV.
These fought, in any case,
and some believing, pro domo, in any case ..
Some quick to arm,
some for adventure,
some from fear of weakness,
some from fear of censure,
some for love of slaughter, in imagination,
learning later ...
some in fear, learning love of slaughter;
Died some pro patria, non dulce non et decor" ..
walked eye-deep in hell
believing in old men's lies, then unbelieving
came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;
usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places.
Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;
fortitude as never before
frankness as never before,
disillusions as never told in the old days,
hysterias, trench confessions,
laughter out of dead bellies.
V.
There died a myriad,
And of the best, among them,
For an old bitch gone in the teeth,
For a botched civilization.
Charm, smiling at the good mouth,
Quick eyes gone under earth's lid,
For two gross of broken statues,
For a few thousand battered books.
Yeux Glauques
Gladstone was still respected,
When John Ruskin produced
"Kings Treasuries"; Swinburne
And Rossetti still abused.
Fœtid Buchanan lifted up his voice
When that faun's head of hers
Became a pastime for
Painters and adulterers.
The Burne-Jones cartons
Have preserved her eyes;
Still, at the Tate, they teach
Cophetua to rhapsodize;
Thin like brook-water,
With a vacant gaze.
The English Rubaiyat was still-born
In those days.
The thin, clear gaze, the same
Still darts out faun-like from the half-ruin'd face,
Questing and passive ....
"Ah, poor Jenny's case" ...
Bewildered that a world
Shows no surprise
At her last maquero's
Adulteries.
"Siena Mi Fe', Disfecemi Maremma"
Among the pickled fœtuses and bottled bones,
Engaged in perfecting the catalogue,
I found the last scion of the
Senatorial families of Strasbourg, Monsieur Verog.
For two hours he talked of Gallifet;
Of Dowson; of the Rhymers' Club;
Told me how Johnson (Lionel) died
By falling from a high stool in a pub ...
But showed no trace of alcohol
At the autopsy, privately performed --
Tissue preserved -- the pure mind
Arose toward Newman as the whiskey warmed.
Dowson found harlots cheaper than hotels;
Headlam for uplift; Image impartially imbued
With raptures for Bacchus, Terpsichore and the Church.
So spoke the author of "The Dorian Mood",
M. Verog, out of step with the decade,
Detached from his contemporaries,
Neglected by the young,
Because of these reveries.
Brennbaum.
The sky-like limpid eyes,
The circular infant's face,
The stiffness from spats to collar
Never relaxing into grace;
The heavy memories of Horeb, Sinai and the forty years,
Showed only when the daylight fell
Level across the face
Of Brennbaum "The Impeccable".
Mr. Nixon
In the cream gilded cabin of his steam yacht
Mr. Nixon advised me kindly, to advance with fewer
Dangers of delay. "Consider
Carefully the reviewer.
"I was as poor as you are;
"When I began I got, of course,
"Advance on royalties, fifty at first", said Mr. Nixon,
"Follow me, and take a column,
"Even if you have to work free.
"Butter reviewers. From fifty to three hundred
"I rose in eighteen months;
"The hardest nut I had to crack
"Was Dr. Dundas.
"I never mentioned a man but with the view
"Of selling my own works.
"The tip's a good one, as for literature
"It gives no man a sinecure."
And no one knows, at sight a masterpiece.
And give up verse, my boy,
There's nothing in it."
* * *
Likewise a friend of Bloughram's once advised me:
Don't kick against the pricks,
Accept opinion. The "Nineties" tried your game
And died, there's nothing in it.
X.
Beneath the sagging roof
The stylist has taken shelter,
Unpaid, uncelebrated,
At last from the world's welter
Nature receives him,
With a placid and uneducated mistress
He exercises his talents
And the soil meets his distress.
The haven from sophistications and contentions
Leaks through its thatch;
He offers succulent cooking;
The door has a creaking latch.
XI.
"Conservatrix of Milésien"
Habits of mind and feeling,
Possibly. But in Ealing
With the most bank-clerkly of Englishmen?
No, "Milésian" is an exaggeration.
No instinct has survived in her
Older than those her grandmother
Told her would fit her station.
XII.
"Daphne with her thighs in bark
Stretches toward me her leafy hands", --
Subjectively. In the stuffed-satin drawing-room
I await The Lady Valentine's commands,
Knowing my coat has never been
Of precisely the fashion
To stimulate, in her,
A durable passion;
Doubtful, somewhat, of the value
Of well-gowned approbation
Of literary effort,
But never of The Lady Valentine's vocation:
Poetry, her border of ideas,
The edge, uncertain, but a means of blending
With other strata
Where the lower and higher have ending;
A hook to catch the Lady Jane's attention,
A modulation toward the theatre,
Also, in the case of revolution,
A possible friend and comforter.
* * *
Conduct, on the other hand, the soul
"Which the highest cultures have nourished"
To Fleet St. where
Dr. Johnson flourished;
Beside this thoroughfare
The sale of half-hose has
Long since superseded the cultivation
Of Pierian roses.
poem by Ezra Pound
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Faun
Here down this very way,
Here only yesterday
King Faun went leaping.
He sang, with careless shout
Hurling his name about;
He sang, with oaken stock
His steps from rock to rock
In safety keeping,
“Here Faun is free,
Here Faun is free!”
Today against yon pine,
Forlorn yet still divine,
King Faun leant weeping.
“They drank my holy brook,
My strawberries they took,
My private path they trod.”
Loud wept the desolate God,
Scorn on scorn heaping,
“Faun, what is he?
Faun, what is he?”
poem by Robert Graves
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I Sit Upon My Horse
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the field
A field of rippling grass
Blowing in the wind
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the sky
A clear blue sky
Filled with clouds
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the sun
A yellow sun up high
Shining on my face
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at this world
A world fashioned,
Created by my God
As I Sit Upon My Horse
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the field
A field of rippling grass
Blowing in the wind
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the sky
A clear blue sky
Filled with clouds
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the sun
A yellow sun up high
Shining on my face
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at this world
A world fashioned,
Created by my God
poem by Horse Poet
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The Collar-Bone Of A Hare
WOULD I could cast a sad on the water
Where many a king has gone
And many a king's daughter,
And alight at the comely trees and the lawn,
The playing upon pipes and the dancing,
And learn that the best thing is
To change my loves while dancing
And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
I would find by the edge of that water
The collar-bone of a hare
Worn thin by the lapping of water,
And pierce it through with a gimlet, and stare
At the old bitter world where they marry in churches,
And laugh over the untroubled water
At all who marry in churches,
Through the white thin bone of a hare.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Fix Your Gaze
When you hit your note
Its like you had no choice
I cant resist distractions web
When you use that voice
On a crowded stage
I play soliloquy
Im at the center of the earth
When you gaze on me
The familiar ring of the native drums
Sometimes I hardly recognize it
Inspiration comes
With the tip of my mind
Holding back the sea
I have no choice but to prevail
When you gaze on me
Ive got the ghost of a new machine
Where I can find reality routine
Every time you fix your gaze on me
When you gaze on me
I feel a ring of fire
When you gaze on me
And I lose all desire
Fix your heart on me
Ill show you what Ive memorized
Fix your gaze on me
I need to see your eyes [uh - good god!]
Out in the cold the assassin waits
Armored by love no sword can penetrate
Every time you fix your heart on me
Im a new machine
Where I can find reality routine
Every time you fix your gaze on me
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The King's Daughter
WE WERE ten maidens in the green corn,
Small red leaves in the mill-water:
Fairer maidens never were born,
Apples of gold for the king’s daughter.
We were ten maidens by a well-head,
Small white birds in the mill-water:
Sweeter maidens never were wed,
Rings of red for the king’s daughter.
The first to spin, the second to sing,
Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;
The third may was a goodly thing,
White bread and brown for the king’s daughter.
The fourth to sew and the fifth to play,
Fair green weed in the mill-water;
The sixth may was a goodly may,
White wine and red for the king’s daughter.
The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,
Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;
The ninth had gold work on her head,
Honey in the comb for the king’s daughter.
The ninth had gold work round her hair,
Fallen flowers in the mill-water;
The tenth may was goodly and fair,
Golden gloves for the king’s daughter.
We were ten maidens in a field green,
Fallen fruit in the mill-water;
Fairer maidens never have been,
Golden sleeves for the king’s daughter.
By there comes the king’s young son,
A little wind in the mill-water;
“Out of ten maidens ye’ll grant me one,”
A crown of red for the king’s daughter.
“Out of ten mays ye’ll give me the best,”
A little rain in the mill-water;
A bed of yellow straw for all the rest,
A bed of gold for the king’s daughter.
He’s ta’en out the goodliest,
Rain that rains in the mill-water;
A comb of yellow shell for all the rest,
A comb of gold for the king’s daughter.
He’s made her bed to the goodliest,
Wind and hail in the mill-water;
A grass girdle for all the rest,
A girdle of arms for the king’s daughter.
He’s set his heart to the goodliest,
Snow that snows in the mill-water;
Nine little kisses for all the rest,
An hundredfold for the king’s daughter.
He’s ta’en his leave at the goodliest,
Broken boats in the mill-water;
Golden gifts for all the rest,
Sorrow of heart for the king’s daughter.
“Ye’ll make a grave for my fair body,”
Running rain in the mill-water;
“And ye’ll streek my brother at the side of me,”
The pains of hell for the king’s daughter.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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It's a strange world of language in which skating on thin ice can get you into hot water.
quote by Franklin P. Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Penumbra
I DID not look upon her eyes,
(Though scarcely seen, with no surprise,
'Mid many eyes a single look,)
Because they should not gaze rebuke,
At night, from stars in sky and brook.
I did not take her by the hand,
(Though little was to understand
From touch of hand all friends might take,)
Because it should not prove a flake
Burnt in my palm to boil and ache.
I did not listen to her voice,
(Though none had noted, where at choice
All might rejoice in listening,)
Because no such a thing should cling
In the wood's moan at evening.
I did not cross her shadow once,
(Though from the hollow west the sun's
Last shadow runs along so far,)
Because in June it should not bar
My ways, at noon when fevers are.
They told me she was sad that day,
(Though wherefore tell what love's soothsay,
Sooner than they, did register?)
And my heart leapt and wept to her,
And yet I did not speak nor stir.
So shall the tongues of the sea's foam
(Though many voices therewith come
From drowned hope's home to cry to me,)
Bewail one hour the more, when sea
And wind are one with memory.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Miss Loo
When thin-strewn memory I look through,
I see most clearly poor Miss Loo,
Her tabby cat, her cage of birds,
Her nose, her hair -- her muffled words,
And how she'd open her green eyes,
As if in some immense surprise,
Whenever as we sat at tea,
She made some small remark to me.
It's always drowsy summer when
From out the past she comes again;
The westering sunshine in a pool
Floats in her parlour still and cool;
While the slim bird its lean wires shakes,
As into piercing song it breaks
Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar
Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar;
And I am sitting , dull and shy
And she with gaze of vacancy,
And large hands folded on the tray,
Musing the afternoon away;
Her satin bosom heaving slow
With sighs that softly ebb and flow,
And her plain face in such dismay,
It seems unkind to look her way:
Until all cheerful back will come
Her cheerful gleaming spirit home:
And one would think that poor Miss Loo
Asked nothing else, if she had you.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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Jenny Greenteeth
There's a hag by the name of Jenny Greenteeth;
Of human life, she is a well-known thief.
She waits under the water of the Old Mill Pond,
For an unsuspecting victim to happen along.
She claims her victims at the dead of night,
When many folks' hearts are full of fright.
It is always under the light of the silvery moon
That her terrified victims meet their final doom.
The victim won't believe what they are seeing,
When, from the water, they spy a strange being.
The victim will think that it is all just a dream;
They will open their mouth and begin to scream.
She bursts forth from the water with staring eyes,
Filling her chosen victim with shocked surprise.
With her long, bony fingers, she grabs at limbs,
Then having taken a hold, she drags them on in.
Her skin is pale green, and her hair is long.
Her breath gives off the most dreadful pong.
Her teeth are pointed, like those of a shark.
Her eyes are large and, like coal, are dark.
Her reaching arms are as skinny as a rake,
But unwilling victims, these arms do take.
With hair like waterweed, and a very thin face,
Her appearance makes her victims' hearts race.
To the pond's edge, most will not venture near;
Of Jenny Greenteeth, there is a very great fear.
The young and the old should take special care
Not to venture too near to Jenny's watery lair.
With ferocity, like that of a mighty lion,
She grabs her victims with fists of iron.
Into the murky depths, she drags them down;
They breathe their last, and then they drown.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Jenny Wore Black
Jenny wore black
Jenny wore white - white!
And jenny was real
But almost not quite
And jenny was here
She was almost inside
And jenny was real
But jenny was frightened by the way
We looked at her
And jenny could see
She was only a child
Jenny concealed all but her smile
And when she smiled we said hey hey!
Youll never see clear with tears in your face hey!
Youll never see clearly anyway
I said I loved you blindly, and I do
Were only two strangers in ways
We shall say
Jenny wore black
Jenny wore white, white!
And jenny was real but almost not quite (la la la la la la)
And jenny was here she was almost on time
And jenny was real
But jenny was frightened by the way
We looked at her
And jenny could see within us for a while
Jenny revealed all but her smile
And when she smiled we said hey hey!
Youll never see clear with tears in your face hey!
Youll never see clearly anyway
I said I loved you blindly, and I do
Were only two strangers in ways
We should say
You always caught my eyes where
The dreams peter in
And I cant remember
Wherever Ive been
Theres still holes for my eyes
Where the dreams peter through
All I can remember
Is when I was with you
We say hey hey!
Youll never see clear with tears in your face hey!
Youll never see clearly anyway
I said I loved you blindly, and I do
Were only two strangers in ways
We shall say
song performed by by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thin
Thin, thin was the soup
ladled into the bowl.
It was watered down to make it last
as if it would keep them whole.
Thin, thin were the bodies
that sat 'round the table to eat.
They shared the watery sparseness of soup
with nary a piece of meat.
A time of discontent was here
and stomachs were never full.
This was the time they'd heard about,
stories that seemed so dull.
These stories were told with passion
by those who came before.
They jumped out of windows and stood in lines
saying, 'Please may I have some more? '
Thin, thin are the excuses
given by those in power.
No substance to substantiate the lies
given us hour by hour.
And so where does this leave us,
facing a 3rd world war?
For times become prosporous.
Isn't that what wars are for?
Thin, thin are the hopes now
that sanity will pervade the mind
of those who reap the profits
while our youth again will find
that they have been used as fodder
to bring our economy back.
Thin, thin are the excuses
for us being on the wrong track.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Dantis Tenebrae (In Memory of my Father)
AND didst thou know indeed, when at the font
Together with thy name thou gav'st me his,
That also on thy son must Beatrice
Decline her eyes according to her wont,
Accepting me to be of those that haunt
The vale of magical dark mysteries
Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies,
And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt
Trembles in music? This is that steep land
Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze
Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new height
Seem piled to climb. These things I understand:
For here, where day still soothes my lifted face,
On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Your Gaze
my love
your eyes
let loose
the world
in my heart
your gaze
transports clouds
and clear blue
to cheer up
my days
ripples rush
towards the
shore of spring
in my bossom
and there
i will wait
day and night
for your embrace
and the heaven
you would carry me to
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Wise Men from the East!
The Star of Bethlehem appeared
As guiding light for men from east;
The Star was there for all to see;
Its light could reach all eyes earthly.
But knew the three Magi only,
Who understood its importance;
They fixed their gaze upon the star
And journeyed forth from quite afar!
They brought with them some priceless gifts;
Gold, myrrh and frank-incense- offering;
For they were sure to see a king;
As per the Scripture’s prophecy.
But on their way, they met Herod;
The king told them a pack of lies,
As though he yearned to see the babe
King, born of the Virgin Mary!
God brought the Magi to the spot
Where baby Jesus was just born;
The star stood where the manger was
The new-born king lay on dry grass!
Swaddled in clothes with divine look!
They knelt with reverence and took
A glance of the heavenly king,
As angel choirs began to sing!
Oh, what a joy and what great peace,
Had come upon the earth that day!
The Lamb of God, born son of man,
Was Savior of the race, human.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-31-2006
poem by John Celes
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Your Gaze Is Full Of Ice (Wyatt Sonnet)
I am at war and yet, no fighting has begun:
I have no fear, from me this war did not arise
but when you look at me your gaze is full of ice;
at a time in your eyes was nothing but the sun.
At times we were happy had a lot of fun
and your attitude, your gaze is a big surprise
as if sheer betrayal, is in your soul, in your eyes,
as if something terrible had made you run.
Your gaze makes your feelings altogether plain
but life is not that simple; you left me for another
and now you long to love him; to meet him rather
while you laugh, is somewhat thrilled with my pain.
I wished to have feelings that transcends life,
as at a time you were very dear and my wife.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ohio
it was a day like this and my house burnt down
and the walls were thin and they crashed to the ground
it was a day like this and my life unwound
you could've struck me a line and that's okay now
we could always put it together again
you could've told me a lie, and a lie so thin, so thin
now everything's clear
day after day and the life goes on
and I try to see the good in everyone
if I ever find myself here again
I'll give everything
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Am Gone (Stream II)
Your elliptical argument
That spins mathematical in the air,
Air vent, air wear,
So much hot air.
Vented through the vent,
Out into the atmosphere.
Adds to global warming
as you warm to your argument;
Which now becomes round,
doing the rounds.
Sounds of round vowels,
Making me howl
Like a howling dog.
Howling in the hurricane
of your torrent.
Like a Waterfall,
The water falls,
And I fall and I,
I am turned to stone,
Stoned by your medusa gaze.
I am fazed.
Stopped stone dead in that gaze,
Am erased.
No longer extant,
I disappear,
Dissipate into the air,
Become thin air,
Am gone.
poem by Paul Brookes
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He and She
[HE.] I know a youth who loves a little maid -
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Silent is he, for he's modest and afraid -
(Hey, but he's timid as a youth can be!)
[SHE.] I know a maid who loves a gallant youth -
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
SHE cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth -
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
[BOTH.] Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?
[HE.] He cannot eat and he cannot sleep -
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Daily he goes for to wail - for to weep -
(Hey, but he's wretched as a youth can be!)
[SHE.] She's very thin and she's very pale -
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
Daily she goes for to weep - for to wail -
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
[BOTH.] Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?
[SHE.] If I were the youth I should offer her my name -
(Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)
[HE.] If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame -
(Hey, but he's bashful as a youth can be!)
[SHE.] If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day -
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
[HE.] If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way -
(For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)
[BOTH.] I thank you much for your counsel true;
I've learnt what that poor soul ought to do!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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