misslynx: (Brigid's cross)
For the 6th Annual Brigid Poetry Festival:

The Song of Wandering Aengus
By W.B. Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
misslynx: (Art - Curtana Fairy)
I posted yesterday about the 5th annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam for Brigid. Accordingly:

From The Broken Water-jar (El cántaro roto)

by Octavio Paz


We must sleep with open eyes, we must dream with our hands,
we must dream the dreams of a river seeking its course, of the sun dreaming its worlds,
we must dream aloud, we must sing till the song puts forth roots, trunk, branches, birds, stars,
we must sing till the dream engenders in the sleeper's flank the red wheat-ear of resurrection,
the womanly water, the spring at which we may drink and recognize ourselves and recover,
the spring that tells us we are men, the water that speaks alone in the night and calls us by name,
the spring of words that say I, you, he, we, under the great tree, the living statue of the rain,
where we pronounce the beautiful pronouns, knowing ourselves and keeping faith with our names,
we must dream backwards, toward the source, we must row back up the centuries,
beyond infancy, beyond the beginning, beyond the waters of baptism,
we must break down the walls between man and man, reunite what has been sundered,
life and death are not opposite worlds, we are one stem with twin flowers,
we must find the lost word, dream inwardly and also outwardly,
decipher the night's tattooing and look face to face at the noonday and tear off its mask,
bathe in the light of the sun and eat the night's fruit and spell out the writings of stars and rivers,
and remember what the blood, the tides, the earth, and the body say, and return to the point of departure,
neither inside nor outside, neither up nor down, at the crossroads where all roads begin,
for the light is singing with a sound of water, the water with a sound of leaves,
the dawn is heavy with fruit, the day and the night flow together in reconciliation like a calm river,
the day and the night caress each other like a man and woman in love,
and the seasons and all mankind are flowing under the arches of the centuries like one endless river,
toward the living center of origin, beyond the end and the beginning.

. . .

(I don't so much relate to the gender references in this one, but I've always loved the rest of the imagery...)
misslynx: (Quote - dream the world)
This sounds like a very cool idea:

5th annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam for Brigid

The idea is that tomorrow, February 2, as many people as want to participate post a poem in their blogs, either one of their own or just any poem they like, from a famous or not-so-famous poet, and, optionally, post a comment in the original blog post linking to it, so that "a mighty web of poetry will be spun" on Imbolc, in honour of Brigid.
misslynx: (Cat Attack)
A handful of really choice headlines in today's spam harvest:
"Yes, I stay away from the POETS."

In all caps, yet. Considering how often spam these days seems to resemble found poetry, it seems a bit unfair...

"Pasty pale hands like slugs under rocks, ordered by minds behind pale, eyeless faces."

Er... right, then. That one really belongs in [livejournal.com profile] necronomiphiles. If I came across that when doing spamomancy divination, I'd need to be doing a sanity check right about now. Maybe I should anyway...

"There seemed to be about six of him."

Now would this be one of the poets -- sorry, POETS -- or the things with the pasty pale hands and no eyes? If the latter, I am even more worried than I was before.

"I am not positive about the accuracy of my description."

Well, that's a relief, all things considered...

"God and the New Physics by Paul Davies."

OK, not only do the spammers appear to be evoking some kind of eldritch Lovecraftian horrors and dissing poets, but they also know what I'm reading. This would be seriously creepy if it wasn't -- well, me entertaining myself by reading meaning into random nonsense.

"But with her mind she was inclined to ridicule."

Yes; yes, I am. Is that going to be a problem?

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