Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Veterans Day

A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Gray and Dim

by Walt Whitman(1819-1992)

A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,
Over each blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

Curious I halt and silent stand,
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket;
Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and flesh all

the eyes?
Who are you my dear

Then to the second I step - and who are you my child and darling?
Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?

Then to the third - a face not child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful

yellow-white ivory;
Young man I think I know you - I think this face is the face of the Christ himself,
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

The Poetry of War

When it comes to proving points and making cases, fiction’s day is done

The Failed Prophecy of Kurt Vonnegut (and How It Saved My Life)

Mexicans, despite their reputation in Latin America for ultrapoliteness and formality, curse like sailors, a recent survey found. They use profanity when speaking with their friends, with their co-workers, with their spouses and even with their bosses and parents. On Independence Day, the thing to shout above all else is “Viva Mexico, Cabrones!” a patriotic exhortation directed at either bastards or buddies, depending on the tone employed.

Orhan Pamuk’s real-life Museum of Innocence.

San Francisco Beat/hippie poet Lenore Kandel has died at the age of 77 - an appreciation of her work and a sample of her work

Imagine the technology of today with the aesthetic of Victorian science. From redesigned practical items to fantastical contraptions, this exhibition, curated by Art Donovan, showcases the work of eighteen Steampunk artists from across the globe.

Expect ’steam-powered’ computer mice, clockwork hearts, brass goggles and the latest state-of-the-Steampunk-art eye-pod (more...)

Everything I have I carry with me.

Or: everything that's mine I carry on me.

I carried everything I had. It wasn't actually mine. It was either intended for a different purpose or somebody else's. The pigskin suitcase was a gramophone box. The jacket was from my father. The town coat with the velvet neckband from my grandfather. The breeches from my Uncle Edwin. The leather puttees from our neighbor, Herr Carp. The green gloves from my Auntie Fini. Only the claret silk scarf and the toilet bag were mine, gifts from recent Christmases....

Herta Müller On Packing

State of Siege

Wherever to go and whatever from
can always
be said for certain: because it's Sunday
and three cars in front of the house
hour after hour
Marx Engels Lenin Stalin in the back seat
ad usum delphini

They've come straight from Utopia
Headquarters in Berlin-Lichtenberg
smoking and reading the paper and
waiting for objections
coming from my poor and hesitant words
newly hatched migrants
heading to a place where "talk of trees"
does not involve silence
where no one's going to
shut you up...

Günter Kunert

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Nice links.

Thank you for this.


The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau