Ye white antarctic birds of upper 57th street,
you gallery of white antarctic birds, you
street with white antarctic birds and
cabs and white antarctic birds you street,
ye and you the street and birds I walk upon
the galleries of streets and birds and longings,
you the birds antarctic of the conversations
and the bank machines, you the atm of
longing, the longing for the atm machines,
you the lover of the banks and me and birds
and others too and cabs, and you the cabs
and you the subtle longing birds and me,
and you the conversations yet antarctic, and
soup and teeming white antarctic birds and
you the books and phones and atms the bank
machines antarctic, and you the banks and
cabs, and him the one I love, and those who
love me not, and all antarctic longings, and
all the birds and cabs and also on the street
antarctic of this longing.
all is spirit and part of me
a greater lover none can be,
all is spirit and part of me.
i am sway of the rolling hills,
and breath from the great wild plains;
i am born of a thousand storms,
and grey with the rushing rains;
i have stood with the age-long rocks,
and flowered with the meadow sweet;
i have fought with the wind-worn firs,
and bent with the ripening wheat;
i have watched with the solemn clouds,
and dreamt with the moorland pools;
i have raced with the water's whirl,
and lain where their anger cools;
i have hovered as strong-winged bird,
and swooped as i saw my prey;
i have risen with the cold grey dawn,
and flamed in the dying day;
for all is spirit and part of me,
and greater lover none can be.
~ l. d'o walters ~
from the book
'a year's at the spring'~
~illustration by harry clarke~
(for the ghost of
johann sebastain bach)
he was born to wonder about numbers.
he balanced fives against tens
and made them sleep together
and love each other.
he took sixes and seven
and set them wrangling and fighting
over raw bones.
he woke up twos and fours
out of baby sleep
and touched them back to sleep.
he managed eights and nines,
gave them prophet beards,
marched them into mists and mountains.
he added all the numbers he knew,
multiplied them by new found numbers
and called it a prayer of Numbers.
for each of a million cipher silences
he dug up a mate number
for a candle light in the dark.
he knew love numbers, luck numbers,
how the sand and the stars
are made and held by numbers.
he died from the wonder of numbering.
he said good-by as if good-by is a number.
~poem by carl sandburg ~
found in a poetry journal based
out of chicago
~musical scores written in bach's
~ the rules of the dance are simple: if the caller announces a
circumstance that has occurred in the lifetime of you or your
partner, you must leave the dance floor at once. ~
the caller announces:
~ those who have accidentally stapled themselves.
~ those who (while visiting a foreign country) have lost the end
of a Q tip in their ear and have been unable to explain their
~ anyone who has testified as a character witness for a dog in
a court of law.
~ those who have pissed out of the back of moving trucks.
~ gentlemen who have placed a microphone beside a naked
woman's stomach after lunch and later, after slowing down
the sound considerably, have sold these noises on the open
market as whale songs.
~ anyone who has been penetrated by a mountie.
~ any lover who has gone into a flower shop on
valentine's day and asked for clitoris
when he meant
~ any dinner guest who has consumed the host's missing contact
lens along with dinner.
~ those who, after a swim, find the sensation of water dribbling
out of their ears erotic.
~ those who have woken to find the wet footprints of a peacock
across their kitchen floor.
~ and so forth...excerpts from michael ondaatje's poem:
you really must watch bruce mcdonald's wonderful film short based on
see it here.
you can also hear the author read the poem here.