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0285 A Pretty Kettle of Wish

Meltdown. A new kettle urgently
required for the gas stove. Men
love an excuse to wander around
the Aladdin’s cave of an ironmongers
the older the better.

Shock-horror. Rattly, thin as
they can get away with, and outrageously,
the same price as technology’s
masterpieces of electric jug…
long gone, the solid kettle which sits
so friendly on the hob of open fire…

So it’s off to the Oxfam thriftshop.
a short prayer to the goddess
of the hearth (Hestia, in case
you wonder, poetically) – and lo
and behold, abracadabra, hey presto –

a Designer Kettle in all its glory –

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William Makepeace Thackeray

The Speculators

The night was stormy and dark,
The town was shut up in sleep:
Only those were abroad who were out on a lark,
Or those who'd no beds to keep.

I pass'd through the lonely street,
The wind did sing and blow;
I could hear the policeman's feet
Clapping to and fro.

There stood a potato-man
In the midst of all the wet;
He stood with his 'tato-can
In the lonely Hay-market.

Two gents of dismal mien,
And dank and greasy rags,
Came out of a shop for gin,
Swaggering over the flags:

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The Conversation In The Drawing Room

—That spot of blood on the drawing room wall,
No larger than a thumbnail when I looked a moment ago,
Is spreading, Cousin Agatha, and growing brighter.


Nonsense. The oriole warbles in the sunlight.
The fountains gush luxuriantly above the pool.
The weather is ideal: on the paths a sheen
Of summer provides a constant delight.
I am thinking of affiliating with a new theosophist group.


—Once you could hide it with a nickel.
Now it strangely assumes the shape and size of a palm,
And puts out fingers, Cousin Agatha. Look, examine it!


Some aberration of the wallpaper, no doubt.
Did you have an omelette for lunch, and asparagus?
Mrs. Pisgah’s husband spoke from the beyond during the séance

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Mistaken

1.
Clenched in Snowball Earth's ice viced grip,
survivors hid, shunning sterile shores
and as eternal winter melted, drip by drip,
a forest stitched the silty oceans' floors.

Crinkled spindles and leafy globes open,
man-high, thumbnail thin, sentinel fronds.
Multicellular life, freshly woven,
modules linked and branched with fractal bonds.

Too dark, too deep, to be photosynthetic,
nutrients were gleaned through membranes fluted.
Strewn in an unseen ghostly aesthetic,
not plants but animals, static, rooted.

In places, Earth's belches and coughed ash
sank, killed, coated and cast still life tableaux.
Sediments weighted and imbued the cache,
layer on layer of time-locked plateaus.

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Patrick White

I Have Grown

I have grown significantly to understand that every throne I've ever sat upon was quicksand and that I am living leniently on the match-head of a planet waiting for the thumbnail of the moon to ignite it with one quick flick of a crescent. Equine and apocalyptic as hell, and the irony is, more than possibly accurate. I'm running out of doors where I can billet my assassins; I keep giving my heart to women who reject it like a bloodbank without an overdraft. I'm a diffraction pattern in the twilight zone, in media res, between this world and the next, and that's not the one where the herders and the hunters are having it out in a range war of religions. Like a page torn out of the multiverse, I'm just a zone of local cooling, a sunspot, and my neighbour is another, though we know we're both just fooling when we call each other brother. Forty-eight years a poet and a painter, intoxicated by the picture-music threading the fog of the sirens like a theme I couldn't resist. Foolish, I suppose, not to have tied myself off like a lifeboat and rowed and rowed for years just to stay where I am, but I had to jettison my landing gear to achieve cruising altitude in the oxymoronic abyss that the sirens demanded, saying, live this, if your poetry isn't just the romantic bloodletting of a rose from a vein that you've slashed on the moon, prove you're not a lie to us, and conduct yourself like a terrorist, prepared, are you prepared? -to die for us. I cut the eyes out of an eclipse and wore it over my face like a ski-mask, and walked around in the busy market, weighing the world like a tomato in my hand, the original primordial atom, packed with explosives, ready to detonate on command, to delet and improve the world by splashing myself against the wall like a bucket of paint and see what I could make out of myself in the mess of the ensuing vision. It's amazing how suggestive a real siren can be when you're lying in an ambulance without any legs. So I learned to swim like a fish among the stars; the last archon of an extinct species from Mars, evicted when all the water went south, and I had to come up with a completely new medium, new atmosphere, new idiom, out of myself, ingeniously, given what I had to work with. I adapted to the solitude and silence of my own vast spaces within, and vowed like a candle, to root my flower in the dark like lightning. Now there's a squad car outside the candy-store and a swan that barks like a god. Make of it what you will. The pebble doesn't enquire after its ripples. I write without feedback, without telltale bubbles of meaning rising to the surface like survivors who want to crawl back up on land and start it all again. There's not much point in panning for gold in an asteroid belt when the only way to tell one nugget from the next is to break your teeth biting into them like fortune-cookies enshrining the haloes and the horns of the prophetic comets that dash by like bunting on a campaign tour. Elect me your fate, and I promise to find a place for your day old reflection somewhere on the plate, and a way to flag the fools down for easier detection. But I won't tweak your mountainous erection like a gunshot when there are avalanche warnings all along the road, and the echoes return, born again, rehearsing their own names like fleeing refugees on a rosary of boulders that were left overs from Soddam and Gomorrah. Better to write this way than to lie buried like the last laugh of a kingly line in the barrow of a dunghill, pleading like a seed for an upgraded resurrection. I may well be the last extant defect of a fallible perfection, and all the mistakes of the bruised morning glory are mine, and the snakey tines of these tendrils of blood get tangled up in the twine of my thought and no one knows how they got in nor how to get out, and the homologous combs of the mentally coiffed are useless against the love knots that have coiled into nooses around the neck of the wind that's run out of excuses for inciting the spring to riot, but at least I don't snitch my way through a poem like a hydrophobic divining rod rooting out the terrorist wells of the watershed in order to secure some heartland in the back pastures of God. It's dangerous wherever I am. And flawed.

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Robert Frost

The Axe-Helve

I've known ere now an interfering branch
Of alder catch my lifted axe behind me.
But that was in the woods, to hold my hand
From striking at another alder's roots,
And that was, as I say, an alder branch.
This was a man, Baptiste, who stole one day
Behind me on the snow in my own yard
Where I was working at the chopping block,
And cutting nothing not cut down already.
He caught my axe expertly on the rise,
When all my strength put forth was in his favor,
Held it a moment where it was, to calm me,
Then took it from me - and I let him take it.
I didn't know him well enough to know
What it was all about. There might be something
He had in mind to say to a bad neighbour
He might prefer to say to him disarmed.
But all he had to tell me in French-English
Was what he thought of- not me, but my axe;
Me only as I took my axe to heart.

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King Of Birds

A thumbnail sketch, a jewelers stone
A mean idea to call my own
Old man dont lay so still youre not yet young
Theres time to teach, point to point,
Point observation, children carry reservations
Standing on the shoulders of giants leaves me cold, leaves me cold.
A mean idea to call my own, a hundred million birds fly
Singer sing me a given, singer sing me a song
Standing on the shoulders of giants everybodys looking on
(old dont lay so still youre not yet young,
Theres time to teach, point to point,
Point observation, children carry reservations).
Standing on the shoulders of giants leaves me cold
A mean idea to call my own, a hundred million birds fly away, away.
I am king of all I see, my kingdom for a voice
Old man dont lay so still, youre not yet young
Theres time to teach, point to point
Point observation, children carry reservations
Standing on the shoulders of giants leaves me cold
A mean idea to call my own, a hundred million birds fly away

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How It's Going To Be

I'm only pretty sure that I can't take anymore
Before you take a swing, I wonder
What are we fighting for
When I say out loud, I wanna get out of this
I wonder, is there anything I'm gonna miss
I wonder, how it's gonna be
When you don't know me
How's it gonna be
When you're sure I'm not there
Hows it gonna be
When there's no one there to talk to
Between you and me
Cause I don't care
How's it gonna be
How's it gonna be
Where we used to laugh
There's a shouting match
Sharp as a thumbnail scratch
A silence I can't ignore
Like the hammock by the doorway

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How's It Gonna Be

I'm only pretty sure that I can't take anymore
Before you take a swing
I wonder
What are we fighting for
When I say out loud
I want to get out of this
I wonder
Is there anything I'm gonna miss
I wonder How it's gonna be
When you don't know me
How's it gonna be
When you're sure I'm not there
How's it gonna be
When there's no one there to talk to, between you and me
'Cause I don't care
How's it gonna be
How's it gonna be
Where we used to laugh
There's a shouting match
Sharp as a thumbnail scratch

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Hows It Going To Be

Im only pretty sure that I cant take anymore
Before you take a swing
I wonder what are we fighting for
When I say out loud
I want to get out of this
I wonder is there anything
Im going to miss
I wonder how its going to be
When you dont know me
Hows it going to be
When youre sure Im not there
Hows it going to be
When theres no one there to talk to
Between you and me
Cause I dont care
Hows it going to be
Hows it going to be
Where we used to laugh
Theres a shouting match
Sharp as a thumbnail scratch

[...] Read more

song performed by Third Eye BlindReport problemRelated quotes
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