War's Manifesto

This is not a tree :D

4 notes

theprinceobjects: One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens

theprinceobjects:

One must have a mind of winter 
To regard the frost and the boughs 
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time 
To behold the junipers shagged with ice, 
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think 
Of any misery in the sound of the wind, 
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land 
Full of the same wind 
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow, 
And, nothing himself, beholds 
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens

(via beingnothing)

2 notes

Meaningless

The rose is obsolete 
but each petal ends in 
an edge, the double facet 
cementing the grooved 
columns of air—The edge 
cuts without cutting 
meets—nothing—renews 
itself in metal or porcelain—

whither? It ends—

But if it ends 
the start is begun 
so that to engage roses 
becomes a geometry—

Sharper, neater, more cutting 
figured in majolica— 
the broken plate 
glazed with a rose

Somewhere the sense 
makes copper roses 
steel roses—

The rose carried weight of love 
but love is at an end—of roses

It is at the edge of the 
petal that love waits

Crisp, worked to defeat 
laboredness—fragile 
plucked, moist, half-raised 
cold, precise, touching

What

The place between the petal’s 
edge and the

From the petal’s edge a line starts 
that being of steel 
infinitely fine, infinitely 
rigid penetrates 
the Milky Way 
without contact—lifting 
from it—neither hanging 
nor pushing—

The fragility of the flower 
unbruised 
penetrates space

Filed under poetry the rose is obsolete williams carlos williams prose spring and all

4 notes

My Mouth to Your Gut: Nevertheless

flyingodiva:

By Marianne Moore

you’ve seen a strawberry
that’s had a struggle; yet
was, where the fragments met,

a hedgehog or a star-
fish for the multitude
of seeds. What better food

than apple seeds - the fruit
within the fruit - locked in
like counter-curved twin

hazelnuts? Frost that kills
the…

2 notes

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10 Plays

onceabitch:

I’ve been writing this Marianne Moore paper like for a million times too long. 
I love this poem, though, so at least I got something out of my disaster.  

17 notes

But rose, if you are
brilliant, it
is not because your petals are the without-which-nothing
of pre-eminence. Would you not, minus
thorns, be a what-is-this, a mere
perculiarity? They are not proof against a worm, the
elements, or mildew;
but what about the predatory hand? What is brilliance
without co-ordination? Guarding the
infinitesimal pieces of your mind, compelling audience to
the remark that it is better to be forgotten than to be re-
membered too violently,
your thorns are the best part of you.
from Roses Only, Marianne Moore.  (via wetalkedasgirlsdo)

2 notes

Gapless

…prose has to do with the fact of an emotion ; poetry has to do with the dynamisation of emotion into seroarate form. This is the forece of imgination.

prose : statement of facts concerning emotions, intellectua states, data of all sorts - technical expositions, jargon, of all sorts - fictional and other -

poetry : new form dealt with as a reality in itself.

The form of prose is the accuracy of its subject matter-how best to expose the multiform phases of its material

the form of poetry is related to the movements of the imagination revealed in words - or whatever it may be - 

the cleavage is complete

Filed under williams carlos williams poetry prose spring and all