"My wife never has a new coat and I may have to write novels."
Kenneth Patchen `A Letter to God'


BIO: Wildman American(c)
No more wasteful want!

Secure humankind and what's dragging;
Whole Earth
Bear with.

The written word, form seen with inner eye

on understanding or flights of fancy and the form each sentence, paragraph,

the page itself takes and makes on the mind, a painting,

are all that right angles and let it.

So, color on canvas as guide for writer,

lines to separate,

thoughts, feelings, words - to help!? Thank you!

Copyright(c)2002-2014 Joe Duvernay. All rights reserved.



  (Exploratory Surgery on the Healthy Newborn)

  What did demon markets, their shareholders,

  a few questionable fears profit in?

   “Mr. Speaker, I object!”

     Copyright © 2002-2014 Joseph Duvernay



  Back with Frost, in from florid fields on knee,

  as there are innocents to be defended.

  Without easy injury

  some say must be Good’s amused mirror,

  he found a second act to lives.

  Foment no gall, ship no discontent,

  lead-out where sense went.

  There and in that that is

  a cool bench, no fire under it,

  contrast was for all governing all,

  without ‘professionals’ whose misuse

  had not the stage-set

  as in every falling away century.


  Januarily, a rambunctious flush to storied faces;

  wildfire that knows faraud logic of selfish-lost;

  disembodied yells in years’ greedy silence;

  Old Yeller melt his porch,

  who guard ‘a living!’ with doubt.


  But breeze, clears her evening throat

  and comfort, like it or not,

  is not wondering on the last trees

  and about to disturb baby’s caroling field.

  Right has stopped carnage.

  Men had try and savor

  reentering the house, quiet.

   Copyright © 2011-2014 Joseph Duvernay

  Notes: Faraud: a species of man marked by coarseness and a natural effrontery.


             CASTLES  OF  BOOK


   As heart-soft under touch of bodies wasn’t,

   succumb view of loft under sheaf-watch was,

   that sought, if life bungled apprehension with

   better books than attempts and courage;

   Holy Numa taking burial with his.


   Under clank fear - being bookless, self seraphed,

   file the duldrum ‘faithsofarincompanionship lost’

   that squishes futurity under the foot when stepped on,

   with cry taunt dryness of risen independence,

   that is a way wonder takes.


   A hint, B discrete! Affairs of state scream

   for the gentleperson asleep in sham.

   And why not Night? Reap lax donations!

   The hours sacrificial anguish mornings’ disposal.

   Crumbling year to keep count the mischief.


   Very cross the aloof, Verse!

   Drowsy spectre Amour fast from study, secures feel day.

   But, do you scoff kithe rescue,

   and drown now Lust

   in library’s shelves and sheets.

    © Copyright 2004 -2014 Joseph M. Duvernay

   Notes: Numa Pompilius. Kithe: chiefly Scots: to become known.




  Ten by ten, twice the fives was.

  Possessive had brushed Russian dust

  and embarked Dutch air.

  Hate born alone is easiest no family to fare tried brunts;

  ills-fall-solely-on-him drove the courage.

  Blues-song braved infalling star,

  model quiet-man’s patience secured itself;

  and in the magnam fortunam of who held his voice

  was of field and farm, early bode the sleight,

  ill-mannered Burden; some basic humanity surplused.

  Cafés laughed their just-us, just as much;

  timing blazed to purpose.


  With ganja sacrament then took their medicine

  and submerged in its amazements

  as the mousing paralysis, a bonus,

  nailed for minds fleeing excuse and retirements.

  Bricks, bridge, laps in water and windows.

     To the young at once institute then:

  “Live life like you’ve rented it,

  before trow cautions of age scup,

  survive and bag sire accomplishment.

  That way gentle giant, great protector

  Gratitude comes filling head to heel with proofs,

  and keep eyes on the simple stuff.”

   Copyright © 2010 (05-08 Avril-Aug,) – 2014 Joseph Duvernay

Notes: Horace, Odes III.27: “magnam: great/large/momentous; Fortunam: chance/luck, fate, destiny, etc. - “’vilis Europe,’ “Worthless Europe” he has the Phoenician king, Agenor say -. This is early! Rudyard Kiplings’ The White Man’s Burden 1899. Trow: believe, think. John Bunyan’s Pilgrims Progress


    -   ARCHILOCHUS  FFS. 21, 25, 26, 59, 61, 74  TRANSLATION   -

Recently browsing, upon a boon! The labours of one John Lewis on some Solon Fragments, and wrote to thank him.

The art of the translator is not in enhancement if she/he can.

No! If honest in praise of other writers, to their words only our level, easy un-encumbrances must come, flavored at best by a stretched under(over)standing, if empathetic imagining, that is beyond language.

 Further if, the author was a man of action, as our latest choice, scratching Archilochus, then perhaps who would be such, and practice that, can closer the subject come.

 Chapman, opening one excuse for his Iliad translations, suggests the old saw: a word-for-word translation is a world of dearth many have said it was/is and must be avoided.  This sends freshmen fingers to heads. Then reader on! And by the cabbage, in another piece of literary suppliance he argues from the opposite: that if anything in his translation is thought suspect, the critic may go his translation word-for-word and see where, or if in fact he erred. Unless a wave of misunderstanding has off-set, and into the salt am tumble, I think we must be in company with Verace whenever in right minds, and abandon to excess large swaths the rest.

Greek text from Mikros Apoplous –



  FR.21 [Ed. 21] (Loeb C. Library Greek Iambic Poetry, Archilochus, Elegiacs, fr.21)

   And before now like an ass’s backbone

  stood the untamed forest

  packed close.


  25 [Ed.24]

  And therefore truly keen downthrough,

  I shall have good, fairness.


  26 [Ed.25] (Loeb; Archilochus, Elegiacs, fr.19)

   Not with me these many riches of Gyges are a concern,

  nor do I roll, shift my feet in jealousy, nor am indignant

  of (G)ods’ work; and I do not inquire of the tyranny.

  For far is it from my eyes.


   59. All about a Gyre.

        Shallow islands

        25 nautical miles north

        of the island of Paros.


   59 [Ed.54]; (Loeb. Greek Iambic Poetry, Archilochus; Elegies; fr. 105)

        Glaucus look! For deep in swells stirs the sea

        and around it crests a Gyre that rises and stands as cloud.

        A portent storm, it comes from un-safe panic.

        Sleep, Glaucus, plainly.


        (The sea contains depths cold.

        Its rotten, fierce waves; its joined cloud.

        All around a Gyre; bitter weather,

        that to a very great distance lurks, speeding by). = Note taken into the text.

(Note: The Loeb suggestion of the promontory at Tenos (Tinos) which is roughly “25 nautical…” as being perhaps the same as the mythological location of Poseidon or Athene’s rebuff of The Lesser Ajax, and, as well, a place of gyres in the Aegean/Mediterranean Seas or near there the proposed burial places of the washed-up body of Ajax at Myconos or Delos, all three Islands being within the 25 Nautical miles north of Paros mentioned in the Iamboi fr. 59, lead me to venture: Gyrea and gyre (a thing that circles) being one and the same thing and place and a dual play on the word by the poet.)


61 [Ed.56] (Loeb. Archilochus, Trochaic Tetrameters, fr.130)

   With the gods may you place all!

  Often indeed evil men

  standing upright on the earth

  altogether fall supine and quite well going

  where their backs they turned.

  Then, much born into the harms

  of the possessions of life,

  he runs all over the course;

  his judgment dangling loosely.


   74. Laophile, Lover of the People.

         Apparently, a plastic name.


    74 [Ed.69]; (Loeb. Elegies; fr. 115)

         Now, alas Leophile (Lover of All Things) it indeed begins.

         The Lover of All rules! And with the Lover of All Things

         all things rest. Leophile, I have heard!


         (Laophile (Lover of The People) I graze you!

         The Lover of The People accomplishes!

         The Lover of The People judges who else is a Lover of The People.) = Note into the text.
                         Copyright (c) 2013 -2014 Joseph M. Duvernay
     HARD  BY  THE  SEA 

    In muddled fud spoke finesse,

    simple source, richest,

    that ‘legs the snake and tails fish.’

    among, a common man, poor in antithesis,

    cauldrons how with light film

    that humbled scarp to him there,

    from heaves the sea, in his whimpery,

    her in her beachfront, her wifery, stays a while,

    visits clear space, catches breath

    and pollex’s through simultaneous.


    Lay in wait for evidence and it shall find.

       one day you will look, and the clouds,

    so perfect in their imperfection,

    like her, holy, will make you look away.

    and foehn-rustled trees

    shriek and wrestle in movement;

    Parkour on spot;

    and barbarous comb and tickle a pasture.

    and you’ll not sleep your guard;

    secure her safe in wilde azure.


    May men always op’ doors for you madam

    and may you always welcome it!

    May you summit, a friend of ours!

Copyright © 2000-2013 Joseph Duvernay.  Notes: Fud: fuddy-duddy – old fashioned, unimaginative, etc. Antithesis: contrast, difference. Pollex: the thumb. Foehn: a warm, dry wind…



There’s a savored, lonely road

where oak and grass hunch about their tricklet,

that one early matin, the coyotes’ complement,

at exhaust gait, gave surprised eye to meet.

Lynx rufus mowing on to plate,
neglected appetite; dear God, anything!

had that last chance scruff and bone about,

embarrassed skin thin of emaciation.


 And there was the whimper,

before last breath ails gone;

that stretch-heard groan, in less energy come to be,

and present the ear its bell toll.

 Led to my empathy and prayerful hands,

I asked the Author if She could grant urchin

better ahead, less trouble behind, more stalks crepuscular;

further felid he, in a safer more satisfying time!?

Copyright © 2011 (Sept-Oct.) – 2012 Joseph Duvernay
Crepuscular: of dusk or dawn. Felid: of cats.



   She took the waters in the evening

   and care laid on, the lightest presence.

   I fed, we were wed, Eros wore his newest clothes.

   Surely that glow, in decline, would take eons to detect.

   But resentment is an ease-stealer with an hundred hands.


   Falter shoals, navigable now that I know

   where the bars and banks are respect,

   where this little boat holding in its binnacle

   not lamp and compass, but light and season,

   shows, as in dream, my small and great treasons,

   how I am the very cut of man.


   As, in shinnery with the “moving muse”

   I will prance when weather is in meet to advance,

   and thank she and these ladies hence

   that my M. de LaVernaye, newly made,

   was never so false to much attack a woman,

   though I had shameful foray.


   “To excuse is to accuse,” the Marquis

   said to himself.

   All children are false

   if raised on the meat of adult nonsense,

   less effective for avoid;

   less affected in this void,

   I’ve gone from gold and dove to lead and owl;

   and that has been the way of it.


     Copyright © 2011 (26-27 Jan) Joseph Duvernay




   If I could but dance you twirl this madcap,

   I’d friend a flash and encamp

   that straight tender of the possible

   we, at behest of capacity would never supplant

   with vile rancor of tit-for-tat,

   but gladden us our welcome mat

   with a million courtesies quite like that.


   This, old ages would recognize

   as common civic, proven physic,

   and wish these having-come times

   mates, uncomplication;

   wizened, willow respect to oak our grasses,

   the montane’s other elects,

   and in that ragged trade complete our magnet.


   And since, for instance, all heady for change,

   our loft cognizance proves less-well for gain,

   we’d clasp brevity to the clean of wants

   and levity would certain grasp

   the carving avidity

   that yelled fire in our crowded theatre,

   when young we were.


   Also, as thrice the whiny end of things

   advances and is beaten back;

   when-as the habitus of empire is eased to simple,

   those siring veterans align for dazzle,

   forgiven, much like us, and spoiled by new soil:

   water its spring-wear zealot,

   locate easily their memories, in eyes fresh shut.


    Copyright © 2010 -2011 Joseph Duvernay




Land-rider Dawn, who’s glassy,

root finger pre-soot blackened amber fires

that in the metal plates middle coal up slow;

recede charcoal, yawn dawn;

the long margin civil.

Society you venerated correct, so there you went!

Lever pull, armature raise, switch engage,

discreet components worm on a board,

taupe cylindricals, tails intact. Resistance pots;

and a father with electron tubes fletch immortal air

for televisions’ tempest, core’s innocent

in an easy look back; a day's hot packed,

drawn to escape as mule hitched, from the worry first,

before as sycophant, man married his machine there.


Sight an overworked day, “That cart, bring it close!

“What’s under the tarp?” stood answer the riddle of

Sir, nothing worth attention!

“Then show it, at once, you insolent fat!”

As you say! Sheet grasp, light invade,

“May the gods forgive us this day…what! What is that?”

Oh like I said sir, he’s found no place to stay;

there with me retries

but (more assurance) a traitor not I be!

This man of cause curious, shiv charm,

labours minute joy to find.

I like to think the outcasts’ found it here

with thee sir in thy kingdom, what say?

“A poem from the fool then

and let the wretch be!”

Copyright © 2000 (!?) - 2013 Joseph Duvernay

                   YARN  FOR  A  SEASON

                         “…and spring was but a season of the year.”
                                                            P. Ovidius Naso


            Writ by every mind that’s laid on;

known in the yes of nods, no of mortals, bantling cries

and humus sod ooing; sung from mouths beyond number,

this wheel of fortune, this jeu d’esprit

really forecasts no outcome.

At once frigid, warm, hot and thin from burrow,

sayable of beauty, harmon, corybant, then:

‘without mode, dissonant’; waft in durian cheer,

she proves ambivalence in fail of showy,

with no care accounts and a very lot of variables,

as Jack tries budge with the frosty steed,

in this ‘chaplet month’ after ‘winter count’;

shearing Shrovetide ala Alcofribas; a hail goes opaque;

forsythia golden riots near the gate,

and for all her summer pretense, Pert primavera,

Theresa of the Undergrowth – tresses mussed,

clamored by all and April, that patter of verse,

collector of taxes – struggles hygeia.


            A temperate primary worms say,

where starry night and stifle day portend fires,

that long before Homer burned.

            Clear observations bend in effort,

and round corners even moon’s luminaria

seems hunch fortune’s bidance.

            Bobs of cork! Revoked poise of the once neritic,

in its reason, up-ocean-floors waterous, funnels discontent,

washes, wipes at pace, could not keep, through thorn thresh,

 bitten bramble. “There are tears for things.”


            But by heaven myrmidons, when “world is in its dotage”

            and you’ve long since loped with poodle ilky and dung beetle –

            others our story – to pen all poodles, save wastes beetle knew,

for man-friendly gain, treaded not footless your carbon load

'cross the plains of air, where Null-sinister accosts Felicity

to loud her motto, shove hell’s piles, and lose that ‘winter mind’,

they’re there still on our behalf, like all self-assigned

having “ropes to pull”, nails to toe, wounds to wrap:

Null-sinister warning, blood-weal turning oaths over in her hands.

             © Copyright 2005-2007 Joseph Duvernay   “Sunt Lacrimae rerum”


                          EPISTLE  AND  POST

            You monarchs sit a ridge as though quiet and attention,

virtues your stand suggests, gets everything of men,

that nothing they do, have done may excite or round.

Sky-reach those edges in direction from the oldest fan then,

and while no close-quarter politics, intrigues, no courtiers,

few servants-in-wait seem there your court,

royalty you are, and what fealty I feel, I owe!


            Rebuke if I wax effluent and sing this heart with tear,

in happiness, you move me to it; love will save them!

Apt, watch what loyalty I’ll knock a care

any rogue raises harms hands your majesty.


            God save the monarchs! God save men through them!

            God make a real man so true-honest sits by!


            Soft your charm, solid your defense tree

            and this is not our first epistle, would

            every house, every shanty lift troth to you;

            I don’t know if I can stop them.


  P.S. We have for despairable time now, not seen ourselves

  asleep in your wood, but set cap there; Chambre á louer.


   And tell: what was on the ostracon?

  Meaningless names momentary to light, from lost centuries?

  No! new moments delivery just! Un-deciphered!

  Not the oust ostinato of the thing?

  Not dictionary as no blunder, to spare poor reader’s sake?

  Sake? Pour into stumble then, there’s enough fluoride

  and chem-cousin to let dust take the first, why wait, it does!

  Ugh? What?

  I didn’t think they would come!

  Neither did I! What do we do?

  Can’t graduate first endeavours, till second are upon;

  let’s go over and say hi!


             © Copyright 2006 (Nov.) Joseph Duvernay


                ODYSSEUS  OF  MEMORY


            What a train of pities, carking woe;

            un-wowed we by The Brine’s roil;

            hungers have too many un-done.

            Limp from trial, another mask is down;

            sore of lobe, hunch from travels

            witful grow exceeding proud.

            The goddess does what she can,

            despite, avuncular distrust ups prow

            of well-found ships; lost they drown.


            ‘The Old One’s’ caprice has tests for

            believing’s deferent devotion’s offers, and

            that’s a trident-laden hand in the misty reach!

            You feel your fifty or so; increasing weight

            as each year suitors bold, pushes down;

            wives their best; she weaves endurance;

            usurpers, every etiquette breach.

            Most men captain, are finally the gift of reason

            to themselves, not these.


            Clearly there are those collecting the demise of men;

             Achilles at the hole, remorse makes a fevered friend.

            Perhaps if vengeance held its hand

            these slackers would be not out in pay,

            once-vaunt darings flat with them and day

            a chance again to elevate beyond mere child of night.

             But memory, more home than this, wants you

            to leave a son, a spouse after the bow is strung,

            eyes are blot, for somewhere away the distant earth.


            © Copyright 2006 Joseph Duvernay



        A quandary; a quandary

         whether your reveal

        stiffens or frights,

            whose tilled toil have tried

        to make peace with,

          was at the door of it:

              that rag-doll feel ever was.


       Climbed the tree out back, lucky to have one.

             Saw no dust oil-tinged from Iraq;

          Phosphorous in burn gory was not flight,

         and ‘mountains hadn’t yet skipped like Rams’,

           but shook there Ragnarok

            - To meet The Ancient of Days, and try Up Marionette! on

            is a thing ill-advised, most ill-advised!


      Hob loblolly of double-talk and uranium (O deceiver! You deceiver)

            had every orange: cut, near its place, milk all gone, but in its bowl,

         and you just got one sad apple!?

          “it comes soon!” You choose an answer.

           As do, like new owners: prophecy: relaxed,

         sits with dark-hope in mouth;

            mechanic throws more bone on the fire.


        © Copyright Dec. 2005 - 2006 Joseph Duvernay

            trouble gruel. “…like rams…” from the Book of Enoch


       NO  FIAT
         What I know could fill no cartons,
         packed away attic like.
         Only the lone mouse might use them,
         his warmth slight.
         Like the house, I tried,
         but every scratch wears us still.
         Mayhap, already spleen, the local boot
         ferries cross a mud flat:
         drudge shape, that weeks ago
         passed same spot on this same ribbon.

         Race intuits very little;
         a supply of packaged goods
         goes for far less,
         and the way I once ate breakfast
         has drawn its last paycheck.
         Honesty might be poets wish.
           That she has no specific accoutrement
         in mind proves she views
         from pining’s observation deck,
         and my buddy runs his last track.

         Though once, out of sheer lack I may have had to,
         I tell you I’ll observer and killer no more.
         No fiat for war any more ever,
         And let that soothe the beast.

           © Copyright 2005 Joe Duvernay


         At history’s glass - no crying mother said,
             but the seminary? could not!
         This became good deed
            since only bright-cell, scholar-coat velleity.

         As if rising over scenes, he knows what it takes.
            Thinks, yeah! gained in loss. 
         After no cloister: book and flute;   
            boredom - a conceit not worth having.

         Careful the many mastodons of un-finish
            while too anxious to be of use to be of none,
         he creates his twelve American dances
            and Saturday never comes.

             © Copyright 2005 Joe Duvernay.
After: the ‘…German Dances’ by Haydn, Mozart,
                       Beethoven, Schubert, etc.


        NAZIS  ALL

         Most white boys,
         don’t know
         how to act
         around black men,
         so stumble, retreat; so bark or bite.
         And you in the ranks,
         who have you hated?
         Think of it; we can none of us face each other;
         but to end when the falls just start,
         when some water old restorative
         downs its mountain, we’d not were sane about,
         but gracious the bounty
         with numerous liquid else.

         Among these happy, if chance medley,
         none need accept that insipid
         nor bend pavid bow;
         just spread equal want
         to the each and every self.

         And we must, must we not, agree:
         faith can stand no questioning
         nor belief be etched
         on any wonder-board `cept the present `n after,
         there to sprout and be.

          © Copyright 2005 Joseph Duvernay


           UPLAND  LOVE
         In these tall it’s heyday ardor;
         all rough, in the sage,
         where quail are scratching day-beds
         and manzanita plumly welcome lark.

         Re-generation be the switch in this garden.
         What creature
         of earth-stuff poet the raveling?
         Old, fallen, batten as lay,
         oak of kindness is no scrub and
         all the sliding silica does not a rock misjudge.
         Lost of purpose
         these ken gird;
         seed-bounty pinõn op’s stores,
         elfin saplings endure and
         pageant death promises detail on folded arms.

         But millet concerns like:
         will these not of their making
         and they themselves keep?
         Or how an, “…in all of history!” can be
         judged by the reference-less
         will sink with the top layer
         in a few hundred years.
         One bolder’d say, Do what intrinsic scolds,
         go where remiss
         visit and this heaven love.

          © Copyright 2004-2005 Joe Duvernay.



         Yeah yew, I quess if you were to pronounce for the world

         you'd say in some wind rush like a whisper,

         forces have more girth than a man,

         that even hats won't work

        Small concerns under this lid -
        she slips in a rush job and some waiting;
        we have two nice evenings;
        “I had thought” to invent a double happiness,
        but could not find the parts.
          Another day, every tool and material
        assembled for the heavy-breathing
        of love gained, of space in the house,
        but were taking pictures of the soon thrown out:
        an art project.
        Saw you and yours taking pictures;
        as last chance up on the lanes where strained adjustments
        ledgered as winds effect only;

        hearts steady-step here where need is gallop.
        Fault with age, could be
        fault with emperors?

        Fine, those who’ve tried history for us;
        very consciousness slows.
        Well! the aril of your ‘fruitless’ will mix
        and his steps not stones in a rumored
        further walks under yews.

          Copyright © 2005 Joe Duvernay



 Some, like an old bear’s unscratched,

at new language, phrasings, let the anger spout,

are mean but cute.

Please, if we are not captured and said to be extinct,

let us confess doing that, and not the scene bruise ‘or.


Crank science and derelict art clap the start

cling to shadow that yelps, jumps

and mouth some nit junk

sunk with the overload ships of accolade.

Let men lean together on their troubles

and let’s see how often

they then dash toward categories.

Great Imagination, Lord of All

who folds gently within,

if something could be written might please You;

would You staff these woven hands?


Minds could wake, souls release weight.

Go the big help, stumble if must.

Life wears rare episodes You showed.

Love us the good angel’s wants, Hallelujah!

Copyright (c) 2002 -2012 Joe Duvernay. All rights reserved.


        SOUP  IN  HEAVEN

         The mass killer in men, dare they save him?
         Society’s watermark dries on walls
          stained with incredible saint
         stolen in daily devotions.

         It’s easy to see
         you’re wet and just in
         from a cold continent,
         find a seat

         then crawl about in shadow moments
         before it startles
         fine fleece majority has
         dent and break possibilities.

         Shift focus,
         rend fits in the world;
         hope a fact stream uncoil:
         ever situated, largely celebrate.

         She bled redder then:
         an affirmative dose of spiff.
         A splinter needs dangle,
         a soup eats in angel heaven.

         America, marry me
         in my noon apparel!
         Yips cover exit’s
         roadside facet weal. 

           Copyright © 2004-2005 Joseph Duvernay


         EYES  ON  THE  WATER
          Rows an unused boat
          on lake of crystal dews
          and gets thoughts her stare:
          eyes like clear pools after a rain,
          that shot meaning; how
          she vitaled his human.

          Going for an anti-beer, he discovers:
          “Truth, be a heart widened
          emptied this time for the wife and fishes!
          I will: nothing to forestall, hers in fancy,
          flagon entire drained;
          whole craft put to edge
          that ever welcomes her!”
         his orbs and the vermiculate sea
          tell of bonds baffled,
          how all slipped easily,
          unnoticed out of hands.

          © Copyright 2005 Joe Duvernay


         A  DAY  IN  LIPETSK

        “Do not travel alone!” was warned our build wish.
        The country, unstable, safety could not be confirmed,
         but off on a site-visit, to breathe the country miles,
         hour and a half on the road
         with interpreter and driver I gamble my pile.

         She, lithe blond of the smiling eyes is guide on arrival,
         newly changed Ministry, its wood floors, paneling and drape
         coveted cigarette smoke of a century.
         Director hurried, proved diffident.
         Then to our business tour turned lunch;
         we became the ancient little restaurant itself:
         snuggled into rock below the boulevard
         cozy, comfy, one with booth.
         Melt anxiety! Time rest near!

         But conditioned with the old reception:
         what if kept wary eye and stayed just aft happy;
         soon the Black Earth entrusted to Slavs humanizes
         and city’s lunch-hour streets, riparian views,
         feminine company do much to calm, the whole gained.

         Can say lunch was a rush of Russian dishes:
         borsch, fresh fish, the ready samovar I
         and that best Russian Stolichnayan of conversation.
         “You like Russian girls?”
         “Like a bear that enjoys all the berries!”
         cool in rest.

         When travel, do the earnest prepare their empathy
         noting how every slight or realization at ‘home’ can clothe
         for that prized world-citizenship which returns
         persona non grata with sir-patience up-close
         and by dunk, are living to promise? Should!

         Translator, driver, bonding work done;
         capital’s representative comfortable with the focus,
         everyone seemed happy,
         much so that from that point till end of tour,
         light shown on the kind people we all were
         and formidable setback with logistics nightmare proved far less;
         simply tell it.
           © Copyright 2005 Joe Duvernay


        NOTE: Please feel free to email at:


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                    FRANCIS   RABELAIS    (In Translation)

                       To The Soul Of


   ABSTRACTED  soul, ravished with ecstasies,
   Gone back, and now familiar in the skies; 
   Thy former host, thy body, leaving quite,
   Which to obey thee always took delight,
   Obsequious, ready :  now from motion free,
   Senseless, and as it were, in apathy.
   Deign now to issue forth, for a short space,
   From that divine, eternal heavenly place,
   To see the third part, in this earthly cell,
   Of the brave acts of good Pamtegruel.

“…"Tell us what it is to be a woman so that we may know what it is to be a man.

What moves at the margin. What it is to have no home in this place. To be set

adrift from the one you knew. What it is to live at the edge of towns that

cannot bear your company…”

                                    From: Toni Morrison Nobel Lecture 1993

 __________  ___________   ________________

  “…Improve your privileges while they stay,

  Ye pupils, and each hour redeem, that bears

  Or good or bad report of you to heav'n.

  Let sin, that baneful evil to the soul,

  By you be shun'd, nor once remit your guard;

  Suppress the deadly serpent in its egg.

  Ye blooming plants of human race divine,

  An Ethiop tells you 'tis your greatest foe;

  Its transient sweetness turns to endless pain,

  And in immense perdition sinks the soul.”

                   - Phillis Wheatly, from: To The University of Cambridge, New-England

 __________________    _______________    _________________
  In S. T. Coleridge’s “Biograpaphia Literaria. Ch. II, he profuses on the injustice of the charge of irritability of men of genius. After suggesting that it would be instructive and not “unamusing to analyze the complex feeling with which readers take part against the author, in favor of the critic,” he says something I think applies to the general run of these times.

“A debility and dimness of the imaginative power, and a consequent necessity of reliance on the immediate impressions of the senses, do, we know well, render the mind liable to superstition and fanaticism. Having a deficient portion of internal and proper warmth, minds of this class seek in the crowd circum fana” (lit. near sanctuary – crowd safety) “for a warmth in common, which they do not possess singly. Cold and phlegmatic in their own nature, like damp hay, they heat and inflam by co-acervation; or like bees they become restless and irritable through the increased temperature of collected multitudes.

Hence the German word for fanaticism, (such at least was its original import,) is derived from the swarming of bees, namely, schwaermen, schwaermerey.

The passion being in an inverse proportion to the insight,-- that the more vivid, as this the less distinct--anger is the inevitable consequence.

The absence of all foundation within their own minds for that, which they yet believe both true and indispensable to their safety and happiness, cannot but produce an uneasy state of feeling, an involuntary sense of fear from which nature has no means of rescuing herself but by anger.”

_____    _____   ______________

 "You express a desire to know something of myself. Account me " a drop in the ocean
seeking another drop," or God-ward, striving to keep so true a sphericity as to receive
the due ray from every point of the concave heaven...I have been left very much at my
leisure. It were long to tell all my speculations on my profession an my doings thereon;
but, possessing my liberty, I am determined to keep it, at the risk of uselessness... One
thing I believe, - that Utterance is place enough... Yet the best poem of the Poet is his own mind."
                                                       - R.W. Emerson letter to Thomas Carlyle
                                                         Concord, Mass., 20 November, 1834   

A flippant Julien Sorel in Stendhal's “Le Rouge et le Noir” is open-field running to point out the duplicities and faults of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, which men, being men, cannot easily refrain from (neither faults nor complaint) and that he, Rousseau himself, mentions in that statement about paradox in "Emile"; I nevertheless, in what little read and understand of his work (Rousseau’s) I have done, find his thought enlighteningly refreshing, prescient in that way established truths have of them when rediscovered, and worth every mention I might muster. Observe (in translation): From his (1754) study “Discours sur l’Origine et les Fondements de l’Inegalite parma les Hommes”.

“The civil law being thus become the common rule of citizens, the law of nature no longer obtained except between the different societies, where under the name of the law of nations, it was modified by some tacit conventions to render commerce possible, and supply the place of natural compassion, which, losing by degrees all that influence over societies which it originally had over individuals, no longer exists but in some great souls, who consider themselves as citizens of the world, force the imaginary barriers that separate people from people, after the example of the sovereign being from whom we all derive our existence, and include the whole human race in their benevolence.”


"...The sayings of the wise are like goads; like fixed pegs are the topics given by one collector.
As to more than these, my son, beware. Of the making of books there is no end,
and in much study there is weariness for the flesh..."
                                                   Coheleth or Ecclesiastes in the Greek trans. of the Hebrew
                                               (one who convokes an assembly) Chapter 12. Epilogue vs. 11-12

Curse on these taxes - one succeeds another - Our ministers - panders of a king's will -
Drain our wealth away - waste it in revels - And lure, or force away our boys (and girls),
who should be The props of our old age! - to fill their armies And feed the crows of France!
year follows year, And still we madly prosecute the war; - Draining our wealth - distressing
our poor peasants - Slaughtering our youths - and all to crown our chiefs With glory! -
I detest the hell-sprung name..."
                                                   From: Robert Southey's (1774-1843) "Wat Tyler" Act 1

"Meet us under these cypresses, which turn their solemn tops to heaven;

visit us among those espaliers where the citrons and pomegranates bloom

beside us, where the graceful myrtle stretches out its flowers to us;

and then venture to disturb us with your dreary, paltry nets which men

have spun!"      - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe  'Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship'

                          T. Carlyle trans.


"Perhaps your family and friends

Knew a merry flash cracking the gloom

We see in pictures but I prefer

And will keep the darker legend.

For I have seen how

Half a millennium of alien rape

And murder can stamp a smile

On the vacant face of the fool,

The sinister grin of Africa's idiot-kings

Who oversee in obscene palaces of gold

The butchery of their people..."        -  Chinua Achebe

"Treat the earth well: it was not given to you by your parents,
it was loaned to you by your children. We do not inherit the Earth from our Ancestors,
we borrow it from our Children."
Ancient Indian Proverb

“....I am poor and naked, but I am the chief of the nation. We do not want riches
but we do want to train our children right. Riches would do us no good.
We could not take them with us to the other world. We do not want riches.
We want peace and love.”

Red Cloud (Makhpiya-luta) , April, 1870

        BOILED   DOWN

      It's not

      about us.

      It's what

      we're about.

          William Bronk


"Night is no longer amazed at the shutter a man closes.

    A speck of dust falling on the hand absorbed in the poem

    blasts poem and poet."

                        From: 'TIME AND RISK'

                                        Rene Char


"Have you learn'd lessons only of those who admired you,

     and were tender with you, and stood aside for you?

Have you not learn'd great lessons from those who reject you,

     and brace themselves against you?"

                                          - From: 'STRONGER LESSONS'

                                                                    Walt Whitman


"Belief in God is an inclination to listen,

but as we grow older and our freedom hardens,

we hardly even want to hear ourselves,

the silent universe is auditor…

I am to myself, my trouble sings,"

From: SUMMER, '14 - No Hearing'

Robert Traill Spence Lowell

DEREK WALCOTT - From : 'The Star-Apple Kingdom', 'The Schooner Flight'
"...As I worked, watching the rotting waves come
past the bow that scissor the sea like milk,
I swear to you all, by my mother's milk,
by the stars that shall fly from tonight's furnace,
that I loved them, my children, my wife, my home;
I loved them as poets love the poetry
that kills them, as drowned sailors the sea.

You ever look up from some lonely beach
and see a far schooner? Well, when I write
this poem, each phrase go be soaked in salt;
I go draw and knot every line as tight
as ropes in this rigging; in simple speech
my common language go be the wind,
my pages the sails of the schooner Flight.
But let me tell you how this business begin... "

tr. David Lunde
Chinese text

Meeting Li GuiNian in the South
At the home of the Prince of Qi
I have often seen you,
and in the hall of Cui Jiu,
I have heard you sing.
Truly these southlands
boast unrivalled scenery-
to see you once again
when the flowers are falling.

Chinese text

From: tr. Mike O'connor
Dreaming of Li Bai (2)

You say your return is always harrowing;
your coming, a hard coming;
Rivers, lakes, so many waves;
in your boat you fear overturning.

Going out the door, you scratch your white head
as if the purpose of your whole life was ruined,
The rich and high positioned fill the Capital,
while you, alone, are careworn and dejected.

Who says the net of heaven is cast wide?
Growing older, you only grow more preyed upon.
One thousand autumns, ten thousand years of fame,
are nothing after death.

"Clearheart girth abode alluring. . .
Slow accretion year by year advancing mass, tree-home penultimate dream
In child-heart bower.
Benevolence giant! Sequoia presence.
I thought perhaps some glimpse to steal of spirit tutelar within --

Imagined hamadryad, sylvan nymph; intelligence not faun.
Took more than thought. I stared and stared
Till vexed the glaring nothing! I revealed.
Others had described it, persuaded one the charm. . .
Why then not I? Imagination? Oh I see.
Foolish to be angry. . . just love the tree, instead.

Came then softly the miraculous:
Was loving me the tree and was its spirit! Found! 
Bedraggled Lily of the Roadside:
Trumpeter Datura Derelitta.
Think on it. Her blossom is so very pure. . .

Rank the stalk; and prickle leaf already claw gone thistle. Thorn-apple
Spikings come no surprise. Lethal. Fell. Is witch-wood entered here!
Choose carefully your gait."
-From: James Joyce 'Striding the Bones of the Coastal Range',
an excerpt from 'Growing Pains': The Early Poems by James
Joyce, published by Ladan Reserve Press (c) 2003 James Joyce


Withstanding his use & dereliction of that use of the 'n' word
(Yeah I know- "the times")
Here, some James Joyce quotes from his 'Ulysses'

"Which example did he adduce to induce Stephen to deduce
that originality, though producing its own reward, does not
invariably conduce to success?
His own ideated and rejected project of an illuminated
showcart, drawn by a beast of burden, in which two smartly
dressed girls were to be seated engaged in writing."

"People could put up with being bitten by a wolf
but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep."
"I don't want to indulge in any...because you know
the standard works on the subject, and then, orthodox
as you are...But in the economic, not touching religion,
domain, the priest spells poverty. Spain again, you saw
in the war, compared with goahead America. Turks, it's
in the dogma. Because if they didn't believe they'd go
straight to heaven when they die they'd try to live better -
at least, so I think. That's the juggle on which the p.p.'s
raise the wind on false pretense."



They characterize
their lives, and I
fill up
with mine. Fill up
with what I have, with what
I see (or
need. I make
no distinction. As blind men
cannot love too quiet beauty.

These philosophers
rein up
Their boats. Bring
their gifts, weapons
to my door. As if
that, in itself,
was courage, or counting
The story is a long one. Why
I am here like this. Why you
should listen, now, so late, and
weary at the night. Its
heavy rain
the grass flat.

It is here
somewhere. It grows
here. Answers. Questions. Noise
stiff as silence...
LeRoi Jones (now Amiri Baraka)


We must look after our health, use moderate
exercise, take just enough food and drink to recruit, but not to
overload, our strength. Nor is it the body alone that must be
supported, but the intellect and soul much more."

- Cicero

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have

fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched

, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
beauty, how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive


I cannot spare water or wine,
Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;
From the earth-poles to the Line,
All between that works or grows,
Every thing is kin of mine...




"A baying and clouds! Into bracken they're riding their madness!
Like fishermen cast their nets into vapour and will-o'-the-wisp!
They sling a rope round the crests and invite us to dance!
And wash the horns in the wellspring - so learning the lure-call.

What you chose for your cloak, is it dense, can it harbour the radiance?
They creep round the trunks like sleep, as though offering dream.
High up they hurl hearts, the mossy globes of dementia:
O water-coloured fleece, our one flag on the tower!"



"See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain

See, they return, one, and by one,
With fear, as half-awakened;
As if the snow should hesitate
And murmur in the wind,
and half turn back;
These were the "Wing'd-with-Awe,"

Gods of the wingèd shoe!
With them the silver hounds,
sniffing the trace of air!

...Slow on the leash,
pallid the leash-men!"

[("The Return") Personae] Copyright (c) 1926, 1935, 1971 Ezra Pound
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
O Little Root of a Dream, Paul Celan Translated by Heather McHugh and Nikolai Popov
"0 little root of a dream
you hold me here
undermined by blood,
no longer visible to anyone,
property of death.

Curve a face
that there may be speech, of earth,
of ardor, of
things with eyes, even
here, where you read me blind..."


Please Look for these books of poetry; `DRAGON CONVERSATION'(Also available in E-Book
form from 1st Books Library on the Web at
Also first and second Books; `I BEGIN: (Poems, Essay's, Thoughts and Observations)',
and `OFFERING' by Joe Duvernay. Available on the Web thru Barnes &,, Abebooks and more or please ask for them at your local bookstore.


"Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain."

-p/o Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s "CRISTABEL"


"Can I my reason to my faith compel,
And shall my sight, and touch, and taste rebel
Superior faculties are set aside,
Shall their subservient organs be my guide?

Then let the moon usurp the rule of day,
And winking tapers show the sun his way.
For what my senses can themselves perceive,
I need no revelation to believe."

Part I (excerpts)
John Dryden


"It is a doctrine of war not to assume the enemy will not come,
but rather to rely on one's readiness to meet him: not to presume
that he will not attack, but rather to make ones's self invincible.
Ho Yen-hsi...The 'Strategies of Wu' says:'When the world is at peace,
a gentleman keeps his sword by his side.'"
'Be not Reckless, cowardly or quick-tempered'
- Comment/question --- Is hope a fool then?

-From: Sun Tzu, 'THE ART OF WAR'

---------------                           -----------------

"Heaven could not hold Love, it was so heavy in itself. But
when it had eaten its fill of earth, and taken flesh and blood,
then it was lighter than a leaf on a linden-tree, more subtle
and piercing than the point of a needle. The strongest armour
was not proof against it, the tallest ramparts could not keep it out."

- From, 'PIERS THE PLOUGHMAN', by William Langland

-------------------                             ---------------------

"It is called clouded
when petals dust its surface -
that stream that becomes
a mirror for plum blossoms
year after departing year."


-------------------                        ------------------

Oh! may I curse my blackness
that makes me feel hungry
When the land is full of
gold and diamond
When the land is green
Like the frog blanket
May I wait then

-From: 'MAY I WAIT' by Simion R. Nkanunu

 --------------------                         --------------------

"What of seasons, when for ages
All the sky my lake engages:
What of years ill or good,
When the sap mounts in the wood;
What of years or ill,
When the Danube rolls on still.
Only man is always changing,
O'er the world forever ranging;
We each do our place retain,
As we were, so we remain;
Oceans, rivers, mountains high
And the stars that light the sky,
Saturn with its whirling rings,
And the forest with its springs."

-From 'RETURN' by Mihai Eminescu

----------------------                          -----------------------

Crossing the Lonely Sea.
Delving in the Book of Change, I rose through hardship great,
And desperately fought the foe for four long years;
Like willow catkin, the war-torn land looks desolate,
I sink or swim as duckweed in the rain appears.
For perils on Perilous Beach, I heaved and sighed,
On Lonely Sea now, I feel dreary and lonely;
Since olden days, which man has lived and not died?
I'll leave a loyalist name in history!

-(tr. Xu YuanZhong) - Wen TianZiang

---------------------                         -----------------------

From O Sensei - "Soft controls hard
Hard cuts soft
If pulled, push
If pushed, turn."


"Here learn ye Mountains more unjust,
Which to abrupter greatness thrust,
That do with your hook-shoulder'd height
The earth deform and Heaven fright.
For whose excrescence ill design'd,
Nature must a new Center find,
Learn here those humble steps to tread,
Which to secure Glory lead.

See what a soft access and wide
Lyes open to its grassy side;
Nor with the rugged path deterrs
The feet of breathless Travelers.
See then how courteous it ascends,
And all the way it rises bends:
Nor for it self the height does gain,
But only strives to raise the Plain.
- From: 'Upon the Hill and Grove at Bill-borow.
To The Lord Fairfax.' by Andrew Marvell


1A:1 Mencius went to King Hui of Lang. The King said: "My good man,
since you haven't thought one thousand li too far to come and see me,
may I presume that you have something with which I can profit my kingdom?"
Mencius said:"Why must you speak of profit? What I have for you is jen
(the human mind, humanity, doing, intending, being good, etc.) and Righteousness,
and that's all. If you always say `how can I profit my kingdom?' your top officers
will ask, `how can we profit our clans?' The shih (influencers) and the common
people will ask: `how can we profit ourselves?' Superiors and inferiors will
struggle against each other for profit, and the country will be in chaos."
"In a kingdom of ten thousand chariots, the murderer of the sovereign is usually
from a clan of one thousand chariots. In a thousand-chariot kingdom, the murderer
of the sovereign is usually from a clan of one hundred chariots.
Now, to have a thousand in ten thousand, or one hundred in a thousand
is not really all that much. But if you put Righteousness last and profit first,
no one will be satisfied unless they can grab something."

Mencius said: "The Superior Man concentrates on the cultivation of his own character.
The common error of people is that they forget about their own garden and try to
cultivate the other man's garden. They expect much from others and little from themselves."

Mencius said: "When someone told Tzu Lu about one of his faults, he was happy.
When Yu heard words of goodness, he would bow in respect. The great Shun surpassed
even these men.
He regarded the goodness of others to be the same as his.
He let go of his arbitrariness and followed others,happily learning from them
in order to develop his goodness. From the time when he was a farmer, a potter
and a fisherman, up until he became Emperor, he never stopped learning from others.
" To learn from others to develop one's goodness is also to develop goodness
together with others. Therefore, for the Superior Man, there is nothing greater
than to develop goodness together with others."

From: a new translation by Charles Muller


"A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness: but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing..."

First lines - `Endymion' John Keats.


"Apart from the question of what rights are in themselves, or how human beings
come to have them or to own them or to lose them, it may be asked: Why should
philosophers have a special claim to the right to express themselves? Why they
rather than artists or historians or scientists or ordinary men? Freedom of speech -
or of expression by means other than words - may be an absolute end, needing no
justification in terms of any other purpose, and worth fighting for, some would
add dying for, for its own sake, independently of its value in making people happy
or wise or strong. That is what I should wish to say myself. But this is a point
of view which has seldom held the field in human affairs; more frequently there
has been a tendency to believe in some single ideal - social or political or
religious - to which everything was to be sacrificed, and among the first the
freedom for individual self-expression, because it was, quite rightly, seen to
constitute a grave danger to the kind of social conformity which uncritical
service to a single ideal in the end requires."
From:Philosophy And Government Repression, Studies in Ideas and Their History,
THE SENSE OF REALITY, Isaiah Berlin (The supposed English Empire appologist)


One poet on another (W.H.Auden on Rimbaud)

The nights, the railway-arches, the bad sky,
His horrible companions could not know it;
But in that child the rhetorician's lie
Burst like a pipe: the cold had made a poet.

Indeed a self imposed hard life he had! Thanks again!


"Come then to prayers
And kneel upon the stone,
For we have tried
All courages on these despairs,
And are required lastly to give up pride.
And the last difficult pride in being humble."
Phillip Larkin


"It was geography which was the cause - political geography. It was nothing else.
Nations did not need to have the same kind of leader, any more than the puffins
and the quillemonts did. They could keep their own civilizations, like the Esquimaux
and Hottentots, if they would give each other freedom of trade and free passage and
access to the world. Countries would have to become counties - but counties which
could keep their own culture and local laws. The imaginary lines on the earth's
surface only needed to be unimagined."
From T.H.White's 'The Once And Future King'


"Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks
Wants war, wants wounds: weary his times, his tasks;
To do without, take tosses, and obey.

Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,
Nowhere. Natural heart's ivy, Patience masks
Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks
Purple eyes and seas of liguid leaves all day.

We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills
To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
Of us we do bid God bend to him even so."

From 'PATIENCE' by Gerard Manley Hopkins


"Some truths there are so near and obvious to the mind that a man need only
open his eyes to see them. Such I take this important one to be, viz.,
that all the choir of heaven and furniture of earth, in a word all those bodies
which compose the mighty frame of the world, have not any subsistence without a mind;
that their being is to be perceived or known; that consequently so long as they
are not actually perceived by me, or do not exist in my mind or that of any created spirit,
they must either have no existence at all, or else subsist in the mind of some Eternal Spirit:"
George Berkeley (1685-1753)


"He sang of life, serenely sweet,
With, now and then, a deeper note.
From some high peak, nigh yet remote,
He voiced the world's absorbing beat."
From Paul Laurence Dunbar's THE POET


"Why should this flower delay so long
To show its tremulous plumes?
Now is the time of plaintive Robin-song
When flowers are in their tombs.

Through the slow summer, when the sun
Called to each frond and whorl
That all he could do for flowers was being done,
Why did it not uncurl?

It must have felt that fervid call
Although it took no heed,
Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall,
and saps all retrocede."


"It is life in slow motion,
it's the heart in reverse,
it's a hope-and-a-half:
too much and too little at once."
From `THE WAIT' by Rainer Maria Rilke


"My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
All felled, felled are all felled;
Of a fresh & following folded rank
Not spared, not one
That dandled a sandalled
Shadow that swam or sank
On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank.
O if we but knew what we do
When we delve or hue --
Hack & rack the growing green!
Since country is so tender
To touch, her being so slender,
That, like this sleek & seeing ball
But a prick will make no eye at all,
Where we, even where we mean
To mend her we end her,
When we hew and delve:
Aftercomers cannot guess the beauty been."
From 'BINSEY POPLARS felled /(18)79' by Gerard Manley Hopkins


"The words "ecology,""economics," and "ecumenism" all have their root
in the Creek word `oikos', meaning house or home. Ecology, topmost in
the hierarcy of the life sciences, has indeed to do with the economy of
the great house of nature, of which it seeks to reveal the structure in
space and time and especially the interactions of animals and plants with
themselves and each other. Its content is enormous, for ecology enjoys the
entire empirical content of the sciences below it in the hierarcy as well as,
of course, the concepts contextually peculiar to itself."
- From `Aristotle to Zoos' by P.B. and J.S. Medawar


The last lines of John Webster's play, 'The Duchess Of Malfi'---

"As soon as the sun shines, it ever melts,
Both form and matter. I have ever thought
Nature doth nothing so great for great men (and women),
As when she's pleased to make them lords of truth:
Integrity of life is fame's best friend,
Which nobly, beyond death, shall crown the end.


An excerpt from a poem attributed to the Welsh bard Aneurin:

"To Cattraeth's vale, in glimering row,
Twice two hundred warriors go:
Every warrior's manly neck
Chains of regal honor deck,
Wreathed in many a golden link;
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar that the bees produce,
Or the grape's exalted juice.
Flushed with mirth and hope they burn,
But none to Cattreath's vale return,
Save Aeron brave, and Conan strong,
Bursting through the bloody throng,
And I, the meanest of them all,
That live to weep, and sing their fall."


"Love by ambition
of definition
suffers partition
And cannot go
From yes to no,
For no is not love: no is no,
The shutting of a door,
The tightening jaw,
A willful sorrow;
And saying yes
Turns love into success,
Views from the rail
Of land and happiness;
Assured of all,
The sofas creak,
And were this all, love were
But cheek to cheek
And dear to dear."
- W. H. Auden, from "Too Dear, Too Vague"


"To every man
His treehouse,
A green splice in the humping years,
Spartan with narrow cot
And prickly door.

...To every man
His house below
And his house above-
With perilous stairs
-James Emanuel, from 'The Treehouse'


"Devotion to Rama lay like a seed in his heart:
as he listened to the discourse, it began to sprout."
- Author 'Rasika,Puttige' describing the Indian poet Goswami Tulsidas.

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     In a time like worry,

     few sent to calculate the radius

     of ownership and legacy, at fault on its pyre.

     Bravery thought to unseat the spoilers.

     Fed and directed on love-starved language,

     the color-nourished house,

     on monotint of gray feasted,

     and the blinkered vowed their excess and took stock

     by numbers, bad habits for better went round.

     Blood-spill hands raised the palisade

     “God and my right” on bodies of the commons.

     But it was not porphyr in the bleed of night,

     nor thirst-quenched in busy waters,

     as sword and sentinel kept flank the tree of life.


      Questions without borders hid in feral frontiers,

      and if native tools could not, rented had no right,

      fatted on the fair price

      we had seen Adam cleaning his ears,

      Eve make use the new skirt,

      and Reached Rule-by-right halt, best by heaven,

      drown, answers swelling over time.

      The marred, great jest of get and keep of equivalence

      sent the trophy of climb-reason a wound behind its shield;

      Sober, displaying the muscularity,

      fine, shine pelt sallied for,

      gazed longingly to graze near the house.


     Privy-counselors to a dry field,

     proud pets of the mean –

     who wanted their separate-but-equal, privatized,

     robber-baron world back –

     did not know that shoot would not yield,

     that praise for them was not meant;

     and in a sky like reason, where bells and lanterns do mix,

     The Benefit in all weathers leapt in their lives,

     and hearts fair of kind, if not dominion,

     shared and mined the great state of benediction.


      Copyright © 2010 Joseph Duvernay

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