At long last, more spam poetry
Oct. 4th, 2007 08:49 amDim, and die tonight?
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Trampled snow is the only rose.
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—
Are muffled into silence that refuses
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
V. The Dutch in the Arctic
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Wheezing ravens, when
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Trampled snow is the only rose.
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—
Are muffled into silence that refuses
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
V. The Dutch in the Arctic
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Wheezing ravens, when
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay