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Tell all the truth but tell it slant

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Tell all the truth but tell it slant — Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth’s superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind — Emily Dickinson or:

A Supermarket in California

         What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.         In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!         What peaches and what penumbras!  Whole families shopping at night!  Aisles full of husbands!  Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?         I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.         I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops?  What price bananas?  Are you my Angel?         I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.         We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, poss

Homework

by Allen Ginsberg Homage Kenneth Koch If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my dirty Iran I'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap, scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in the jungle, I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico, Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska, Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly Cesium out of Love Canal Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain the Sludge out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again, Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little Clouds so snow return white as snow, Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood & Agent Orange, Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out the tattletail Gray of U.S. Centra

A Riff on “The Impossible Dream”

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by Ken Ireland For A.G. first published St Ignatius Day, 2010 revised December 17th, 2010 I don’t know if it’s possible but I’ll continue to dream it, juggling obscure or fine points when I have to to lend it a kind of reality. I’m just a guy trying to be real, glimpsing at men walking down the sidewalk and wondering. You showed me where you fit that flight of stairs with the return into a tight corner. Now you—anyone really—can climb up under the rafters and look out from where you opened the roof to the sun. I knew that hope wasn’t dead forever, even though I tried to murder it. But some kinds of hope are just virtuous dreaming. The carpenter hasn’t hammered the last nail— I heard his banging for the first time in many years when I thought he too had vanished. I’m just a guy dreaming back to last night, glimpsing at the men walking down the sidewalk, wondering what they dream of. What was it that disappeared before we noticed something missing? Was

...That sinking feeling in the bottom of your stomach

Regret, that sinking feeling in the bottom of your stomach. We’ve all been there, wishing we could have another chance. But, it is in this very feeling in which our return to the One happens. The Divine Essence is always seeking our return to Him, waiting for us to seek reconciliation with Him and wash away the mistake. And we give ourselves plenty of opportunity for returning. Darkness wants you to keep mistakes hidden but once you bring the Light in, the experience fades and leaves the lesson. Turn back to the Essence of the One and rejoice that the mistake opened the door for reconnection. Rumi

Musée des Beaux Arts

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by W. H. Auden   About suffering they were never wrong, The old Masters: how well they understood Its human position: how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must

O What Is That Sound

By W. H. Auden O what is that sound which so thrills the ear Down in the valley drumming, drumming? Only the scarlet soldiers, dear, The soldiers coming. O what is that light I see flashing so clear Over the distance brightly, brightly? Only the sun on their weapons, dear, As they step lightly. O what are they doing with all that gear, What are they doing this morning, morning? Only their usual manoeuvres, dear, Or perhaps a warning. O why have they left the road down there, Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling? Perhaps a change in their orders, dear, Why are you kneeling? O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care, Haven't they reined their horses, horses? Why, they are none of them wounded, dear, None of these forces. O is it the parson they want, with white hair, Is it the parson, is it, is it? No, they are passing his gateway, dear, Without a visit. O it must be the farmer that lives so near. It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning? They have passed the f