Ah! Each post gives pleasure.
John, Wow to that Rimbaud poem. It is an impressionistic piece of literature. (I'm sure it's got it's own name in the same vein. It feels imagist. Something John Riley could write.) Such vividness.
Julie, I had thought about stipulating only poetry other than what we see here on Eratosphere but thought again: why not? It is not altogether uncommon to read something here that floors me. Yes, I'm still barefoot, too, from Jan's bastard poem.
Thanks for that Nemo. I coincidentally had seen that poem recently somewhere and so now it takes on added interest because it's following me : )
Walter, that's a fantastic play with words, thank you.
James, That's an intriguing title. Funny thing is I googled it and came up with nothing -- zilch. That’s a rarity with google. It said, “Your search - Steve Mueske's "A Poem Without Sadness" - did not match any documents. A google dead end is rare.
But in the process I did find this by Mueske and fell immediately in love with it:
To All the Frogs
who sleep in the mud,
who cling to the trees and sing me
to sleep each night: I confess
a love for your instrument.
Your throats fill like instant bellows
with enough air for those
profundo lows: quick clench
of muscle that needs
the whole body, the Baby,-
I'm-Your-Man muscle, the muscle
that coils all the way down
to your toes. Then gone:
a belching horn blast of a note
that blows across the pond.
I love to listen to your ethereal choir –
your basses and altos, tenors
and sopranos – through my window
after making love, when you sing
of all the world's loneliness,
and I lie sweaty on the sheets,
nerves jangling like a hotwired Yes.
“I love that sound,” my wife says,
her voice dreamy and slow;
I listen to the flavor of the dark,
its mosses, its mud and still water –
the insects, the leaves breathing –
as my body cools, and I feel
the drowsy tendrils of sleep
bring me down easy, so easy.
(Steve Mueske)
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