Time Travel Made Easy

End of the month! I should have posted more, but eh.

These are both things that I have posted elsewhere, in various forms, but they are both things that are vital to me in some way or another.  Someday, I will get tattoos of these poems- the Mayakovsky in the original Russian, on my back, and the Pound on my ribcage, framing my right breast.

excerpt from "A Cloud in Trousers"
by Vladimir Mayakovsky

я знаю -
солнце померкло б, увидев
нашизх душ золотые россыпи!

I know-
the sun itself would dim, if it could see
the gold fields of our souls!
---

Notes from Canto CXX
by Ezra Pound

I have tried to write Paradise.

Do not move.
          Let the wind speak.
                   That is paradise.

Let the Gods forgive what I
          have made

Let those I love try to forgive
          what I have made.

I'm doing that thing that I do where I look at my gmail tab in firefox and then very surreptitiously hide it under my thumb and pretend it isn't there. This is not productive in any way, except for the way that it gets fingerprints on my screen. >_< Going to try to rectify this and respond to email soon, but I figure a heads up is in order.

I also feel like it is time for some Chesterton. And so:

The Last Hero
by G.K. Chesterton

The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away,
And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide,
Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride.
The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars,
With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars,
Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above,
The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love.
Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain,
You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.

The chance of battle changes -- so may all battle be;
I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me.
I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise,
More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes.
She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine;
The sunset never loved me, the wind was never mine.
Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse?
Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress.

( The wind blew out from Bergen to the dawning of the day )

First, because it's appropriate and Eliot will always be my favorite: East Coker by T.S. Eliot.

Second, because I'm in a mildly exhibitionist sort of mood:

(still more or less untitled)

( take this bread that once was dough )