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So we should have power restored on Monday, the 16th, also known as "21 days after the fire".
My leg is not so broken that I need to have ZOMG EMERGENCY SURGERY NOW, but I probably have a cartilage tear. Only the MRI will say for sure!
And because![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
icarusancalion reminded me of this earlier and I had to go look it up:
These streets begin where the cobbles
surface through tar like the heads
of children buried badly in thier textures.
What myth is this?
we ask, but
the children who play stickball and
Johnny Jump-My-Pony around here just laugh.
No myth they tell us no myth,
just they say hey motherfucker aint
nothing but Leighton Street here,
aint nothing but all small houses
and only but back porches where our mothers
wash there and they're and their.
Where days grow hot
and on Leighton Street they listen to the radio
while pterodactyls flow between the TV aerials
on the roof and they say hey motherfucker they say
Hey motherfucker!
No myth they tell us no myth,
just they say hey motherfucker aint
nothing but Leighton Street round here
This they say is how you be silent in your silence
of days. Motherfucker.
So. What poems, in whole or in part, do you know by heart? I knew part of this (used it for a paper on myth in college) but I forgot a lot of it. The more I think about what poems I know, though, the more surprised I am - I posted that I know For S.A. and Howl and Little Peggy Ann McKay, but I'm being reminded, all day long, of how many more I know, long poems (I don't count Emily Dickinson, since so much of her stuff is four lines long, but you might.). I keep remembering poems, and not things like The Wasteland, either. Odd little things that stuck in my head somewhere and I grew around and now they're just...there, waiting for me to even think to look again.
Karhu-Bjorn-Braun-Bear
[lightning rainbow great cloud tree
dialogs of birds]
Europa. 'The West.'
the bears are gone
except Brunhilde
or elder wilder goddesses reborn-will race
the streets of France and Spain
with automatic guns-
in Spain,
Bears and Bison,
Red Hands with missing fingers,
Red mushroom labyrinths;
lightning-bolt mazes,
Painted in caves,
Underground.
ETA: Much like Rimmer, I never learn, do I?
My leg is not so broken that I need to have ZOMG EMERGENCY SURGERY NOW, but I probably have a cartilage tear. Only the MRI will say for sure!
And because
icarusancalion reminded me of this earlier and I had to go look it up:These streets begin where the cobbles
surface through tar like the heads
of children buried badly in thier textures.
What myth is this?
we ask, but
the children who play stickball and
Johnny Jump-My-Pony around here just laugh.
No myth they tell us no myth,
just they say hey motherfucker aint
nothing but Leighton Street here,
aint nothing but all small houses
and only but back porches where our mothers
wash there and they're and their.
Where days grow hot
and on Leighton Street they listen to the radio
while pterodactyls flow between the TV aerials
on the roof and they say hey motherfucker they say
Hey motherfucker!
No myth they tell us no myth,
just they say hey motherfucker aint
nothing but Leighton Street round here
This they say is how you be silent in your silence
of days. Motherfucker.
So. What poems, in whole or in part, do you know by heart? I knew part of this (used it for a paper on myth in college) but I forgot a lot of it. The more I think about what poems I know, though, the more surprised I am - I posted that I know For S.A. and Howl and Little Peggy Ann McKay, but I'm being reminded, all day long, of how many more I know, long poems (I don't count Emily Dickinson, since so much of her stuff is four lines long, but you might.). I keep remembering poems, and not things like The Wasteland, either. Odd little things that stuck in my head somewhere and I grew around and now they're just...there, waiting for me to even think to look again.
Karhu-Bjorn-Braun-Bear
[lightning rainbow great cloud tree
dialogs of birds]
Europa. 'The West.'
the bears are gone
except Brunhilde
or elder wilder goddesses reborn-will race
the streets of France and Spain
with automatic guns-
in Spain,
Bears and Bison,
Red Hands with missing fingers,
Red mushroom labyrinths;
lightning-bolt mazes,
Painted in caves,
Underground.
ETA: Much like Rimmer, I never learn, do I?
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From:
no subject
Ooh! I just remembered one i do have memorized!
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights
but the queerest they ever did see
Was the night on the barge of Lake LeMarge
I cremated Sam McGee
From:
no subject
And I remember reading about that poem in James Michener's Alaska, but I've never actually read it. His comment was that the author changed Lake LaBerge to LeMarge so it would scan, but never mentioned the rest of it - this is actually a pretty neat poem, I think.
Then again, I like "moil".
From:
no subject
It was awesome!
From:
no subject
In Harlem, when his work is done, he sets in a bar with a beer.
He looks taller than he is and younger than he ain't.
He looks darker than he is, too.
And he's smarter than he looks.
He ain't smart.
That cat's a fool.
Naw, he ain't neither.
He's a good man, except that he talks too much.
In fact, he's a great cat.
But when he drinks, he drinks fast.
Sometimes he don't drink.
True, he just lets his glass sit there.
- Langston Hughes, Neighbor
From:
no subject