𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

'Her Retinue'

By Paul Verlaine

A monkey in brocaded vest
Gambols and cavorts for She
Who twists a lace handkerchief
In her hand gloved to the wrist,

While a small black slave in red
Holds the train, at arm’s length,
Of her heavy robe, intent
To see that no fold’s disordered.

The monkey never takes his eyes
From the lady’s soft white throat.
Opulent treasure whose rich note
Asks a god’s torso, bare, as prize.

The slave will sometimes raise the height,
Rascal, higher than he needs,
Of his sumptuous load, so he
May see what he dreams of at night;

Yet she appears now unaware
As up the flight of stairs she goes
How insolent approval shows
In her familiar creatures’ stare.

'Words From Cold Mountain'

By Han-shan

XXI

Always it’s cold on this mountain!
Every year, and not just this.
Dense peaks, thick with snow.
Black pine-trees breathing mist.
It’s summer before the grass grows,
Not yet autumn when the leaves fall.
Full of illusions, I roam here,
Gaze and gaze, but can’t see the sky.

'Jane And Prince'

By Charles Bukowski

we all lived together
in a small shack in
central L.A.

there was a woman in bed
with me then

and there was a very large
dog
on the foot of the bed

and as they slept
I listened to them
breathe

and I thought, they depend
on me.
how very curious.

I still had that thought
in the morning
after our breakfast
while backing the car
out of the drive

the woman and the dog
on the front step
sitting and watching
me

as I laughed and waved
and as she smiled and
waved

and the dog watched
as I backed out into the
street and disappeared
into the city.

now tonight
many years later
I still think of them
sitting there on that
front step

it’s like an old
movie—50 years
old—that nobody ever
saw or could understand
but me

and even though some
critics would dub this
ordinary

I like it
very much.

'All Summarised The Soul…'

By Stéphane Mallarmé

All summarised, the soul,
When slowly we breathe it out
In several rings of smoke
By other rings wiped out

Bears witness to some cigar
Burning skilfully while
The ash is separated far
From its bright kiss of fire

Should the choir of romantic art
Fly so towards your lips
Exclude from it if you start
The real because it’s cheap

Meaning too precise is sure
To void your dreamy literature.

From 'Tao Te Ching'

The Book of The Way and its Virtue

Credited to Lao-Tzu (Laozi)

Book 1

V

Heaven and earth are ruthless,
Trampling the myriad creatures like straw dogs.
The wise are ruthless,
Considering the people as straw dogs.
The space between earth and heaven,
Isn’t it like a bellows?
It’s empty but never exhausted.
The more it works the more flows out.
Much speech leads in the end to silence.
Better to hold fast to the Void.

VI

The spirit of the valley never dies.
It is called the mysterious female.
The gate of the mysterious female
Is called the root of heaven and earth.
Barely seen, it hardly seems there,
Yet use will never exhaust it.

'Fungi From Yuggoth'

By Howard Phillips Lovecraft

XX. Night-Gaunts

Out of what crypt they crawl, I cannot tell,
But every night I see the rubbery things,
Black, horned, and slender, with membraneous wings,
And tails that bear the bifid barb of hell.
They come in legions on the north wind’s swell,
With obscene clutch that titillates and stings,
Snatching me off on monstrous voyagings
To grey worlds hidden deep in nightmare’s well.

Over the jagged peaks of Thok they sweep,
Heedless of all the cries I try to make,
And down the nether pits to that foul lake
Where the puffed shoggoths splash in doubtful sleep.
But oh! If only they would make some sound,
Or wear a face where faces should be found!

'The Human Tree'

By Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Many have Earth's lovers been,
Tried in seas and wars, I ween;
Yet the mightiest have I seen:
Yea, the best saw I.
One that in a field alone
Stood up stiller than a stone
Lest a moth should fly.

Birds had nested in his hair,
On his shoon were mosses rare,
Insect empires flourished there,
Worms in ancient wars;
But his eyes burn like a glass,
Hearing a great sea of grass
Roar towards the stars.

From them to the human tree
Rose a cry continually:
Thou art still, our Father, we
Fain would have thee nod.
Make the skies as blood below thee,
Though thou slay us, we shall know thee.
Answer us, O God!

Show thine ancient fame and thunder,
Split the stillness once asunder,
Lest we whisper, lest we wonder
Art thou there at all?'
But I saw him there alone,
Standing stiller than a stone
Lest a moth should fall.

'On A Night You Don't Sleep'

By Charles Bukowki

at the sea at the beach in the dark there was somebody
sitting in a car along the shore and playing this drum
as if in Africa and the cops rode by on the sidewalk
and I went down to the disappointing sea
and saw two blue lights in the water and a boat
and a man walked by in a white shirt and squatted by the
shore and got up and walked along the shore
and then another man came and followed him:
they both walked along the shore by the water
one 12 feet behind the other and I watched them until
they disappeared and then I got up and walked through
the sand to the cement and through a bar door I saw a
negro singing with a light on his face
he wailed a strange song and the sound of the song twisted
in the air and everything was empty and dry and easy
and I got into my car and drove back to the hot city
but I knew I would always remember the time
and the catch of it—the way the night hung undisturbed
with people walking on it like some quiet rug
and a small boat rocking bravely by bulldogging water
and the colored pier lights like a broken mind sick in the sea.

'Words From Cold Mountain'

By Han-shan

XX

What a road the Cold Mountain road!
Not a sign of horse or cart.
Winding gorges, tricky to trace.
Massive cliffs, who knows how high?
Where the thousand grasses drip with dew,
Where the pine trees hum in the wind.
Now the path’s lost, now it’s time
For body to ask shadow: ‘Which way home?’

'As The Ruin Falls'

By Clive Staples Lewis

All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love —a scholar's parrot may talk Greek—
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.

'Acrobats'

By Guillaume Apollinaire

The strollers in the plain
walk the length of gardens
before the doors of grey inns
through villages without churches

And the children gone before
The others follow dreaming
Each fruit tree resigns itself
When they signal from afar

They have burdens round or square
drums and golden tambourines
Apes and bears wise animals
gather coins as they progress

From 'All's Well That Ends Well'

By William Shakespeare

Act 2, Scene 2

Countess

To the court! why, what place make you special,
when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court!

Clown

Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he
may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off's cap, kiss his hand and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court; but for me, I have an answer will serve all men.

Countess

Marry, that's a bountiful answer that fits all
questions.

Clown

It is like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks,
the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn
buttock, or any buttock.

Countess

Will your answer serve fit to all questions?

Clown

As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffeta punk, as Tib's rush for Tom's forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding queen to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the friar's mouth, nay, as the pudding to his skin.

Countess

Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all questions?

Clown

From below your duke to beneath your constable, it
will fit any question.

Countess

It must be an answer of most monstrous size that
must fit all demands.

Clown

But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should speak truth of it: here it is, and all that belongs to't. Ask me if I am a courtier: it shall do you no harm to learn.

Countess

To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a courtier?

Clown

O Lord, sir! There's a simple putting off. More, more, a hundred of them.

Countess

Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.

'It’s Not Who Lived Here'

By Charles Bukowski

but who died here;
and it’s not when
but how;
it’s not
the known great
but the great who died unknown;
it’s not
the history
of countries
but the lives of men.

fables are dreams,
not lies,
and
truth changes
as
men change,
and when truth becomes stable
men
will
become dead
and

the insect
and the fire and
the flood
will become
truth.

'The Deluge'

By Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Though giant rains put out the sun,
Here stand I for a sign.
Though earth be filled with waters dark,
My cup is filled with wine.
Tell to the trembling priests that here
Under the deluge rod,
One nameless, tattered, broken man
Stood up, and drank to God.

Sun has been where the rain is now,
Bees in the heat to hum,
Haply a humming maiden came,
Now let the deluge come:
Brown of aureole, green of garb,
Straight as a golden rod,
Drink to the throne of thunder now!
Drink to the wrath of God.

High in the wreck I held the cup,
I clutched my rusty sword,
I cocked my tattered feather
To the glory of the Lord.
Not undone were the heaven and earth,
This hollow world thrown up,
Before one man had stood up straight,
And drained it like a cup.

'The Town Of Cologna Veneta'

By Gaius Valerius Catullus

O Cologna, who want a long bridge to sport on,
and are ready to dance, though you fear
the useless bridge-props with their
much-patched standing timber,
lest they tumble and lie in deep mud:
let a good bridge be made for you as you desire
where even leap-frogging priests are safe: but
Cologna, give me that greatest gift, a good laugh.
I want a fellow-citizen of mine to go head over heels
straight into the deep mire from your bridge,
since truly the whole pool and the putrid marsh
is the blackest and deepest of chasms.
The man’s totally dull, knows no more than
a two-year-old child, asleep in its father’s trembling arms.
Who, though he’s married a girl in her first flowering,
a girl more delicate than a pretty little kid,
needing to be tended more carefully than choicest grapes,
let’s her play as she wishes, doesn’t care a fig,
hasn’t risen to the occasion, but like an alder
in a Ligurian ditch, crippled by the axe,
feels as much of it all as if there were no woman there:
Such is his stupor he doesn’t see, or hear me, he,
who doesn’t know who he is, or whether he is or not.
Now I want to toss him headlong from your bridge,
if it’s possible suddenly to raise that stupefied dullness,
and abandon that indolent mind in the heavy bog,
as mules cast shoes into tenacious depths.

'A Clock Stopped -- Not The Mantel's'

By Emily Dickinson

A clock stopped -- not the mantel's
Geneva's farthest skill
Can't put the puppet bowing
That just now dangled still.

An awe came on the trinket!
The figures hunched with pain,
Then quivered out of decimals
Into degreeless noon.

It will not stir for doctors,
This pendulum of snow;
The shopman importunes it,
While cool, concernless No

Nods from the gilded pointers,
Nods from seconds slim,
Decades of arrogance between
The dial life and him.

'Words From Cold Mountain'

By Han-shan

XIX

Level after level, falls and hills,
Blue-green mist clasped by clouds.
Fog wets my flimsy cap,
Dew soaks my coat of straw.
A pilgrim’s sandals on my feet,
An old stick grasped in my hand.
Gazing down towards the land of dust,
What is that world of dreams to me?

'Tougher Than Corned Beef Hash—'

By Charles Bukowski

the motion of the human heart:
strangled over Missouri;
sheathed in hot wax in Boston;
burned like a potato in Norfolk;
lost in the Allegheny Mountains;
found again in a 4-poster mahogany bed
in New Orleans;
drowned and stirred with pinto beans
in El Paso;
hung on a cross like a drunken dog
in Denver;
cut in half and toasted in
Kalamazoo;
found cancerous on a fishing boat
off the coast of Mexico;
tricked and caged at Daytona Beach;
kicked by a nursery maid
in a green and white gingham dress,
waiting table at a North Carolina
bus stop;
rubbed in olive oil and goat-piss
by a chess-playing hooker in the East Village;
painted red, white, and blue
by an act of Congress;
torpedoed by a dyed blonde
with the biggest ass in Kansas;
gutted and gored by a woman
with the soul of a bull
in East Lansing;
petrified by a girl with tiny fingers,
she had one tooth missing,
upper front, and pumped gas
in Mesa;
the motion of the human heart goes on
and on
and on and on
for a while.

From 'Dune'

By Frank Herbert

Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past me I will turn to see fear’s path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

From 'The Merchant Of Venice'

Act 2, Scene 9: Belmont. A room in Portia's house.

By William Shakespeare

ARRAGON

And so have I address'd me. Fortune now
To my heart's hope! Gold; silver; and base lead.
'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'
You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard.
What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:
'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'
What many men desire! that 'many' may be meant
By the fool multitude, that choose by show,
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;
Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet,
Builds in the weather on the outward wall,
Even in the force and road of casualty.
I will not choose what many men desire,
Because I will not jump with common spirits
And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;
Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:
'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves:'
And well said too; for who shall go about
To cozen fortune and be honourable
Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume
To wear an undeserved dignity.
O, that estates, degrees and offices
Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer!
How many then should cover that stand bare!
How many be commanded that command!
How much low peasantry would then be glean'd
From the true seed of honour! and how much honour
Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times
To be new-varnish'd! Well, but to my choice:
'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'
I will assume desert. Give me a key for this,
And instantly unlock my fortunes here.
He opens the silver casket

PORTIA

Too long a pause for that which you find there.

ARRAGON

What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,
Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.
How much unlike art thou to Portia!
How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!
'Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.'
Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?
Is that my prize? are my deserts no better?

PORTIA

To offend, and judge, are distinct offices
And of opposed natures.

ARRAGON

What is here?

Reads

The fire seven times tried this:
Seven times tried that judgment is,
That did never choose amiss.
Some there be that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow's bliss:
There be fools alive, I wis,
Silver'd o'er; and so was this.
Take what wife you will to bed,
I will ever be your head:
So be gone: you are sped.
Still more fool I shall appear
By the time I linger here
With one fool's head I came to woo,
But I go away with two.
Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath,
Patiently to bear my wroth.

Exeunt Arragon and train

PORTIA

Thus hath the candle singed the moth.
O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,
They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.

NERISSA

The ancient saying is no heresy,
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.

PORTIA

Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.