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Probably my favorite poem by W. H Auden.

Funeral Blues.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Cookie My common sense is tingling   Cookie
On A Portrait Of A Deaf Man
John Betjeman

The kind old face, the egg-shaped head,
The tie, discreetly loud,
The loosely fitting shooting clothes,
A closely fitting shroud.

He liked old city dining rooms,
Potatoes in their skin,
But now his mouth is wide to let
The London clay come in.

He took me on long silent walks
In country lanes when young.
He knew the names of ev'ry bird
But not the song it sung.

And when he could not hear me speak
He smiled and looked so wise
That now I do not like to think
Of maggots in his eyes.

He liked the rain-washed Cornish air
And smell of ploughed-up soil,
He liked a landscape big and bare
And painted it in oil.

But least of all he liked that place
Which hangs on Highgate Hill
Of soaked Carrara-covered earth
For Londoners to fill.

He would have liked to say goodbye,
Shake hands with many friends,
In Highgate now his finger-bones
Stick through his finger-ends.

You, God, who treat him thus and thus,
Say "Save his soul and pray."
You ask me to believe You and
I only see decay.
This.....is real life
There once was a man from Nantucket...

Post 14. Snappy username, even if I do say so myself:

When you set out for Ithaka
ask that your way be long,
full of adventure, full of instruction.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon--do not fear them:
such as these you will never find
as long as your thought is loft, as long as a rare
emotion touch your spirit and your body.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
wild Poseidon--you will not meet them
unless you carry them in your soul,
unless your soul raises them up before you.

Ask that your way be long,
At many a summer dawn to enter
--with what gratitude, what joy--
ports seen for the first time;
to stop at Phoenician trading centres
and to buy good merchandise,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensuous perfumes of every kind,
sensuous perfumes as lavishly as you can;
to visit many Egyptian cities,
to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.

Have Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But do not in the least hurry the journey.
Better that it lasts for years,
so that when you reach the island you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.

Ithaka gave you the splendid journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She hasn't anything else to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka has not deceived you.
So wise have you become, of such experience,
that already you will have understood what these Ithakas mean.

What do I want in these rooms papered with visions of money?
How much can I make by cutting my hair? If I put new heels on my shoes,
bathe my body reeking of masturbation and sweat, layer upon layer of excrement
dried in employment bureaus, magazine hallways, statistical cubicles, factory stairways,
cloakrooms of the smiling gods of psychiatry;
if in antechambers I face the presumption of department store supervisory employees,
old clerks in their asylums of fat, the slobs and dumbbells of the ego with money and power
to hire and fire and make and break and fart and justify their reality of wrath and rumor of wrath to wrath-weary man,
what war I enter and for what a prize! the dead prick of commonplace obsession,
harridan vision of electricity at night and daylight misery of thumb-sucking rage.

I would rather go mad, gone down the dark road to Mexico, heroin dripping in my veins,
eyes and ears full of marijuana,
eating the god Peyote on the floor of a mudhut on the border
or laying in a hotel room over the body of some suffering man or woman;
rather jar my body down the road, crying by a diner in the Western sun;
rather crawl on my naked belly over the tincans of Cincinnati;
rather drag a rotten railroad tie to a Golgotha in the Rockies;
rather, crowned with thorns in Galveston, nailed hand and foot in Los Angeles, raised up to die in Denver,
pierced in the side in Chicago, perished and tombed in New Orleans and resurrected in 1958 somewhere on Garret Mountain,
come down roaring in a blaze of hot cars and garbage,
streetcorner Evangel in front of City I-Tall, surrounded by statues of agonized lions,
with a mouthful of shit, and the hair rising on my scalp,
screaming and dancing in praise of Eternity annihilating the sidewalk, annihilating reality,
screaming and dancing against the orchestra in the destructible ballroom of the world,
blood streaming from my belly and shoulders
flooding the city with its hideous ecstasy, rolling over the pavements and highways
by the bayoux and forests and derricks leaving my flesh and my bones hanging on the trees.

Allen Ginsberg
Postie's day after

A stench is protruding my nose with a vengeance,
Decay and hell caught in harmonic quintessence,
My cat's made a turd about the size of a car,
My head is still spinning, and I'm clenching my jaw,
I get out of bed and get rid of that poo,
I'm nearly collapsing before reaching the loo,
I want to get better and end this crusade,
So I reach for some benzos, to come to my aid,
But the benzos are gone and nowhere to be found,
So I put on my uniform and start on my round,
I open an envelope which not contains bills,
And swiftly I swallow those Etizolam pills,
All of a sudden I am not quite so pale,
Oh blessed are the joys of working for Royal Mail.

Tipping Point
Between thought and expression
Touch and feel
You and me... … and we
Sanity and reality

What I feel about me
What is true
What others see
Who to be
Staying free

In my tears
Pity me as you do a child
Nothing to do or say
The pain must be felt
To be overcome

What is old and what is new
And what is now
Are met in me
I have been hiding
The pain

It is real
It is here
I don’t invite it
A part of me knows
I need to feel

The part of me
Who has been living (ha, call that living)
Through these days
Has ignored it all
For years

Like oil on water
My ability to conceive
The depth of the pain
I would feel
If I truly allowed it all

But oh the hope
The very idea
Someone has felt this
Felt all the pain
And did not lose
very touching and well-crafted :)
"It is simply this: do not tire, never lose interest, never grow indifferent—lose your invaluable curiosity and you let yourself die. It's as simple as that" Tove Jansson

Music is more than gold??
Its moving,its feeling,... its deep
Slowly,slowly, penetrating..
Each beat to keep.

The rhythm of drums,
The soul to sleep,
Its a doorway for emotions,
To find light-
To creep!!

Drift away to a jungle so green.......
Sun glistens down, the pipes so keen,
Birds in slow motion, wild animals roam,
Is this my mind or is this my home???

The shape of a butterfly,
The sound of her wings,
Enough to make me cry..
Enough to make me sing.

Back and forth a meditation ensues.....
Smiles in harmony-
Unspoken truth!!
Heart grows stronger,
Mind starts to blink,
Waves grow longer,
Fear sinks!

A mellow swell of sunshine rays,
Sit on a tree..and look out at the bay.
Natures colours..red,green and blue-
Ancestors spirits are glowing through!!

Up in the air,
Circle the sky,
No need to question,
No wonder why???

Light becomes shade,
Not so dark or ill,
Just another world,
With memorys to fill.

This is my sancuary,
This is my peace,
Engulfed in sound,
And nature released....

Music and meditation. . . .
All for my sake,
Lucky in contemplation-
As I drift awake!!!
There's No Such Thing As Madness, Only Different Degree's Of Sanity...
Thanks, mela. It's one that 25I released for me last weekend.

Your poem definitely strokes a chord, Dmitri. Can I inquire into your inspiration?

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