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Someday he's going to take stock of sleepwalking days
I am not dead. I aten't dead, even. I have had a bit of a health crash, which is annoying me very much. The most exciting thing that happened to me this week? I had three poems rejected.
That is perhaps not fair: I also acquired unholy amounts of Peter Bellamy, loved Eric Jay Dolin's Leviathan (courtesy of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fleurdelis28), watched three episodes of the new Doctor Who, and was dragged to see Iron Man (2008), which I liked all out of proportion to my expectations. Even celebrated ericmvan's birthday last week, which was quite awesome. But still, in the last five days I haven't been moving much. Who do I have to bribe for an immune system that works?
In honor of the lilac tree in our back yard, which I need to photograph, have some poetry that is not mine. I am going back to proofreading.
Lilacs in dooryards
Holding quiet conversations with an early moon;
Lilacs watching a deserted house
Settling sideways into the grass of an old road;
Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom
Above a cellar dug into a hill.
You are everywhere.
You were everywhere.
You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon,
And ran along the road beside the boy going to school.
You stood by pasture-bars to give the cows good milking,
You persuaded the housewife that her dish-pan was of silver
And her husband an image of pure gold.
You flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms
Through the wide doors of Custom Houses—
You, and sandalwood, and tea,
Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks
When a ship was in from China.
You called to them: "Goose-quill men, goose-quill men,
May is a month for flitting."
Until they writhed on their high stools
And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers.
Paradoxical New England clerks,
Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the "Song of Solomon" at night,
So many verses before bed-time,
Because it was the Bible.
The dead fed you
Amid the slant stones of graveyards.
Pale ghosts who planted you
Came in the night time
And let their thin hair blow through your clustered stems.
You are of the green sea,
And of the stone hills which reach a long distance.
You are of the elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell kites and marbles,
You are of great parks where everyone walks and nobody is at home.
You cover the blind sides of greenhouses
And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass
To your friends, the grapes, inside.
—Amy Lowell, "Lilacs" (1925)
That is perhaps not fair: I also acquired unholy amounts of Peter Bellamy, loved Eric Jay Dolin's Leviathan (courtesy of
fleurdelis28), watched three episodes of the new Doctor Who, and was dragged to see Iron Man (2008), which I liked all out of proportion to my expectations. Even celebrated ericmvan's birthday last week, which was quite awesome. But still, in the last five days I haven't been moving much. Who do I have to bribe for an immune system that works?In honor of the lilac tree in our back yard, which I need to photograph, have some poetry that is not mine. I am going back to proofreading.
Lilacs in dooryards
Holding quiet conversations with an early moon;
Lilacs watching a deserted house
Settling sideways into the grass of an old road;
Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom
Above a cellar dug into a hill.
You are everywhere.
You were everywhere.
You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon,
And ran along the road beside the boy going to school.
You stood by pasture-bars to give the cows good milking,
You persuaded the housewife that her dish-pan was of silver
And her husband an image of pure gold.
You flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms
Through the wide doors of Custom Houses—
You, and sandalwood, and tea,
Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks
When a ship was in from China.
You called to them: "Goose-quill men, goose-quill men,
May is a month for flitting."
Until they writhed on their high stools
And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers.
Paradoxical New England clerks,
Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the "Song of Solomon" at night,
So many verses before bed-time,
Because it was the Bible.
The dead fed you
Amid the slant stones of graveyards.
Pale ghosts who planted you
Came in the night time
And let their thin hair blow through your clustered stems.
You are of the green sea,
And of the stone hills which reach a long distance.
You are of the elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell kites and marbles,
You are of great parks where everyone walks and nobody is at home.
You cover the blind sides of greenhouses
And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass
To your friends, the grapes, inside.
—Amy Lowell, "Lilacs" (1925)
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Thanks. I figure this is karmic debt for some of the really awesome weeks I had this fall . . .
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Everything of yours should be published.
So sorry that you're laid so low. Please get better as soon as possible.
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Heh. Thank you. I have re-sent them all out . . .
Please get better as soon as possible.
I'm self-medicating with George Bernard Shaw and Rudyard Kipling. With occasional interpolations of Tanith Lee and Kage Baker, which may or may not be like mixing opiates and amphetamines.
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And enshrined someplace scenic and slightly dangerous to get to.
And for the first time in my life, I feel your pain. I have this cold. It's been around long enough to get a name. I'm calling it Apollyon, because it feels like I accidently snorted a pair of very slimy locusts up my nose.
Fortunately, I too have lilacs, though they are just starting to go. They were excellent this weekend, I suspect yours are probably getting that way just about now, given the difference in lattitude. Rest, and like I said before, get better, dammit.
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It's only dangerous if you don't know the right questions to ask . . .
I'm calling it Apollyon, because it feels like I accidently snorted a pair of very slimy locusts up my nose.
I'm so sorry. I can't even contradict your description.
They were excellent this weekend, I suspect yours are probably getting that way just about now, given the difference in lattitude.
Parts of our street are an explosion of lilac. Last year it was an ordinary bush, but this year the lilac tree in the back yard is several feet taller than the radio telescope. Are they even supposed to get that high?
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It's much appreciated!
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I hope you're feeling better soon, and that you get some acceptances this next week to make up for those three.
Thanks for the lovely Amy Lowell poem. Did you get the Danú song I posted for you?*
*I'm not sure how long Sendspace links last before they expire. If it has, let me know and I'll put it up for you again or email it you or somesuch.
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Thank you! Either of those options would be welcome . . .
Did you get the Danú song I posted for you?
I did! It's wonderful.
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Most welcome, as always. And hopefully it will be both. *knocks wood*
I did! It's wonderful.
Excellent. I'm glad you like it.
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It takes the bittersweet chords at the turn of the chorus that I love so much in Joan Baez's version and uses them to build the underlying structure. I'm going to be playing it a lot.