Post a Poem

[[re...]]

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—

For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

 

Robert Frost

October

 

 

 

---

 

[[pa...]]

What a nice thread to begin.. Thank you!  One I will share from someone I love, who is on the next plane of life, my Mom!  She was very gifted in writing... from her wonderful Irish heritage..

 

"MY CHILDREN"

 

When I look in the mirror, it is thee that I see

 

The Image, is your soul shining back at me

 

Why was I given this gift of Love

 

As the seasons passed as swift as a dove

 

Why did he bless me

 

I often ask why

 

In sunrise of Life I only knew tears

 

At sunset now, I never know tears

 

The reason is you and the Love you all gave

 

It has taught me its lessons on how to live.

 

 

From my dear mom to share you all of you.  Pattylu

[[co...]]

Not a poem, but one of my favorites:

 

JACK KEROUAC - I THINK OF DEAN MORIARTY

 

 

A lot of people have asked me why did I write that book or any book. All the stories I wrote were true, because I believed in what I saw. I was traveling west one time. At the junction of the state line of Colorado, its arid western one, and the state line of poor Utah I saw in the clouds huge and massed above the fiery golden desert of eveningfall the great image of God with forefinger pointed straight at me through halos and rolls and gold folds that were like the existence of the gleaming spear in His right hand, and sayeth, go thou across the ground; go moan for man; go moan, go groan, go groan alone, go roll your bones, alone; go thou and be little beneath my sight; go thou, and be minute and as seed in the pod, go thou, go thou, and die hence; and of this world report you well and truly.

 

Anyway I wrote the book because we're all going to die. In the loneliness of my life, my father dead, my brother dead, my mother far away, my sister and my wife far away, nothing here but my own tragic hands that once were guarded by a world, a sweet attention, that now are left to guide and disappear their own way into the common dark of all our death, sleeping in me raw bed, alone and stupid with just this one pride and consolation. My heart broke in the general despair and opened up inwards to the lord. I made a supplication in this dream.

 

So in the last page of on the road I describe how the hero Dean Moriarty is coming to see me all the way from the west coast just for a day or two. We just been back and forth across the country several times in cars and now our adventures are over. We're still great friends, but we have to go into later fazes of our lives. So there he goes, Dean Moriarty, ragged in a moth-eaten overcoat he brought specially for the freezing temperatures of the East, walking off alone, and the last I saw of him he rounded the corner of Seventh Avenue, eyes on the street ahead, and bent to it again, gone.

 

So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? The evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty, I think of Dean Mor-i-arty.

 

[[co...]]

One more!

 

 

Buddy Wakefield

[[re...]]

Not a poem, but one of my favorites:

 

JACK KEROUAC - I THINK OF DEAN MORIARTY

 

 

I think that may be a poem. It's wonderful writing, at least. Thanks for posting it.

Sure makes Truman Capote look like a fool, doesn't it?

[[re...]]

I'm gonna roll outta here some day.

I just.. might not get to drive.

 

I think all of us here know that feeling, don't we?

[[co...]]

Sure makes Truman Capote look like a fool, doesn't it?

 

I don't know about that? "I say what about Breakfast at Tiffany's?"

 

I do appreciate the Robert Frost. Thank you for posting that.

[[re...]]

Truman Capote was once asked about Jack Kerouac's writing, and supposedly Capote said, "That's not writing. It's typing."

 

Well, that's the legend, at least. And I like it.

 

But to be fair, it may be that Capote was actually commenting on Kerouac's claim that he never rewrote anything. I can see what Capote meant. Writing is rewriting. If you don't rewrite, you're not writing. You're just... typing. But when you read something Kerouac wrote, like what you posted above, it's obviously more than just typing.

[[Da...]]

Tom O'Bedlam's Song

 

From the hagg and hungrie goblin

That into raggs would rend ye,

And the spirit that stands by the naked man

In the Book of Moones - defend ye!

That of your five sound senses

You never be forsaken,

Nor wander from your selves with Tom

Abroad to beg your bacon.

 

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,

Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

 

Of thirty bare years have I

Twice twenty been enraged,

And of forty been three times fifteen

In durance soundly caged.

On the lordly lofts of Bedlam,

With stubble soft and dainty,

Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips ding-dong,

With wholesome hunger plenty.

 

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,

Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

 

With a thought I took for Maudlin

And a cruse of cockle pottage,

With a thing thus tall, skie blesse you all,

I befell into this dotage.

I slept not since the Conquest,

Till then I never waked,

Till the roguish boy of love where I lay

Me found and stript me naked. Maudlin - a prostitute. Cockle pottage could be venereal disease (cockles: the labia minor)

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,

Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

 

When I short have shorne my sowre face

And swigged my horny barrel,

In an oaken inn I pound my skin

As a suit of gilt apparel.

The moon's my constant Mistrisse,

And the lowly owl my morrowe,

The flaming Drake and the Nightcrow make

Me music to my sorrow.

 

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,

Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

 

The palsie plagues my pulses

When I prigg your pigs or pullen,

Your culvers take, or matchless make

Your Chanticleers, or sullen.

When I want provant, with Humfrie

I sup, and when benighted,

I repose in Powles with waking souls

Yet never am affrighted.

 

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,

Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

 

I know more than Apollo,

For oft, when he lies sleeping

I see the stars at bloody wars

In the wounded welkin weeping,

The moone embrace her shepherd

And the queen of Love her warrior,

While the first doth horne the star of morne,

And the next the heavenly Farrier.

 

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,

Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

 

The Gipsie Snap and Pedro

Are none of Tom's companions.

The punk I skorne and the cut purse sworne

And the roaring boyes bravadoe.

The meek, the white, the gentle,

Me handle touch and spare not

But those that crosse Tom Rynosseros

Do what the panther dare not.

 

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,

Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

 

With a host of furious fancies

Whereof I am commander,

With a burning spear and a horse of air,

To the wilderness I wander.

By a knight of ghostes and shadowes

I summon'd am to tourney

Ten leagues beyond the wild world's end.

Methinks it is no journey.

 

 

How about that?

[[co...]]

Truman Capote was once asked about Jack Kerouac's writing, and supposedly Capote said, "That's not writing. It's typing.

 

That's such a funny story, I've never heard that before. Simply charming. I love when artist get a little snippy with each other. Kind of like Bob Dylan and Andy Warhol thing.

 

Yes, and I just love Kerouac. I mean tell me this isn't writing!

 

and everything is going to the beat - It's the beat generation, it be-at, it's the beat to keep, it's the beat of the heart, it's being beat and down in the world and like old time lowdown and like in ancient civilizations the slave boatmen rowing galleys to a beat and servants spinning pottery to a beat

 

Or if it is just typing... man I wish I knew how to type like that.

 

[[co...]]

DavidJC,

 

cockle pottage

Oh my goodness! 

[[co...]]

Burning the Letters

by Sylvia Plath

 

I made a fire; being tired

Of the white fists of old

Letters and their death rattle

When I came too close to the wastebasket

What did they know that I didn't?

Grain by grain, they unrolled

Sands where a dream of clear water

Grinned like a getaway car.

I am not subtle

Love, love, and well, I was tired

Of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack

Holding in it's hate

Dully, under a pack of men in red jackets,

And the eyes and times of the postmarks.

 

This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless:

A glass case

My fingers would enter although

They melt and sag, they are told

Do not touch.

And here is an end to the writing,

The spry hooks that bend and cringe and the smiles, the smiles

And at least it will be a good place now, the attic.

At least I won't be strung just under the surface,

Dumb fish

With one tin eye,

Watching for glints,

Riding my Arctic

Between this wish and that wish.

 

So, I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress.

They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl,

They console me--

Rising and flying, but blinded.

They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels

Only they have nothing to say but anybody.

I have seen to that.

With the butt of a rake

I flake up papers that breathe like people,

I fan them out

Between the yellow lettuces and the German cabbage

Involved in it's weird blue dreams

Involved in a foetus.

And a name with black edges

 

Wilts at my foot,

Sinuous orchis

In a nest of root-hairs and boredom--

Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals!

Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing.

My veins glow like trees.

The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like

A read burst and a cry

That splits from it's ripped bag and does not stop

With that dead eye

And the stuffed expression, but goes on

Dyeing the air,

Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water

What immortality is. That it is immortal.

[[Da...]]

Hope that BC doesn't mind me pasting this

 

Forgetfullness

 

 

The name of the author is the first to go

followed obediently by the title, the plot,

the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel

which suddenly becomes one you have never read,

never even heard of,

 

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor

decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,

to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

 

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye

and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,

and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

 

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,

the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

 

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,

it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,

not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

 

It has floated away down a dark mythological river

whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those

who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

 

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night

to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.

No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted

out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Billy Collins

 

 

[[Ni...]]

JABBERWOCKY

 

Lewis Carroll

 

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.

 

 

 

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

 

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

  Long time the manxome foe he sought --

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

  And stood awhile in thought.

 

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

  And burbled as it came!

 

One, two! One, two! And through and through

  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

  He went galumphing back.

 

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'

  He chortled in his joy.

 

 

 

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.

 

----I love Alice in wonderland and Through the Looking Glass

 

[[mo...]]

Hello, beautiful masquerade

A dead tree hidden within fresh leaves and blooming flowers

Images burned in my mind

From a now dead fantasy

 

 

[[Ra...]]

How to be true to a shifting ghost?

A self unfound is never born

False from beginnings and a host of shadows

Above all this...again. Reborn.

 

I've walked these streets a thousand times

Broken rows of broken homes

And broken friends like mine

 

I've watched the children form themselves

Finger by finger...as if in the dark

On empty swings

In empty parks

 

Playgrounds like Hiroshima.

 

[[fl...]]

You are the bread and the knife,

the crystal goblet and the wine.

You are the dew on the morning grass

and the burning wheel of the sun.

You are the white apron of the baker,

and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

 

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,

the plums on the counter,

or the house of cards.

And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.

There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

 

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,

maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,

but you are not even close

to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

 

And a quick look in the mirror will show

that you are neither the boots in the corner

nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

 

It might interest you to know,

speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,

that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

 

I also happen to be the shooting star,

the evening paper blowing down an alley

and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

 

I am also the moon in the trees

and the blind woman's tea cup.

But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.

You are still the bread and the knife.

You will always be the bread and the knife,

not to mention the crystal goblet and - somehow - the wine.

 

"Litany"  by Billy Collins

 

 

[[Da...]]

With Anne gone, whose eyes to compare with the morning sun?

 

Not that I did compare, but i do compare, now she's gone. 

 

Leonard Cohen

[[ar...]]

 

Les Murray An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

 

An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

The word goes round Repins,

the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,

at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,

the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands

and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:

There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.

 

The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile

and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk

and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets

which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:

There's a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.

 

The man we surround, the man no one approaches

simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps

not like a child, not like the wind, like a man

and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even

sob very loudly—yet the dignity of his weeping

 

holds us back from his space, the hollow he makes about him

in the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,

and uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him

stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds

longing for tears as children for a rainbow.

 

Some will say, in the years to come, a halo

or force stood around him. There is no such thing.

Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him

but they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood,

the toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us

 

trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected

judgements of peace. Some in the concourse scream

who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children

and such as look out of Paradise come near him

and sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons.

 

Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops

his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit—

and I see a woman, shining, stretch her hand

and shake as she receives the gift of weeping;

as many as follow her also receive it

 

and many weep for sheer acceptance, and more

refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,

but the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,

the man who weeps ignores us, and cries out

of his writhen face and ordinary body

 

not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow,

hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea—

and when he stops, he simply walks between us

mopping his face with the dignity of one

man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.

 

Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.

 

 

from

The Weatherboard Cathedral, 1969

 

 

 

[[Ni...]]

Just a piece of Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven

 

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

doubting......."

[[ti...]]

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .                              10

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.

 

  In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

 

  The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,                              20

And seeing that it was a soft October night

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

 

  And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;                                30

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions

And for a hundred visions and revisions

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

 

  In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

 

  And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—                              40

[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

 

  For I have known them all already, known them all;

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,                      50

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

  So how should I presume?

 

  And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                    60

  And how should I presume?

 

  And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

[but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

  And should I then presume?

  And how should I begin?

        .    .    .    .    .

 

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets              70

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

 

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

        .    .    .    .    .

 

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?                  80

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

 

  And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,                                            90

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

  Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.

  That is not it, at all."

 

  And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,                                          100

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

  "That is not it at all,

  That is not what I meant, at all."                                          110

        .    .    .    .    .

 

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

 

  I grow old . . . I grow old . . .                                              120

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

 

  Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

 

  I do not think they will sing to me.

 

  I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

 

  We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown              130

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

 

 

 

[[Da...]]

'Our revels now are ended'

 

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

 

William Shakespeare

From The Tempest, Act 4 Scene 1

 

[Guest [St...]]

I know why the caged bird sings

 

 

A free bird leaps on the back

Of the wind and floats downstream

Till the current ends and dips his wing

In the orange suns rays

And dares to claim the sky.

 

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage

Can seldom see through his bars of rage

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing.

 

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill

Of things unknown but longed for still

And his tune is heard on the distant hill for

The caged bird sings of freedom.

 

The free bird thinks of another breeze

And the trade winds soft through

The sighing trees

And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright

Lawn and he names the sky his own.

 

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams

His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing.

 

The caged bird sings with

A fearful trill of things unknown

But longed for still and his

Tune is heard on the distant hill

For the caged bird sings of freedom.

 

Maya Angelolu

 

[[re...]]

Turning and turning in the widening gyre 

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere 

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst 

Are full of passionate intensity.

 

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand. 

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out 

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert 

A shape with lion body and the head of a man, 

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, 

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it 

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. 

The darkness drops again; but now I know 

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, 

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, 

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

 

William Butler Yeats

The Second Coming

 

 

[[ti...]]

Oh I love that one Redevan.