just another ex-jazz-musician/proto-rapper/Jersey-Irish-poet-actor/print-junkie/film-raptor/beat-hipster-"white Negro"-rhapsodizer/ex-hippie-punk-'60s-radical-organizer's take on all things cultural, political, spiritual & aggrandizing
Saturday, March 26, 2016
100 YEAR AGO TODAY (THE EASTER UPRISING THAT EVENTUALLY SPARKED AT LEAST PART OF IRELAND'S FREEDOM)
I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our winged horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road. The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute they change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-cocks call; Minute by minute they live: The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven's part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse - MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
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On June 10th from 5 to 6 PM, I'll be reading from ANOTHER WAY TO PLAY: Poems 1960-2017, and Terence Winch will be reading from his new book, THE KNOWN UNIVERSE, at Politics and Prose on Connecticut Avenue in DC
On June 28th at 8PM I'll be reading from ANOTHER WAY TO PLAY at unnameable books, 600 Vanderbilt Avenue, corner of St. Marks, in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn
CLICK ON IMAGES BELOW FOR LINKS TO ORDER (OR EMAIL ME FOR A SIGNED COPY OF ANY TITLES BELOW)
ANOTHER WAY TO PLAY
THE VILLAGE SONNETS
IT TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE
IT'S NOT NOSTALGIA
2000 American Book Award winner
MARCH 18, 2003
WHAT YOU FIND THERE
CANT BE WRONG
1997 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award "for Excellence in Literature"
ROCKY DIES YELLOW
CATCH MY BREATH
recordings of my reading from some of the books above