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From 'A Coney Island of the Mind' Number 20 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
The pennycandystore beyond the El is where I first fell in love with unreality Jellybeans glowed in the semi-gloom of that september afternoon A cat upon the counter moved among the licorice sticks and tootsie rolls and Oh Boy Gum
Outside the leaves were falling as they died
A wind had blown away the sun
A girl ran in Her hair was rainy Her breasts were breathless in the little room
Outside the leaves were falling and they cried Too soon! too soon!
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Carpal Tunnel
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Spring has sprung the grass has riz, I wonder where the birdies is.
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Carpal Tunnel
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AUTUMN
Boris Pasternak
I have let my household disperse, My dear ones have long been apart, And a familiar loneliness Fills all of nature and all my heart.
Here I am with you in the lodge. No one walks thorugh the woods these days. As in the old song, undergrowth Has almost hidden the forest ways.
Forlornly, the timber walls Look down on the two of us here. We did not promise to leap obstacles, We shall fall at last in the clear.
We shall sit down from one till three, You with embroidery, I deep In a book, and at dawn shall not see When we kiss each other to sleep.
More richly and more recklessly, Leaves, leaves, give tongue and whirl away, Fill yesterday's cup of bitterness With the sadness of today.
Impulse, enchantment, beauty! Let's dissolve in September wind And enter the rustle of autumn! Be still, or go out of your mind!
As the coppice lets slip its leaves, You let your dress slip rustling down And throw yourself into my arms In your silk-tasselled dressing gown.
You are my joy on the brink Of disaster, when life becomes A plague, and beauty is daring, And draws us into each other's arms.
© 1947 by Boris Pasternak
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Carpal Tunnel
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(and for Connie)
SPRING POEM While watching all these early buds and swallows, I can feel tonight that my heart’s slowly growing over sorrows as someone’s horizon on smiley days might;
That it’s getting bigger like all plants around and as light as feather, and that all happiness that’s above the ground and a Hell of pain wouldn’t really matter:
It’s longing for all things that a life as such could give nice to thy, and completely nothing wouldn’t be too much-- it’s eager desire and hopes are so high.
Everything that’s happened has been just a play of my heart on fire; my true love has never been given away as much as I could and as I desire;
There are, in my deeps, gentle tides of words never let outside; I could give my heart to everyone on worlds, yet, it would remain a lot of it inside.
Desanka Maksimovic Translation: Dragana Konstantinovic
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Carpal Tunnel
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Fall Poem
I don't know where the afternoon has gone, but I am in a different country, on wet velvet streets spooned by night, beneath a sky you can lie in. We are gliding like shadows over ground where diamonds have fallen, and I'm laughing under the kisses of a hissing rain, with the smell of oranges everywhere.
— Evelyn So
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Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
--Albert Camus
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GRATITUDE I THANK thee, friend, for the beautiful thought That in words well chosen thou gavest to me, Deep in the life of my soul it has wrought With its own rare essence to ever imbue me, To gleam like a star over devious ways, To bloom like a flower on the drearest days– Better such gift from thee to me Than gold of the hills or pearls of the sea.
For the luster of jewels and gold may depart, And they have in them no life of the giver, But this gracious gift from thy heart to my heart Shall witness to me of thy love forever; Yea, it shall always abide with me As a part of my immortality; For a beautiful thought is a thing divine, So I thank thee, oh, friend, for this gift of thine.
Lucy Maud Montgomery
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The name-of it-is "Autumn" 656
The name—of it—is "Autumn"— The hue—of it—is Blood— An Artery—upon the Hill— A Vein—along the Road—
Great Globules—in the Alleys— And Oh, the Shower of Stain— When Winds—upset the Basin— And spill the Scarlet Rain—
It sprinkles Bonnets—far below— It gathers ruddy Pools— Then—eddies like a Rose—away— Upon Vermilion Wheels—
Emily Dickinson
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Meet Me In The Indian Summer
Well don't you know How much I love you Don't you know How much I care It's beyond my comprehension 'Cos I love you on the square
It's not bound by any definition It isn't written in the stars It's not limited like Saturn Isn't ruled by Mercury or Mars
Oh won't you meet me In the Indian summer Where we'll go walking Down by the weeping willow tree Won't you meet me In the Indian summer We'll go walking to eternity
It's not modelled by convention It isn't worshipped like the sun It's not likened unto any other And it will never come undone
Well don't you know That my world is so lonely Just like a freight train in the dawn That's why I need to Have and hold you Just to keep me from going wrong
Oh won't you meet me In the Indian summer We'll go walking By the weeping willow tree Won't you meet me Lord In the Indian summer We'll go walking to eternity
Won't you meet me In the Indian summer Well before Those chilly winds do blow Won't you meet me In the Indian summer Take me way back To what I know
Oh won't you meet me In the Indian summer We'll go walking By the weeping willow tree Oh won't you meet me In the Indian summer We'll go walking to eternity
-Van Morrison
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Elegy IX: The Autumnal No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace As I have seen in one autumnal face. Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape, This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape. If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame; Affection here takes reverence's name. Were her first years the golden age? That's true, But now she's gold oft tried and ever new. That was her torrid and inflaming time, This is her tolerable tropic clime. Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence, He in a fever wishes pestilence. Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were, They were Love's graves, for else he is no where. Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorit; And here till hers, which must be his death, come, He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb. Here dwells he; though he sojourn ev'rywhere In progress, yet his standing house is here: Here where still evening is, not noon nor night, Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight. In all her words, unto all hearers fit, You may at revels, you at council, sit. This is Love's timber, youth his underwood; There he, as wine in June, enrages blood, Which then comes seasonabliest when our taste And appetite to other things is past. Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platan tree, Was lov'd for age, none being so large as she, Or else because, being young, nature did bless Her youth with age's glory, barrenness. If we love things long sought, age is a thing Which we are fifty years in compassing; If transitory things, which soon decay, Age must be loveliest at the latest day. But name not winter faces, whose skin's slack, Lank as an unthrift's purse, but a soul's sack; Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade; Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made; Whose every tooth to a several place is gone, To vex their souls at resurrection: Name not these living death's-heads unto me, For these, not ancient, but antique be. I hate extremes, yet I had rather stay With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day. Since such love's natural lation is, may still My love descend, and journey down the hill, Not panting after growing beauties. So, I shall ebb on with them who homeward go.
John Donne
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