Reed’s poem “beware: do not read this poem” from Conjure (1972)
tonite, thriller was
abt an ol woman, so vain she
surrounded herself w/
it got so bad that finally she
locked herself indoors & her
whole life became the
one day the villagers broke
into her house, but she was too
swift for them. she disappeared
into a mirror
each tenant who bought the house
after that, lost a loved one to
the ol woman in the mirror
first a little girl
then a young woman
then the young woman/s husband
the hunger of this poem is legendary
it has taken in many victims
from this poem
it has drawn in yr feet
back off from this poem
it has drawn in yr legs
back off from this poem
it is a greedy mirror
you are into this poem.
the waist down
nobody can hear you can they?
this poem has had you up to here
this poem aint got
you cant call out frm this poem
relax now & go w/ this poem
move & roll on to
do not resist this poem
this poem has yr eyes
this poem has his head
this poem has
this poem has his fingers
this poem has his fingertips
this poem is the reader & the
reader this poem
statistic: the us bureau of missing persons report
1968 over 100,000 people disappeared
leaving no solid clues
a space in the lives of their friends
* Used copy of Reed’s novel Japanese by Spring for sale at Dempseybooks.mybisi.com
James Russell Lowell (born February 22, 1819) – U.S. poet, social critic, abolitionist
The impatience of their wings!
A moment, sweet delusion,
For an excellent portrait of James Russell Lowell and his somewhat antagonistic relationship with Edgar Allan Poe, see the Edgar A. Poe Calendar for February 22, 2009:
1952 recording by audio documentarian Tony Schwartz
(Smithsonian Folkways records).
Read about Mary Coyle Chase here
1950 film Harvey, starring James Stewart:
George Harrison (born February 25, 1943) – British songwriter, musician (The Beatles)
“What dost thou want, Djali?” said the gypsy, hastily, as though suddenly awakened.
“She is hungry,” said Gringoire, charmed to enter into conversation.
Esmeralda began to crumble some bread, which Djali ate gracefully from the hollow of her hand.
Moreover, Gringoire did not give her time to resume her revery. He hazarded a delicate question.
“So you don’t want me for your husband?”
The young girl looked at him intently, and said, “No.”
“For your lover?” went on Gringoire.
She pouted, and replied, “No.”
“For your friend?” pursued Gringoire.
She gazed fixedly at him again, and said, after a momentary reflection, “Perhaps.”
This “perhaps,” so dear to philosophers, emboldened Gringoire.
“Do you know what friendship is?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the gypsy; “it is to be brother and sister; two souls which touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand.”
“And love?” pursued Gringoire.
“Oh! love!” said she, and her voice trembled, and her eye beamed. “That is to be two and to be but one. A man and a woman mingled into one angel. It is heaven.”
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Album: L’eau (Water)
C’est une histoire ancienne et pourtant c’est dans ma tête
J’ai beau lui dire vas-t’en, elle reste là
C’est un vieux souvenir, un craquement d’allumette
J’ai beau lui dire fous le camp, il bouge pas
It’s an old story, still in my head
I tell it in vain to go; it stays
It’s an old memory, the crack of a match
I tell him in vain to get the hell out, he doesn’t
Voilà voilà voilà voilà
Si seulement dans ce qu’on est, on pouvait faire un choix
Seulement voilà voilà voilà voilà
Here, Here, Here, Here
If only in this I could make the choice
Only — here, here, here, here
C’est comme une habitude, un peu comme une manie
J’aime la solitude jusqu’à la tyrannie
Viens pas me déloger de ma carapace quand j’hiberne
Ou d’avance désolée pour mes coups dans tes lanternes
It’s like a habit, a little like a mania
I love the solitude before the tyranny
Don’t come and knock me out of my shell when I’m hibernating
Where I grieve in advance for my punch in your eyes