Calligraphy by Susan Stuart - LightMotif Productions

Til Human Voices Wake Us

And We Drown

Poetry is not just for pussies. Some of it doesn’t even suck, like this one.

Seriously, I really enjoy TS Eliot. I know he’s kind of the mayonnaise of poetry, I don’t care. I don’t pretend erudition in verse. I know what I learned in high school, and the rest I got from Col. Kurtz.

When Brando read the Hollow Men in Apocalypse Now, I took the next step and read some TS Eliot. I liked it. I like this one in particular. It’s read by … an English gentleman… and it’s the coolest thing ever.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A2khDhfwsoE

"A Dream Deferred Is A Dream Denied." - Langston Hughes

Banksy Strikes Again. No Christ This Time.

Banksy has once again popped up in my Tumblr.  Last time it was in Rio, painting Christ the Redeemer. I don’t know how old this one is, but it’s awesome. I love his doodles. They hold truth.  Langston Hughes used words, Banksy uses images, and perhaps one day we’ll all use our heads and realize that we need no masters.

I don’t love Tom Waits, per se. I love an era of Tom Waits’ career. I love from Rain Dogs through Bone Machine. This particular swath of Tom’s career really speaks to the addict in me. The Irish. This song is from Bone Machine.

One look in his eye, and everyone denies ever having met him.

This song is pure Storyteller mythology. Tom is a pure genius. I will say that. I don’t like his barfly music of the 70′s, nor his clip/clip megaphone noise of latter day material, but that’s my problem, not his. Tom Waits is the hood ornament of the pink Caddy that Elvis drove out of Hell on Halloween night. You don’t have to like his voice. Listen to the flow of words, the rhythm, the cadence. Listen to the goddamn words themselves. He tells a story without once revealing who the subject is. Those wings of which he speaks… are they feathery or leathery?

bunny rabbits go hop hop hop

The See re-fuses know rover.

HEAVEN

O who will show me those delights on high?

Echo. I.

Thouse Echo, thou art mortall, all men know.

Echo. No.

Wert thou not born among the trees and leaves?

Echo. Leaves.

And are there any leaves, that still abide?

Echo. Bide.

What leaves are they? impart the matter wholly.

Echo. Holy.

Are holy leaves the Echo then of blisse?

Echo. Yes.

Then tell me, what is that supreme delight?

Echo. Light.

Light to the mind: what joy shall we enjoy?

Echo. Joy.

But there are cares and business with the pleasure?

Echo. Leisure.

Light, joy, and leisure: but shall they persever?

Echo. Ever.

(Here endeth the lesson. )