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rejectomorph

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Blow [Feb. 15th, 2009|11:45 pm]
rejectomorph
Last night great wind rose and sent rain drumming walls and windows, and made a roar of all the trees. It was as though the hidden sky had become a beach where an endless wave crashed, and all the night filled with spindrift. If any birds were about, I could not hear them for the storm's noise.

The weak stretch of fence came down again, too.

Afternoon brought relative stillness, and though the rain continued, small brown birds did appear and forage across the wet lawn. What they found there to eat I don't know, and wouldn't have asked even if I could speak the language of birds.

I had pizza.

Tonight the rain has softened, and the air is still again. Though I find the placid atmosphere pleasant, still I miss the roaring and the splattering. A storm is a wonderful thing when no harm's done. The fence? I'll prop it back up easily enough. Tonight I'll leave it down. Perhaps deer will come in the yard and graze.



Sunday Verse


Ode to the West Wind


by Percy Bysshe Shelly


WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!

II.

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: oh hear!

III.

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!

IV.

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is;
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an extinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unwakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

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Comments:
[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2009-02-16 12:49 pm (UTC)
i hadn't read that poem in decades! (it's wonderful to think his words are still scattered like sparks.) i sort of fell in love with shelley, and e.e. cummings, and dylan thomas when i was 17 or so.

>What they found there to eat I don't know, and wouldn't have asked even if I could speak the language of birds.

>I had pizza.

that's great! maybe if you had told them about the pizza in the language of birds, they'd have wanted some.
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