Middle Aged by Ezra Pound

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Tis but a vague, invarious delight.

As gold that rains about some buried king.

 

As the fine flakes,

When tourists frolicking

Stamp on his roof or in the glazing light

Try photographs, wolf down their ale and cakes

And start to inspect some further pyramid;

 

As the fine dust, in the hid cell beneath

Their transitory step and merriment,

Drifts through the air, and the sarcophagus

Gains yet another crust

Of useless riches for the occupant,

So I, the fires that lit once dreams

Now over and spent,

Lie dead within four walls

And so now love

Rains down and so enriches some stiff case,

And strews a mind with precious metaphors,

 

And so the space

Of my still consciousness

Is full of gilded snow,

 

The which, no cat has eyes enough

To see the brightness of.

A Visit with Megan Falley: Spoken Word Poet

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I had the privilege of seeing Megan Falley perform her spoken word poetry today at the University of Michigan.  She will be in Michigan for the next few days and has speaking engagements at the University of Michigan Ann-Arbor tonight and in the coming days at Wayne State in Detroit and Oakland University in Rochester.  She is performing pieces from her published book of poetry entitled, “After the Witch Hunt” as well as some more recent and personal selections.

Megan’s subject matter is varied but visits relationships in states of dysfunction and of fantasy. She is a woman aware. In addition, she explores her subjects – both objective and subjective – with a biting sense of realism coupled with an informed wit.  Topped with a dash of dry and irresistible humor, her poetry becomes a journey into something altogether relatable as much as it is original.  Her live performance is infectious – alive with caesuras, enjambments, alliterations and refreshingly unique material brought to life in her rhythmic recitations.

Have a look and see for yourself.  She’s worth it.

J.R.R. Tolkien: In Time

 

I sit beside the fire and think 
Of all that I have seen
Of meadow flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair

I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter comes without a spring 
That I shall ever see

For still there are so many things
That I have never seen
In every wood in every spring
There is a different green

I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago
And people that will see a world
That I shall never know

But all the while I sit and think
Of times there were before
I listen for returning feet 
And voices at the door
― J.R.R. Tolkien