An Orthodox akathist hymn

From Glory to God for All Things.

This is poetry, and more than poetry ... although perhaps it is irreverent to speak of such an inspired hymn as merely poetry.

Still nauseating after all these years

Amiri Baraka.

Via poetryfoundation.org ... a site with a generous archive of poetry (see their "Poetry Tool"), but elsewhere in the site, we see an unfortunate tendency to promote ... well, the most charitable description would be "cacophonous communards of cultural catastrophe."

Charles Simic

New US poet laureate.

His bio, and links to some of his poems.

A confession: He's not my favorite poet.

Cummings
from his letters

there once was a cuntry of owe
such lofty ideals that no
man ever could mension
(imagine the tention)
what might have offended jane dough

Cummings

whatever's merely wilful,
and not miraculous
(be never it so skilful)
must wither fail and cease
--but better than to grow
beauty knows no

their goal(in calm and fury:
through joy and anguish)who've
made her,outglory glory
the little while they live--
unless by your thinking
forever's long

let beauty touch a blunder
(called life)we die to breathe,
itself becomes her wonder
--and wonderful is death;
but more,the older he's
the younger she's

A salutary reflection

On repentance and procrastination. From St Augustine. At the Daily Eudemon.

Requiescat
by Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

Tread lightly, she is near
    Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
    The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
    Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
    Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,
    She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
    Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,
    Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
    She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
    Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
    Heap earth upon it.

Too busy to blog

I've been doing two things:

1. Reading Fred Reed columns.

2. Waiting for October.