No ideas but in things. Mr.
Paterson has gone away
to rest and write. Inside the bus one sees
his thoughts sitting and standing. His
thoughts alight and scatter —
————————————————-
When the nightingale to his mate
Sings day-long and night late
My love and I keep state
In bower,
In flower,
‘Til the watchman on the tower
Cry:
“Up! Thou rascal, Rise
I see the white
Light
and the night
Flies!”
—————————————–
Life and death were not
Until man made up the whole
Made it lock, stock and barrel
Out of his own bitter soul
————————————————————-
Blood, thou art blood;
Let’s write “Good angel” on the devil’s horn
—————————————————–
2 partidges
2 mallard ducks
a dungeness crab
24 hours out
of the pacific
and a live–frozen
trout
—————————————————
Night’s candles are burnt out and jocund day
Stand tiptoe on the misty mountain tops
—————————————————-
Cast away in the winter river:
A dead dog frozen
———————————————
I shall live, if she continues in life,
I she dies, I will go with her.
Great Zeus, save the woman,
or she will sit before your seat in a veil
and tell out the long list of her troubles
————————————-
How crows my love, my cavalier,
How struts he like a chanticlere.
Our nest is feathered with desire
And this yard safe from fox and fire;
But fallen on the dunghill, dead,
The soldier’s blood is rooster-red.
Alas, no chick of this sad cock
Will crow for Christ at dawn o’clock
——————————————————
The track of the American locomotive
And the usual geese
in the moonlight
————————————————–
The ploughland has gone to bent
And the pasture to heather;
Gin the goodwife stint
She’ll keep the house together
Gin the goodwife stint
And the bairns hunger
The Duke can get his rent
One year longer
helpful bob: gin = if; bairns = babes
————————————————
Mountain pool:
Frog jumps, PLOP–
lapping slow wavelets
—————————————
The enormous tragedy of the dream in the peasant’s
bent shoulders
Manes! Manes was tanned and stuffed
—————————————–
Biggest damned raven
I ever saw flies howling
caw caw caw Lord Lord
Norbert Weiner, co-creator of Information Theory
and thus of the Net on which we speak to each other,
wrote in 1948 that great poetry contains more information than political speeches.
We cannot measure or define Information without
including the Receiver in the measurement or definition.
This PRECISELY mirrors the observer/observed
synergy in quantum mechnics but has
received less publicity.
The only Information scientically and mathematically
measurable = the inability of the Receiver to guess
what’s coming next [the next “signal.’] In political
speeches, measurable information runs very near
the theoretical infinitesmal; the greatest poems
[or fragments of poems] consist of those that
have the faintly “spooky” quality of never
losing something of their original unpredictibility,
for at least some Receivers.
These “fragmnts I have shelved [shored]” wd not illusrate
this so well if I had attached the author’s name
to each, thereby triggering conitioned reflexes.
