BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It is possible for some people to miss their lives as some people miss a plane or train. How can it happen that one day you are young, then another day you come to yourself and your life has passed like a dream?
But how can it be that only with death and dying does the sharp sense of life return?
What is the word for a state which is neither life nor death--a death in life?
I thought that books could tell me how to live, but they did not.
Why is it that without death one misses his life?
........Walker Percy
Monday, August 28, 2006
Sunday, August 27, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
We live and learn-- but do we get smarter?
Ulotrichan: member of the wooly haired or crisp hair division of mankind.
Leiotrichi: the smooth haired
We live and learn-- but do we get smarter?
Ulotrichan: member of the wooly haired or crisp hair division of mankind.
Leiotrichi: the smooth haired
Friday, August 25, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
the author's edited version
before the convex mirror
the image magnified
pores, craters ; defects, bigsize.
no knowledge of the sweet, the kind
no forgiveness for the sane. No points
for moderation.
whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain
Exceptions there are few but as a poet
you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss
the author's edited version
before the convex mirror
the image magnified
pores, craters ; defects, bigsize.
no knowledge of the sweet, the kind
no forgiveness for the sane. No points
for moderation.
whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain
Exceptions there are few but as a poet
you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss
Thursday, August 24, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
SS (St Eve) answers this poem from BusterStronghart, Wednesday, August 23, 2006, below:
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
Before the convex mirror the image magnifies
Pores, craters, defects bigsize.
No knowledge of the sweet,
The kind. No forgiveness for the sane.
No points for moderation.
Whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain.
Exceptions there are few
but as a poet you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss (St Eve)
Editor's comment:
My father would be pleased--my mother would believe it.
mek
SS (St Eve) answers this poem from BusterStronghart, Wednesday, August 23, 2006, below:
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
Before the convex mirror the image magnifies
Pores, craters, defects bigsize.
No knowledge of the sweet,
The kind. No forgiveness for the sane.
No points for moderation.
Whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain.
Exceptions there are few
but as a poet you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss (St Eve)
Editor's comment:
My father would be pleased--my mother would believe it.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Each man has his own batch of poems.
Herzog, Sol Bellow
My usual mistake is my greatest one: fearing to make one.
mek
Each man has his own batch of poems.
Herzog, Sol Bellow
My usual mistake is my greatest one: fearing to make one.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Date a jock and all they talk about is sports and sex and sports and sex; date a freak and all they talk about is pot and sex, pot and sex. "
three teenaged girls at the pool.
"Date a jock and all they talk about is sports and sex and sports and sex; date a freak and all they talk about is pot and sex, pot and sex. "
three teenaged girls at the pool.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Understand that a man would have to act as the land where he was born had trained him to do. "
"It's because a fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than he ever is of the trouble he's already got. He'll cling to trouble he's used to before he'll risk a change."
Wm. Faulkner, Light in August
"Understand that a man would have to act as the land where he was born had trained him to do. "
"It's because a fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than he ever is of the trouble he's already got. He'll cling to trouble he's used to before he'll risk a change."
Wm. Faulkner, Light in August
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In the terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Somewhere on a sea of convention,
A stinking, sinking craft.
In the terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Somewhere on a sea of convention,
A stinking, sinking craft.
mek
Friday, August 11, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Found on a memorial plate in St. Phillips cemetery, Garrison, NY
Found on a memorial plate in St. Phillips cemetery, Garrison, NY
----Catherine Heuston Ghiselin----
O hand unclasped of unbeholden friend
For thee the no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning,
No triumphs and no labor and no lust,
Only dead yew leaves and a little dust.
Sleep and have sleep for light.
Are the fruits gray like dust, or red like blood?
Are there flowers
At all, or any fruit?
.
1911-1980
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from a TLS review by William Logan, describing the poetry describing the apprentice poetry of Lawrence Durrell: --" lyrical afflatus of a blowhard."
from a TLS review by William Logan, describing the poetry describing the apprentice poetry of Lawrence Durrell: --" lyrical afflatus of a blowhard."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I am a champion balancing act of the world and can now feel the cosmic conflict pulling part of me into the imaginal and spiritual realm as another part of me crashes into the side of the mountain and must deal with the very real parameters of the physical world. Although I may idealize the situation, yet it is important for me to try to see things as they truly are.
I am a champion balancing act of the world and can now feel the cosmic conflict pulling part of me into the imaginal and spiritual realm as another part of me crashes into the side of the mountain and must deal with the very real parameters of the physical world. Although I may idealize the situation, yet it is important for me to try to see things as they truly are.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The best you can expect in life is to avoid the worst.
I exist in the cemetery of spent and lost hours.
Everything we say is a continuation of what has been said before.
Italo Calvino
The best you can expect in life is to avoid the worst.
I exist in the cemetery of spent and lost hours.
Everything we say is a continuation of what has been said before.
Italo Calvino
Friday, July 28, 2006
OCT 25 IS OKAY WITH ME, BUT IS NOT OCT 25 THE DATE OF EVENT 50?
I am certainly in favor of dedicating the night to the dead and missing and would like to hear lengthy toasts to each lost member of the class, and should a member have been not well known by any one of us we could have a guest toaster, say Ed Sullivan, make the toast in our stead. An alternative might be to invite a member of the class who was familiar with the dead member. For instance, was any one of us friends with Frank Briggs? We could have someone from the class especially invited, perhaps only to make the toast honoring Frank.
As capacities have shrunk, and as there will be numerous members to remember, may I suggest that we toast with water or grape juice -- and in small glasses at that.
Some of you may want to honor past wives, past girl friends, or past lives. That is also okay with me, though I would draw the line at Margot von Vanderwort, a skinny girl whom I am very glad that none of you had the misfortune of meeting during the short time that I was embroiled with her. That she went to Smith and became a State Department official and at one time Ambassadress to Belgium, does not make up for the night we spent in my car in front of the Spry sign across the Hudson.
I didn't like her father either, who was President of the Corn and Merchants National Bank and who refused to pay compound interest until deposits were held by the bank for ninety days. Where was Eliot Spitzer when we needed him? In the First Form, I suppose. Margot's mother, however, was a charming, diminutive woman who often handicapped horses under my father's watchful tutelage.
I would like to dedicate the entire evening to the very great, and much missed, Stick Shift Bergavoy, ace driving instructor.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I am certainly in favor of dedicating the night to the dead and missing and would like to hear lengthy toasts to each lost member of the class, and should a member have been not well known by any one of us we could have a guest toaster, say Ed Sullivan, make the toast in our stead. An alternative might be to invite a member of the class who was familiar with the dead member. For instance, was any one of us friends with Frank Briggs? We could have someone from the class especially invited, perhaps only to make the toast honoring Frank.
As capacities have shrunk, and as there will be numerous members to remember, may I suggest that we toast with water or grape juice -- and in small glasses at that.
Some of you may want to honor past wives, past girl friends, or past lives. That is also okay with me, though I would draw the line at Margot von Vanderwort, a skinny girl whom I am very glad that none of you had the misfortune of meeting during the short time that I was embroiled with her. That she went to Smith and became a State Department official and at one time Ambassadress to Belgium, does not make up for the night we spent in my car in front of the Spry sign across the Hudson.
I didn't like her father either, who was President of the Corn and Merchants National Bank and who refused to pay compound interest until deposits were held by the bank for ninety days. Where was Eliot Spitzer when we needed him? In the First Form, I suppose. Margot's mother, however, was a charming, diminutive woman who often handicapped horses under my father's watchful tutelage.
I would like to dedicate the entire evening to the very great, and much missed, Stick Shift Bergavoy, ace driving instructor.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Word tennis
Katz emerges from the electronic shadows
And loudly announces his return with 3 short calls.
Then in the course of his day he strolls
Energetically down the quiet main street to the banks
Of the Mighty River.
There with a broad sweeping gesture of his arm
He intones the first lines of "we are strangers met in
Friendship...." as a memorial to the lost boys of HM.
Oh Dick oh Danny oh Peter we remember your not so
Heroic lives.
At river's edge I memorialize the living too,
O Prince Hal, Mike, Malcolm, and St Eve,
Come now to the verge of the shadowy wood,
Where the mighty Hudson merely trickles,
And leave the Holy Rood,
And dip a toe, to make it tickle.
Cool feet and praise for the living,
But the dead ones murmur the future silence
The ceased flow of the mighty river,
The thinklessness of nada
Peter knows;
Richie though surprised has come to realize.
And Danny smiles.
A collaboration, SS & mek, cold spring, ny, July 2006
Word tennis
Katz emerges from the electronic shadows
And loudly announces his return with 3 short calls.
Then in the course of his day he strolls
Energetically down the quiet main street to the banks
Of the Mighty River.
There with a broad sweeping gesture of his arm
He intones the first lines of "we are strangers met in
Friendship...." as a memorial to the lost boys of HM.
Oh Dick oh Danny oh Peter we remember your not so
Heroic lives.
At river's edge I memorialize the living too,
O Prince Hal, Mike, Malcolm, and St Eve,
Come now to the verge of the shadowy wood,
Where the mighty Hudson merely trickles,
And leave the Holy Rood,
And dip a toe, to make it tickle.
Cool feet and praise for the living,
But the dead ones murmur the future silence
The ceased flow of the mighty river,
The thinklessness of nada
Peter knows;
Richie though surprised has come to realize.
And Danny smiles.
A collaboration, SS & mek, cold spring, ny, July 2006
Thursday, July 06, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A wonderful bird is the pelican
His bill will hold more than his bellican
He can take in his beak
Food enogh for a week,
But I'm damned if I can see how the hellican.
Dixon Lanier Merritt
A wonderful bird is the pelican
His bill will hold more than his bellican
He can take in his beak
Food enogh for a week,
But I'm damned if I can see how the hellican.
Dixon Lanier Merritt
Sunday, July 02, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Devil Wears Prada
Streep: 15 stars out of ten-- film 8 out of 10,
Streep plays a boss who lives for her work. She loves her work and becomes the best in the Cosmos at it. She can't tolerate fools gladly--and if she did she would be taking away from the energy she gives solely to her company. It's all for the company. She needs what she needs NOW and not later and expects to get it NOW!
Underlings don't understand; and some of them hate her for it, others merely fear her. None understand that her genius requires, deserves the instant gratification that Miranda (Streep) demands. Streep masters this part; as an actor she starts at the top and rises still higher.
But, except for Stanley Tucci, everyone else in the cast is just coasting. Anne Hathaway is miscast as Andrea, the second assistant, --she doesn't look or fit the part; she's weak, mooney, and her boyfriend, Nate, Adrian Grienier, is just a pretty face playing a sous chef, (well, Woody Allen sees something in him, as he's in one of his films but, I don't know. I kept wishing that he'd leave the sixties and get a haircut. We've seen his act already in a thousand pictures from the sixties.)
Stanley Tuccci is fine as a gay guy in the company. Loyal to Miranda, helpful to Andrea, he dances though the film and adds to every scene they give him. Besides the comedy, film goers will note there's a serious theme in the film too.
mek
Devil Wears Prada
Streep: 15 stars out of ten-- film 8 out of 10,
Streep plays a boss who lives for her work. She loves her work and becomes the best in the Cosmos at it. She can't tolerate fools gladly--and if she did she would be taking away from the energy she gives solely to her company. It's all for the company. She needs what she needs NOW and not later and expects to get it NOW!
Underlings don't understand; and some of them hate her for it, others merely fear her. None understand that her genius requires, deserves the instant gratification that Miranda (Streep) demands. Streep masters this part; as an actor she starts at the top and rises still higher.
But, except for Stanley Tucci, everyone else in the cast is just coasting. Anne Hathaway is miscast as Andrea, the second assistant, --she doesn't look or fit the part; she's weak, mooney, and her boyfriend, Nate, Adrian Grienier, is just a pretty face playing a sous chef, (well, Woody Allen sees something in him, as he's in one of his films but, I don't know. I kept wishing that he'd leave the sixties and get a haircut. We've seen his act already in a thousand pictures from the sixties.)
Stanley Tuccci is fine as a gay guy in the company. Loyal to Miranda, helpful to Andrea, he dances though the film and adds to every scene they give him. Besides the comedy, film goers will note there's a serious theme in the film too.
mek
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