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Oct. 29th, 2007 06:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oddegg- Herkle and Pike are both genuine cheerleading jumps.
- A Spoonerism is a play on words in which corresponding consonants, vowels, or morphemes are switched. Named after the Reverend Spooner (1844–1930), Warden of New College, Oxford, who was notoriously prone to this tendency – i.e. "The Lord is a shoving leopard" instead of "The Lord is a loving shepherd". Dean would probably also note that the title one of Metallica’s live albums is a spoonerism – Cunning Stunts.
- I’m not sure if non-Brits will get the Wiggly Woo ref as I don’t know if this fine children’s song has an international audience. I used it anyway – sue me. Lyrics are: There's a worm at the bottom of the garden, And its name is Wiggly Woo, There's a worm at the bottom of the garden, And all that he can do is ..., Wiggle all night and wiggle all day; It can't jump and it can't play, There's a worm at the bottom of the garden, And its name is Wiggly Woo.
- The butt sex for Jesus poem Jared mentions is ‘The Love That Dares to Speak its Name’ by James Kirkup. It was the subject of a prosecution for blasphemous libel in 1977, and is still illegal to publish in
- Half words whispered low is a quote from another poem by Robert Graves, ‘She Tell Her Love While Half-asleep’. I thought it fit.
She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.
The first poem, mailed to Jensen’s apartment
Being-in-love
You are so very beautiful
i cannot help admiring
your eyes so often sadnessful
and lips so kissinspiring
i think about my being-in-love
and touch the flesh you wear so well
i think about my being-in-love
and wish you were as well
as well
and wish you were as well.
Roger McGough
**
2nd poem, hand delivered to Jensen’s apartment
I Would Live in Your Love
I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea,
Borne up by each wave as it passes, drawn down by each wave
that recedes;
I would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered
in me,
I would beat with your heart as it beats, I would follow your
soul as it leads.
Sara Teasdale
**
3rd poem, left on Jen’s car outside the apartment
Longing
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me.
Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth.
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say My love! why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Matthew Arnold
**
4th poem, left on Jen’s usual table in the coffee shop
The Bait
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.
There will the river whisp'ring run
Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun ;
And there th' enamour'd fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.
When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth,
By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both,
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.
Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowy net.
Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest ;
Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes.
For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait :
That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,
Alas ! is wiser far than I.
John Donne
**
5th poem, left on Jensen’s door within the apartment block
Probably it is too early in the morning
Probably it is too early in the morning;
probably you have not yet risen
and the curtains float
like sails against the window.
But whatever, whatever the time, the place, the season,
here I am again at your door,
bringing a bunch of reasons why I should enter.
Probably it is too early inside you yet
for you to gather together what you are and speak;
but whatever, whatever the time, the place, the season,
it is certainly good to have come this far,
to know what I am and not mistrust.
The earth has many hands and doors upon
which these hands are knocking.
There are chairs for some on which to sit
more patient than the rest,
and here I am again, and again am knocking,
holding a fist of primonia,
dressed to kill,
clean dustless and idiotic.
I might be thought mad, insane or stupid;
my belief in you might be totally unfounded;
it might be called utterly romantic,
but what the hell?
Here I am again, and again am knocking.
But probably it is too early;
probably I’m too eager to come rushing towards you,
impatient to share what glows
while there is still
what glows around me.
I bang on the door of the world.
You are asleep behind it.
I bang on the door of the world
as on my own heart a world’s been hammering.
Brian Patten
**
6th poem, left on Jen’s car at the film lot
i like my body when it is with your
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big Love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
e.e. cummings
**
7th and 8th poems, left together on the bed in Jen’s trailer
Sherdi
Sherdi
The way I learned,
to eat sugar cane in Sanosra:
I use my teeth
to tear the outer hard chaal
then, bite off strips
of the white fibrous heart –
suck hard with my teeth, press down
and the juice spills out.
January mornings
the farmer cuts tender green sugar cane
and brings it to our door.
Afternoons, when the elders are asleep
we sneak outside carrying the long smooth stalks.
The sun warms us, the dogs yawn,
our teeth grow strong
our jaws are numb;
for hours we suck out the russ, the juice
sticky all over our hand.
So tonight
when you tell me to use my teeth,
to suck hard, harder,
then, I smell sugar cane grass
in your hair
and imagine you’d like to be
shérdi shérdi out in the fields
the stalks sway
opening a path before us
(Shérdi – sugar cane)
Sujata Bhatt
Muse
When I kiss you in all the folding places
of your body, you make that noise like a dog
dreaming, dreaming of the long runs he makes
in answer to some jolt to his hormones,
running across landfills, running, running
by tips and shorelines from the scent of too much,
but still going with head up and snout
in the air because he loves it all
and has to get away. I have to kiss deeper
and more slowly – your neck, your inner arm,
the neat creases under your toes, the shadow
behind your knee, the white angles of your groin –
until you fall quiet because only then
can I get the damned words to come into my mouth.
Jo Shapcott
**
Final poem, drunkenly scribbled on a napkin and thrust at Jensen outside the bar
‘Stand up and look at me, face to face’
Stand up and look at me, face to face
My friend,
Unloose the beauty of your eyes.....
Sappho
**
Finally - see below for valentine and blasphemy
