Chaos and Order

Shadows; and outposts of the rebel Night,
And muttered whisperings of conspiracy:
Deep in the west a flicker of ominous light,
As if a torch had signaled suddenly;
Involving heaven and earth in anarchy:
Then, high above the world, vast wings in flight
And trumpet-thunder of Night's empery. --
Chaos and Night, -- form upon demon form, --
Riding the exultation of the storm.

Glimmer; and rumors of confederate Dawn:
Aerial tumult as of sylphid feet:
Far ranks of radiance, on the peaks withdrawn,
Confronting Darkness, who, in wild retreat,
Flies from the leveled glory, fiery beat
Of swords about a golden gonfalon,
And sapphire shields, and spears of blinding heat. --
Light, and its ordered cohorts, ray on ray,
And the fierce phalanx of resistless Day.

Madison Cawein
from The Poet, the Fool and the Faeries, 1912

Shades of Nine Princes in Amber, no?

When you see this, post a poem in your own LJ/Blog/whatever.

I am the Way

Thou art the Way.
Hadst Thou been nothing but the goal,
     I cannot say
If Thou hadst ever met my soul.

     I cannot see--
I, child of process-- if there lies
     An end for me,
Full of repose, full of replies.

     I'll not reproach
The road that winds, my feet that err.
     Access, approach
Art Thou, Time, Way and Wayfarer.

          -Alice Meynell, 1847-1922

I'm trying to remember a poem.

It's titled something like "To a young girl in a Lousiana town."

It goes something like: "You are a star, if a star should rise instead of a sun."

And there's a line like: "And your heart is as king as your young eyes now."

Anyone who can supply the text, or a link, or a book to find it in, or an author's name so I can find the book to find it in, will be my hero.

Google has been supremely unhelpful, so I was kind of hoping that one of you would be clueful.

Edited to say:
I jumped about twenty seconds too soon. I remembered that I have access to the American Poetry Database here at work.

TO A GOLDEN-HAIRED GIRL IN A LOUISIANA TOWN
by Vachel Lindsay

You are a sunrise,
If a star should rise instead of the sun.
You are a moonrise,
If a star should come, in the place of the moon.
You are the Spring,
If a face should bloom,
Instead of an apple-bough.
You are my love
If your heart is as kind
As your young eyes now.

So sorry, nothing to see here, move along, move along.

I'd *swear* that I read it before as "if your heart is as king" -- I wonder if the one I read before was a misprint, or if I'm just crazy.

Perfection kicks up her heels and dances
and runs up to tweak my nose,
and no one knows where she came from
nor where she ever goes.

Perfection smiles like a French coquette
but crosses her legs as well,
and no one knows why she hunts me
nor why she casts her spell.

Perfection claims no acquaintance,
yet glowers, looking distant and cross,
and no one knows how I love her,
nor how keenly I feel her loss.


Ampersand Project, February 2003
"Why the obsession with..."

We climb the stairs.
Low heels tap on the bamboo,
and our journey takes us upward,
onward through the canopy
of a faux rainforest.
Birds call. Waters tumble.
Ahead and above,
she turns her face down on me,
and tells me.

"It was beautiful here that night;
It was a ball, and I wore green
with black netting over it,
very fancy. It was hard
to climb these stairs in heels."

I smile, I oblige, and
I try to imagine,
Tagging along into the past.
Lawyers swirl around the
far-away dance floor.
Blink and I am not there,
for I never was.

Glass doors open,
we leave behind hot, humid air.
We descend
simple carpeted stairs this time,
and the rooms grow colder
and darker, and a giant
lighted window onto
another biome shows us
two worlds of air and water.

Penguins dart, bob and bubble.
She says, "They were sleeping
last time, for we were here at night."
I imagine all those birds tucked
in for the night; and then a myriad
birds on an ice-raft,
slow moving, slow breathing
beneath polar stars.

We walk on, descend further.
Non-native species fade away,
and now we are staring at
mud-eaters, bottom-dwellers,
whiskered river leviathans
with glass-marble eyes.

She is silent.
She did not dance here.
Slowing our steps because
the exit is near, we come to
a wide window which shows us
a drowned world. The river oozes
boats past this night-lit aquarium.
"Let's go," she says.
"The rain will not let up. It takes
water from the ocean,
and it never ends."

the only way you'll find happiness
dear
the only way you'll find happiness
is if you'll lose weight
find a job
get a man
have some babies
eat your vegetables
it's the only way you'll find happiness

the only way you'll find happiness
dear
the only way you'll find happiness
is if you'll go to church
say your prayers
read the Bible
never drink
cross your legs
the only way you'll find happiness
dear
the only way
the only way
the only way you'll find happiness is--

the only way I'll find happiness
dear
the only way I'll find happiness
is by drowning myself in flowers
driving fast
watching stars
dwelling in spirit
making wine
reading cards
that's the only way I'll find happiness

the only way I'll find happiness
dear
the only way I'll find happiness
is through a forest clearing
between the words I write
under the morning sun
in the flannel sheets
beneath the willows...


Ampersand Project, January 2003
"the only way you'll find happiness"

Gosh how much I love you
your teeth don't look gray in the morning
and your breath doesn't smell bad
and your hair is gorgeous all mussed like that
and I'm always so sexy
and I never fart
and my hygiene is always impeccable
and I think it's cute the way you pick your nose
and I love how you've promised to always give me footrubs, whenever I want.

Gosh how much I love you
well, your breath is a little bad in the morning, maybe,
but I'm so glad you'll be completely over your old girlfriend any day now
and I adore your manifesto on shared housework
shared yardwork
shared space
shared money
shared moments
and it's really cool how you tickle me when I am trying to relax on the couch
and yeah, I'm always pleasant when I come home from work
and I love cooking dinner and cleaning up after
and I'll make cake whenever you ask, and never from a box.

Gosh how much I love you
oh, you know, I don't know that I really like early morning kissees
but yes, mmhm... Macs really are better
and that's ok, I know you don't like couscous
or onions
or garlic
or cumin
or paprika
yeah, it's ok... I'll get used to cooking without them
and you're right, reading isn't a social activity
I'll stop pretending it is
and I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at the world/the war/the work
and you never hurt my feelings because I know you always love me.

No, really.
I love you.
But brush your teeth
and shut up and eat the Morroccan feast I've prepared
it won't kill you, but I might
and no, there's no cake for dessert after all
and boy howdy, I want a footrub
because I'm cranky-- work sucked
I was late and didn't get a shower
and I am mad at you for not cleaning the kitchen after the Morroccan feast
and you yelling because there was no cake.

Yes. I love you very much.
To prove it, I told you to brush your teeth
and brushed my own as well
and made a few more cakes than I would like
and shoveled the snow so you wouldn't have to
and let you fix my car
and sometimes even let you take the high road out of the goodness of my heart
and never once told you any of this.

My contribution for October's Ampersand Project.
The topic: "the lies we tell for love."
A general disclaimer applies as to the details of the above rant/poem.