tag:typepad.com,2003:weblog-1626072 2009-11-22T17:39:06+01:00 Domestic and exotic poems just swimming around across the road from Sideways Station TypePad ThePoemariumhttp://feedburner.google.com tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e5502c099d88340120a6c435c7970b 2009-11-22T17:39:06+01:00 2009-11-22T17:39:06+01:00 Phillip Hill A noiseless patient spider, I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself, Ever reeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them. And you...<div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?a=2F39wTPVtsg:E0ixoomNrRE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThePoemarium/~4/2F39wTPVtsg" height="1" width="1"/>http://partyofone.typepad.com/poemarium/2009/11/walt-whitman-a-noiseless-patient-spider.html tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e5502c099d88340120a55b56aa970b 2009-09-09T11:38:27+02:00 2009-09-09T11:38:27+02:00 Phillip Hill Her terrace was the sand And the palms and the twilight. She made of the motions of her wrist The grandiose gestures Of her thought. The rumpling of the plumes Of this creature of the evening Came to be sleights...<div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?a=XxH2g7d-NZc:5ba-l1nKYzs:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThePoemarium/~4/XxH2g7d-NZc" height="1" width="1"/>http://partyofone.typepad.com/poemarium/2009/09/wallace-stevens-infanta-marina.html tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e5502c099d88340120a4c505ab970b 2009-08-04T13:00:17+02:00 2009-08-04T13:00:17+02:00 Phillip Hill (original Italian below) Listen: the laureled poets stroll only among shrubs with learned names: ligustrum, acanthus, box. What I like are streets that end in grassy ditches where boys snatch a few famished eels from drying puddles: paths that struggle...<div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?a=kO0RRNtaJeU:hPn8QHnMImo:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThePoemarium/~4/kO0RRNtaJeU" height="1" width="1"/>http://partyofone.typepad.com/poemarium/2009/08/eugenio-montale-i-limoni-the-lemon-trees.html tag:typepad.com,2003:post-68194393 2009-06-17T10:59:35+02:00 2009-06-17T10:59:35+02:00 Phillip Hill The sun sets in the cold without friends Without reproaches after all it has done for us It goes down believing in nothing When it is gone I hear the stream running after it It has brought its fllute it...<div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?a=M3QPw95QWDg:_fC0D9qbDFU:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThePoemarium/~4/M3QPw95QWDg" height="1" width="1"/>http://partyofone.typepad.com/poemarium/2009/06/ws-merwin-dusk-in-winter.html tag:typepad.com,2003:post-67118599 2009-05-21T21:15:15+02:00 2009-05-21T21:15:15+02:00 Phillip Hill "I was lucky to have a Bible with me. When the space aliens abducted me...". America, I shouted at the radio, Even at 2 A.M. you are a loony bin! No, I take it back! You are a stone angel...<div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?a=BG8e_BTosIw:Pw9gEtw-fQ8:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThePoemarium/~4/BG8e_BTosIw" height="1" width="1"/>http://partyofone.typepad.com/poemarium/2009/05/charles-simic-talk-radio.html tag:typepad.com,2003:post-67013781 2009-05-19T23:21:27+02:00 2009-05-19T23:21:27+02:00 Phillip Hill Ich glaub nicht an den Himmel, Wovon das Pfäfflein spricht; Ich glaub nur an dein Auge, Das ist mein Himmelslicht. Ich glaub nicht an den Herrgott, Wovon das Pfäfflein spricht; Ich glaub nur an dein Herze, 'nen andern Gott hab...<div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?a=_RrKjCe4YzY:wO7ti-6IjGE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThePoemarium/~4/_RrKjCe4YzY" height="1" width="1"/>http://partyofone.typepad.com/poemarium/2009/05/heinrich-heine-ich-glaub-nicht-an-den-himmel.html tag:typepad.com,2003:post-66678447 2009-05-12T14:51:42+02:00 2009-05-12T14:51:42+02:00 Phillip Hill The Pont Neuf is where the fair is. Women's make-up, tomatoes, radishes, peonies, everything is in red, except for eggs and cheeses. Acrobats are flying on trapezes and for a moment they hide the sun. (Peinture. C'est sur le Pont...<div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?a=Hd_R-flQUA8:niBRVTA-H2Y:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThePoemarium/~4/Hd_R-flQUA8" height="1" width="1"/>http://partyofone.typepad.com/poemarium/2009/05/max-jacob-painting.html tag:typepad.com,2003:post-65455505 2009-04-14T19:43:02+02:00 2009-04-14T19:43:02+02:00 Phillip Hill The pennycandystore beyond the El is where I first fell in love with unreality Jellybeans glowed in the semi-gloom of that september afternoon A cat upon the counter moved among the licorice sticks and tootsie rolls and Oh Boy Gum...<div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?a=EPi_WV8e6rA:8LfbDspeLFs:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThePoemarium/~4/EPi_WV8e6rA" height="1" width="1"/>http://partyofone.typepad.com/poemarium/2009/04/lawrence-ferlinghetti-from-a-coney-island-of-the-mind-section-20.html tag:typepad.com,2003:post-64889893 2009-03-31T17:23:03+02:00 2009-03-31T17:25:01+02:00 Phillip Hill Two Rivulets side by side, Two blended, parallel, strolling tides, Companions, travelers, gossiping as they journey. For the Eternal Ocean bound, These ripples, passing surges, streams of Death and Life, Object and Subject hurrying, whirling by, The Real and Ideal,...<div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?a=LB1lQ8NAuQU:47EEZaGnTiA:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThePoemarium/~4/LB1lQ8NAuQU" height="1" width="1"/>http://partyofone.typepad.com/poemarium/2009/03/walt-whitman-two-rivulets.html tag:typepad.com,2003:post-64587607 2009-03-24T23:05:02+01:00 2009-03-24T23:05:02+01:00 Phillip Hill Ordinary people are peculiar too: Watch the vagrant in their eyes Who sneaks away while they are talking with you Into some black wood behind the skull, Following un-, or other, realities, Fishing for shadows in a pool. But sometimes...<div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?a=LX5DDSOiqFA:W5kVGOI3zWQ:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ThePoemarium?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThePoemarium/~4/LX5DDSOiqFA" height="1" width="1"/>http://partyofone.typepad.com/poemarium/2009/03/louis-macneice-conversation.html