Das Dada Tarot
<Die vergessenen Dichter>
The Dada Tarot
<The forgotten Poets>
Idea Writing Command AI Realisation
Meister Jeder, Dadaist, Realistiker 3/26
#dada #Tarot #AIart #vergessenenDichter #forgottenPoets
—: To William Campbell :— I heard him say: “Tis hard Stand to it.” But how hard? Winds will not tell Nor mountains, stars nor seas. Birds will not tell How hard.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—A. Philip Randolph (civil rights leader and publisher)
#poetry #poems #booksky
—: What You Will :— What is my sex and meaning and ambition? I am what you shall name me. Superstition Hangs on the lips of idols that are mute, Music is holy in the silent lute That waits the wings of every sleeping tone. You stand beside me—we are both alone. Where do I come from, go, what chains shall bind me? There is nothing before me or behind me, I come from all your margins, from your stress Of questioning, and I am the dividing guess Of life to dream. Or just a woman in a dress.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Iris Tree
#poetry #poem #booksky
Old Iron Old iron rustling in the nettles Hoops and girds and battered slag Coils and wheels writhing twisted Sharp and fanged in the bitter grass. If I had a flute or & whistle If I were a fiddler I would play on that scragged pile, in rags I would sit Because of a melancholy mood I would make tunes, new tunes, bitter and wild Out of the snarl of those dead fragments. Iron out of the earth, Iron out of the fire, Black iron jangling upon iron Old Iron rusting red on the green—
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Iris Tree
#poetry #poems #booksky
FAREWELL TO THE MUSES. My typewriter has been writing crookedly For a very considerable time. It is so hard to write in metre and in rime With a typewriter that writes crookedly. Lines should look clean and decent to the eye, And mine have ceased to do so. And so that is why I am ceasing to be a poet. . . . Because my typewriter writes so exacerbatingly, So distressingly crookedly.
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From 'Wheels' magazine (1917)
—Aldous Huxley
#ForgottenPoets #poetry #booksky
—: Inhibition :— The night is pointed With cruel stars, And sharpened By the steel war chant Of ambushed crickets. If there were a blood-red moon, One could carefully Kill the thing he loved And bury it Beneath a monumental pine tree. But the cold bayonets Of the stars Prevent me; And the revengeful crickets Have made me weary of both love and hate.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Joseph Upper
#poetry #poems #booksky
“In the mirror of the world, I forgot my hue.”
— rediscovered fragment
#ForgottenPoets #LostLines #TimelessFeels
IVAN TO CLAIRE Come back; I shall invent a fifth season for us alone, Where the oysters will have wings, Where the birds will sing Stravinsky, And the golden hesperides Will ripen to fig-trees. I shall change all the calendars, That lack the dates of your vanished trysts, And on the maps of Europe I shall efface the roads of your flights. Come back: The world will be born again, The compass will have a new North: Your heart.
From 'Transition' (1928)
—Ivan Goll
#ForgottenPoets #poetry #booksky
XIX I AM resting by the edge of the sea — But in my arm is a curve imperceptible For the weight of your head — lover — comrade — My feet are damp with the vigorous jet of the sea — My body is splashed in a sudden pour of sunlight Spreading down now in widening — blazing torrents — From behind the pushed-away clouds — Yet I long to be chilled - warmed - and surpassing these — And by our limbs co-mingling lover — comrade.
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From 'Resurrecting Life' (1921)
—Michael Strange
#ForgottenPoets #poetry #booksky
We, the Musk Chasers Gather us close, O stars, in your net, We, the tired hearts of citizens, We, the musk chasers And the rainbow seekers. Gather us close.......... We, the lean fishers and folk undone, Gather us close, O stars, in your net.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Loureine A. Aber (1921)
#poetry #poem #booksky
—: My Littleness :— Two pinholes in the curtain . . . My eyes; Two weeds flapping forlornly in a field of corn . . . My hands. And in the distance like a foghorn blowing . . . My heart. I am no bigger than mountains, Or mightier than stars, The sphinx smells of me familiarly, Daisies touch lips with me . . . I shall be dust soon.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Loureine A. Aber (1923)
#poetry #poem #booksky
Anterior Axioms: awake as air awakes: ambitiously absent ants arriving—also aspirations at an ancient alter? always avoid answers an axe as well, achieving absolution all abstractions are attempts at abdication abracadabra! ask & ask & ask &
Part I of my latest poem, published in #ForgottenPoets
Love me some alliteration!
#dwpoems #poetry #poem
MOUNTAINS I TURN my back upon the mountains, The lazy mountains Sleeping in the sun. They bring me peace, A profound satisfaction with self, A desire to rest always In the shadow of their beauty. But life is short, So I turn my back upon the mountains And set my face to the sea; The sea, whose restlessness Spurs me to new tasks, To vast undertakings! Verily life is short, And I would work, Not sleep!
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets . . .
—Virginia McCormick (fl. 1921-1926)
#poetry #poem #booksky
Spring night. Silence. The rustle of my dress Falling to the floor. Silence.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Takeko Kujō's tanka, translated by Glenn Hughes & Yozan T. Iwasaki
#poetry #poems #booksky
Immortality DO NOT STAND By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep-- I am the thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints in snow I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle, autumn rain. As you awake with morning's hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush Of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the day transcending night. Do not stand By my grave, and cry -- I am not there, I did not die.
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First published in 'The Gypsy' (1934)
—Clare Harner
#ForgottenPoets #poetry #poem
California EMIGRANTS— Westward to California, Sunset and dreams— But the sun still sets in the west And the ocean rolls between us and our dreams.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Alfred Hitch (1920)
#poetry #tanka #booksky
MODERN LOVE ALTHOUGH she left me for a greater love, And though my life went out with her, I opened wide the door And blessed her ere she went. Love shall not make Me tyrant or a murderer. I want no love that is not free to love.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Alfred Hitch (1920)
#poetry #poems #poem
OREAD WHIRL up, sea - Whirl your pointed pines, Splash your great pines On our rocks, Hurl your green over us, Cover us with your pools of fir.
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From 'Sea Garden' (1916)
—H.D. / Hilda Doolittle
#forgottenpoets #poetry #booksky
SLAG With your breath upon me My love flames high with garnet sparks-- Like a furnace of molten steel, Windblown. Having felt the breath of God, Are the stars Mere smoldering slag Fallen from an immortal crucible Where souls are in the making?
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From 'Spring Interlude' (1927)
—Miriam Cassel Matthews
#ForgottenPoets #poetry #booksky
To One Who Asked Ah, what are poems? There is a kind of tree That bruised, bleeds golden blood into the sea. And now you need not ask again of me.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Kenneth Slade Alling (1923)
#poetry #poems #booksky
THE BATTLE FROM A DISTANCE I. Through the night a light gleamed Like that from pewter in a darkened room, Or like a camp fire Reflecting on the guns, Or like a flame of lightning Above low mist.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Miriam Cassel Matthews (1927)
#poetry #poems #booksky
YOU ARE LILAC BLOSSOMS 1 You are lilac blossoms, And I, wild grass swaying beneath. Upright I grow Catching the fragrance of your presence. 2 You are blue binding sky, And I, meadows sloping westward. Secure I dream Feeling the soft contour of your arms.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Miriam Cassel Matthews (1927)
#poetry #poems #poem
The kneeling trees at timberline Are cowled in white wool; The rocks are mauve-feathered Like the breasts of doves; The shadows of the rocks Are muted purple. Dawn. . . New snow. . . .
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Ethel Romig Fuller
#poetry #poems #poem
—: Clark Ashton Smith :— No shining words of stone— Shadows and cloud alone— These shall the poet seek.
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From the latest issue of #ForgottenPoets
—Clark Ashton Smith (1920s)
#poetry #poems #poem
Stellar Beyond the moon the pale stars pine, And swoon in space. The eternal wand Of night lures on. Through hurtling dark, Creating light, the spark of life, The giddy race swoops blindly on: Eternity! Infinity! Falling, ever falling, down, deep, dark, INFINITY! ETERNITY! Whirling in appalling circles, now A world evolving, now a worm; And helming all a spirit immanent, Vast, overwhelming, guides the fall, Unguiding, conscious only, rides, And riots, revels, dwells, and is.
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From 'Stellar' (In the Net of Stars, 1909)
—F.S. Flint
#ForgottenPoets #vss365 #conscious
EMBARCATION Slowly the great wave of a nation's sorrow Rises and swells and surges. From unseen depths it comes, From very far away. Silently, relentlessly, it moves Forward, forward, forward--- Until at last, with a profound reverberation, It breaks upon the grey, inevitable rock And falls back, broken into fragments That seethe in restless foam.
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From 'Poetry' magazine (1919)
—Mary Aldis
#ForgottenPoets #vss365 #seethe
TECHNIQUE Life is a melon And Science is a knife And there is A right way of slicing But also A chopping too finely Of the delicate fruit.
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From 'The Wanderer' (1923)
—Gobind Behari Lal
#ForgottenPoets #poetry #poems
ROAD'S END I shot my thoughts Straight from taut consciousness Down the road of your life. I struck deep undergrowth, Plunged through— And met sudden tragedy. Deserted . . . abject . . . Stood the little grey house of your soul.
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From 'The Wanderer' (1923)
—Challiss Silvay
#ForgottenPoets #vss365 #abject
Chicago Carthage London Rome-- the drains reiterate the names of places names and dates that fill the mind to overflowing with regrets regrets and yet regrets that fill the mind and overflow and spill into the room and rise in such increasing tides that bed the chairs the trunk and table rise and pummel at the walls and at the flesh rise and pummel pound the flesh — tear and unmesh it draw the blood
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From 'O City, Cities!' (1929)
—R. Ellsworth Larsson
#ForgottenPoets #vss365 #pummel
