Elytis: An idolater who, without wanting to do so, arrives at Christian sainthood.

 Elytis illustrates his life's work

In an interview with Ivar Ivask for Books Abroad, Elytis summarized his life’s work: “I consider poetry a source of innocence full of revolutionary forces. It is my mission to direct these forces against a world my conscience cannot accept, precisely so as to bring that world through continual metamorphoses more in harmony with my dreams. I am referring here to a contemporary kind of magic whose mechanism leads to the discovery of our true reality. It is for this reason that I believe, to the point of idealism, that I am moving in a direction which has never been attempted until now. In the hope of obtaining a freedom from all constraint and the justice which could be identified with absolute light, I am an idolater who, without wanting to do so, arrives at Christian sainthood.”

O Captain! My Captain! BY WALT WHITMAN

 

O Captain! My Captain!

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            This arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

Past One O’Clock -Vladimir Mayakovsky

 

Past one o’clock. You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night.
I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegrams
I have no cause to wake or trouble you.
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind.
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then
To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.
Behold what quiet settles on the world.
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address
The ages, history, and all creation.

The Cookie Thief (by Valerie Cox)

The Cookie Thief  by Valerie Cox 

A woman was waiting at an airport one night, 

with several long hours before her flight. 

She hunted for a book in the airport shops, 

bought a bag of cookies and found a place to drop. 

 She was engrossed in her book but happened to see, 

that the man sitting beside her, as bold as could be. . .

grabbed a cookie or two from the bag in between, 

which she tried to ignore to avoid a scene.

 So she munched the cookies and watched the clock, 

as the gutsy cookie thief diminished her stock.

 She was getting more irritated as the minutes ticked by,

 thinking, “If I wasn’t so nice, I would blacken his eye.” 

 With each cookie she took, he took one too, 

when only one was left, she wondered what he would do. 

With a smile on his face, and a nervous laugh, 

he took the last cookie and broke it in half. 

 He offered her half, as he ate the other, 

she snatched it from him and thought… oooh, brother. 

This guy has some nerve and he’s also rude, 

why he didn’t even show any gratitude! 

 She had never known when she had been so galled,

 and sighed with relief when her flight was called.

 She gathered her belongings and headed to the gate,

 refusing to look back at the thieving ingrate. 

 She boarded the plane, and sank in her seat,

 then she sought her book, which was almost complete. 

As she reached in her baggage, she gasped with surprise, 

there was her bag of cookies, in front of her eyes.

 If mine are here, she moaned in despair, 

the others were his, and he tried to share. 

Too late to apologize, she realized with grief,

 that she was the rude one, the ingrate, the thief.