𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

'Red Sun, Autumn Breeze' By Matsuo Bashō Bright red sun relentless, but an autumn breeze

'No Second Troy' By William Butler Yeats Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

'To Wen Feiqing On A Winter’s Night' By Yu Xuanji In bitter longing I sought poems to recite beneath the lamp, sleepless through the long nights, fearing a cold quilt. Leaves strewn across the courtyard lamented when winds rose; through gauze window curtains I grieved at the setting moon. Thoughts scattered and released, at last I found fulfillment: through the emptiness of rise and fall, I saw True Mind. Now roosting in seclusion, away from paulownias, an evening sparrow twitters, simply circling the grove.

'Nerves' By Charles Bukowski twitching in the sheets— to face the sunlight again, that’s clearly trouble. I like the city better when the neon lights are going and the nudies dance on top of the bar to the mauling music. I’m under this sheet thinking: my nerves are hampered by history— the most memorable concern of mankind is the guts it takes to face the sunlight again. love begins at the meeting of two strangers. love for the world is impossible. I’d rather stay in bed and sleep. dizzied by the days and the streets and the years I pull the sheets to my neck. I turn my ass to the wall. I hate the mornings more than any man.

'My Achilles Heart' By Andrei Voznesensky In these days of unheard-of suffering One is lucky indeed to have no heart: Crack-shots plug me again and again, But have no luck. Riddled with holes, I laugh At the furious pack: “Tally-ho, boys! I am a lattice. Look through me. Isn’t the landscape lovely?” But suppose a gun should locate, Tied by an aching thread, Beating a hair’s breadth off target, My Achilles heart. Beware, my darling. Hush. Not a sound, While I charge noisily From place to place around Russia, As a bird diverts the hunters from its nest. Are you still in pain? Do you act up at night? This defenseless extra is what saves me. Do not handle it roughly; The shudder would bring me down. Our destruction is unthinkable, More unthinkable what we endure, More unthinkable still that a sniper Should ever sever the quivering thread.

'Forever - Is Composed Of Nows-' By Emily Dickinson FOREVER is composed of Nows— 'T is not a different time, Except for infiniteness And latitude of home. From this, experienced here, Remove the dates to these, Let months dissolve in further months, And years exhale in years. Without certificate or pause Or celebrated days, As infinite our years would be As Anno Domini's.

'Fungi From Yuggoth' By Howard Phillips Lovecraft XIX. The Bells Year after year I heard that faint, far ringing Of deep-toned bells on the black midnight wind; Peals from no steeple I could ever find, But strange, as if across some great void winging. I searched my dreams and memories for a clue, And thought of all the chimes my visions carried; Of quiet Innsmouth, where the white gulls tarried Around an ancient spire that once I knew. Always perplexed I heard those far notes falling, Till one March night the bleak rain splashing cold Beckoned me back through gateways of recalling To elder towers where the mad clappers tolled. They tolled—but from the sunless tides that pour Through sunken valleys on the sea’s dead floor.

'Words From Cold Mountain' By Han-shan XV I’m on the trail to Cold Mountain. Cold Mountain trail never ends. Long clefts thick with rock and stones, Wide streams buried in dense grass. Slippery moss, but there’s been no rain, Pine trees sigh, but there’s no wind. Who can leap the world’s net, Sit here in the white clouds with me?

'Some People' By Charles Bukowski some people never go crazy. me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch for 3 or 4 days. they'll find me there. it's Cherub, they'll say, and they pour wine down my throat rub my chest sprinkle me with oils. then, I'll rise with a roar, rant, rage - curse them and the universe as I send them scattering over the lawn. I'll feel much better, sit down to toast and eggs, hum a little tune, suddenly become as lovable as a pink overfed whale. some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must lead.

'The Snowstorm Is Crying Like A Romany Violin...' By Sergey Esenin The snowstorm is crying like a Romany violin. Sweet is the girl. She is wicked when smiling. Blue are her eyes, do the give me a scare? I need quite a lot, and I don't really care. We're so much alike and so much contrasted, — You're young. I am old. And my life has all rusted. The young ones are happy while I am all wizened Recalling the past, in this terrible blizzard. I'm not mollycoddled. The storm is my violin. My heart is snow-clad when I see you smiling.

'Finish' By Charles Bukowski The hearse comes through the room filled with the beheaded, the disappeared, the living mad Flies are a glue of sticky paste, their wings will not lift I watch an old woman beat her cat with a broom The weather is unendurable; a dirty trick by god The water has evaporated from the toilet bowl The telephone rings without sound, the small limp arm petering against the bell I see a boy on his bicycle The spokes collapse, his tires turn into snakes and melt away The newspaper's oven-hot Men murder each other in the streets without reason The worst men have the best jobs The best men have the worst jobs or, are unemployed Or blocked in mad houses I have four cans of food left Air-conditioned troops go from house to house From room to room Jailing, shooting, bayoneting the people We have done this to ourselves, we deserve this It is as if, the sun has become disgusted with waiting It is as if the sun were a mind that has given up on us I go out on the back porch and look across the sea of dead plants Now thorns and sticks shivering in a windless sky Somehow I'm glad we're through, finished The works of art, the wars, the decayed loves The way we lived each day When the troops come up here, I don't care what they do For we've already killed ourselves each day we get out of bed Now go into the kitchen, spill some hash from a soft can It is almost cooked already And I sit eating, looking at the fingernails My fingernails The sweat comes down behind my ears And I hear this shooting in the streets And I chew and I wait without blunder

'A Winter Love' By Moon Jung-hee Like snow flakes I long to come to you. Without wavering without rambling without concealing I long to plunge into your white life and become a warm winter. I long to snow for a thousand years.

'A Second Childhood' By Gilbert Keith Chesterton When all my days are ending And I have no song to sing, I think that I shall not be too old To stare at everything; As I stared once at a nursery door Or a tall tree and a swing. Wherein God’s ponderous mercy hangs On all my sins and me, Because He does not take away The terror from the tree And stones still shine along the road That are and cannot be. Men grow too old for love, my love, Men grow too old for wine, But I shall not grow too old to see Unearthly daylight shine, Changing my chamber’s dust to snow Till I doubt if it be mine. Behold, the crowning mercies melt, The first surprises stay; And in my dross is dropped a gift For which I dare not pray: That a man grow used to grief and joy But not to night and day. Men grow too old for love, my love, Men grow too old for lies; But I shall not grow too old to see Enormous night arise, A cloud that is larger than the world And a monster made of eyes. Nor am I worthy to unloose The latchet of my shoe; Or shake the dust from off my feet Or the staff that bears me through On ground that is too good to last, Too solid to be true. Men grow too old to woo, my love, Men grow too old to wed; But I shall not grow too old to see Hung crazily overhead Incredible rafters when I wake And I find that I am not dead. A thrill of thunder in my hair: Though blackening clouds be plain, Still I am stung and startled By the first drop of the rain: Romance and pride and passion pass And these are what remain. Strange crawling carpets of the grass, Wide windows of the sky; So in this perilous grace of God With all my sins go I: And things grow new though I grow old, Though I grow old and die.

'Words From Cold Mountain' By Han-shan XIV Cold Mountain holds a naked bug, Its body’s white, its head is black. In its hands a pair of scrolls, One the Way and one its Power. It needs no pots or stove. Without clothes it wanders on, But it carries Wisdom’s blade, To cut down mindless craving.

'The Dark Maiden' By Alexander Blok Far away in misty northern Region craggy outcrop’s loom Mars the boundlessness of ocean, Wondrous face in watery tomb. Hewn from sharp-edged cliff-face, stirring Northern folk of simple stock, Pious minds a visage conjuring, Maiden dark they call the rock. Often midst the foaming ocean, Hopeless lost in stormy cloud, Sudden mist-wrapped sailor’s notion Dark one spies in outcrop proud... Prayer to her he offers ardent... Wrathful maiden, pleased, may save. Thus the ship may pass escarpment Safely coasting on her wave...

'America, A Prophecy' By William Blake The shadowy Daughter of Urthona stood before red Orc, When fourteen suns had faintly journey'd o'er his dark abode: His food she brought in iron baskets, his drink in cups of iron: Crown'd with a helmet and dark hair the nameless female stood; A quiver with its burning stores, a bow like that of night, When pestilence is shot from heaven: no other arms she need! Invulnerable though naked, save where clouds roll round her loins Their awful folds in the dark air: silent she stood as night; For never from her iron tongue could voice or sound arise, But dumb till that dread day when Orc assay'd his fierce embrace. 'Dark Virgin,' said the hairy youth, 'thy father stern, abhorr'd, Rivets my tenfold chains while still on high my spirit soars; Sometimes an Eagle screaming in the sky, sometimes a Lion Stalking upon the mountains, and sometimes a Whale, I lash The raging fathomless abyss; anon a Serpent folding Around the pillars of Urthona, and round thy dark limbs On the Canadian wilds I fold; feeble my spirit folds, For chain'd beneath I rend these caverns: when thou bringest food I howl my joy, and my red eyes seek to behold thy face-- In vain! these clouds roll to and fro, and hide thee from my sight.' Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy, The hairy shoulders rend the links; free are the wrists of fire; Round the terrific loins he seiz'd the panting, struggling womb; It joy'd: she put aside her clouds and smiled her first-born smile, As when a black cloud shews its lightnings to the silent deep. Soon as she saw the terrible boy, then burst the virgin cry: 'I know thee, I have found thee, and I will not let thee go: Thou art the image of God who dwells in darkness of Africa, And thou art fall'n to give me life in regions of dark death. On my American plains I feel the struggling afflictions Endur'd by roots that writhe their arms into the nether deep. I see a Serpent in Canada who courts me to his love, In Mexico an Eagle, and a Lion in Peru; I see a Whale in the south-sea, drinking my soul away. O what limb-rending pains I feel! thy fire and my frost Mingle in howling pains, in furrows by thy lightnings rent. This is eternal death, and this the torment long foretold.'

'The Fisherman' By Charles Bukowski he comes out at 7:30 a.m. every day with 3 peanut butter sandwiches, and there’s one can of beer which he floats in the baitbucket. he fishes for hours with a small trout pole three-quarters of the way down the pier. he’s 75 years old and the sun doesn’t tan him, and no matter how hot it gets the brown and green lumberjack stays on. he catches starfish, baby sharks, and mackerel; he catches them by the dozen, speaks to nobody. sometime during the day he drinks his can of beer. at 6 p.m. he gathers his gear and his catch walks down the pier across several streets where he enters a small Santa Monica apartment goes to the bedroom and opens the evening paper as his wife throws the starfish, the sharks, the mackerel into the garbage he lights his pipe and waits for dinner.

From 'Scachs d'Amor' By Don Francí de Castellví, Narcís Vinyoles & Mossèn Fenollar Castellví (Plays King’s Knight to the Bishop’s third house) One in love, realizing that pride And annoyance does not please the gentle lady, Had to use Reason, to temper events; And Reason was a willing and great ally: Her Sweet Speech, that so seduces, Gave him, with no need of fearsome sword To reach one whom the world adores. What great help, and at very little cost, The sweet sound is of composite Praise. Vinyoles (Plays the Queen’s Bishop to four houses from the other King’s Knight, whom the Bishop threatens) A bitter treat encased within sweet crust Is the Adulator, who flatters all senses, And flattering Beauty, approaches The deceit hiding beneath flattery. From his eyes, to give her the pay of love, A Sweet Regard comes in place of an answer, Thus healing the wound of her Disdain. The eyes can look at the invisible And torment the dispassionate spirit. Fenollar (Says that with the jump of the third he cannot take the King) Because Kings, with invincible power, Cannot extend themselves beyond their reason, It is decreed that, by making the move possible, They can never checkmate, or take; Thus showing the world that in meting punishment or revenge They must blend mercy with wrath, And not overflow their understanding; For, if they are great with their wings of potency, Greater they’ll be by using clemency.