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15 April 2009 @ 12:12 pm
Writer's Block: Taxmen and Poetry  
It's Tax Day in the U.S., a day when the mind might be too occupied with deductions and long lines at the post office to think about poetry. But let's try: what's your favorite line of poetry? Song lyrics count.

Actually, I have far too much poetry that I love to really narrow it down, but the first thing that popped into my mind:

Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.

(Lepanto, by GK Chesterton)

Here amid firs and a final sunset flare
Recorder and hautbois only moan at a mouldering sky.

(The Old Liberals, by John Betjeman)

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light

(Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, by WB Yeats)

...then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

(To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew Marvell)

listen i says to him
old man youve never been to hell
at all there isn t any hell
transmigration is the game i
used to be a human vers libre
poet and i died and went
into a cockroach s body

(the cockroach who had been to hell by Don Maquis)
calcitrix: explorecalcitrix on April 24th, 2009 01:53 am (UTC)
Hi...not-quite-random visitor here. Liked your comic, browsed a little, leaving poetry now.

You fly like a thousand birds, and your laugh
is like the spray of the sea; your head
is a star between my hands

Sunstone Octavio Paz
(I suspect I thought of this because I was thinking of John and Rodney after reading your comic)

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Especially When the October Wind Dylan Thomas