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Posted by duathir

Fishing on the Susquehanna in July</i>

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure--if it is a pleasure--
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one--
a painting of a woman on the wall,

a bowl of tangerines on the table--
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,

rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia

when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandanna

sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,

even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.

By Billy Collins

[One of Billy Collins' most critically acclaimed works, "Fishing on the Susquehanna in July" has been added to the preserved works of the United States Native American literary registry as being deemed a culturally significant poem.]


Jul. 27th, 2017 08:49 pm
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Posted by Tom "The Kittenmaster" Cooper

Please allow me to introduce you to our newest Star Kit, Oliver. He is 4 days old from North Carolina.


I rescued a cat who recently had this and another kitten. We’re taking good care of them and can’t wait until they get bigger.

Witter Bynner, 'The Enchanted Toad'

Jul. 27th, 2017 08:00 am
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Posted by duathir

The Enchanted Toad

Three times you had neared, I unaware—
My body warm in the sand and bare,
Three times you had hopped your silent track
To the arch of shadow under my back.
And each time, when I had felt you cool
And turned on you and, like a fool,
Prodded your exit from my place,
Sorrow deepened in your face.
You were loth to leave me, though I threw
Handfuls of sand to quicken you.
You would look as you went and blink your eyes
And puff your pale throat with surprise.
Three times you had tried, like someone daft….
Till I thought, too late, that evil craft
Had altered, into what you were,
Some old Chinese philosopher;
Had warted you dank and thwarted you dumb,
And that, given just three times to come
And beg a poet to set you free,
You had put all your faith in me.

By Witter Bynner


Jul. 26th, 2017 10:31 pm
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Posted by Tom "The Kittenmaster" Cooper

Please join me in meeting and greeting our newest Star Kit, Sookie. She is 4 weeks old from Louisiana.


Hey y’all. Just got Sookie from our local non kill shelter. She stole my heart at first glance! She is so sweet and a purring machine!! She loves her pink blanket and takes biscuits and tries to nurse on it. She’s a beautiful ball of fur and I can’t wait to make many memories with her.

Stella Benson, 'If You Were Careless'

Jul. 26th, 2017 08:00 am
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Posted by duathir

If You Were Careless

If you were careless ever, if ever a thing you missed
In the forest—a serpent twist
Of shadow, ensnaring the star-lit way of a tree;
If at your wrist
The pulse rang never, never, to the slow bells of the sea;
If a star, quick-carven in frost and in amethyst,
Shone on the thin, thin finger of dawn, you turning away your face:

You shall be sorry, sorry, for when you die,
Those three
Shall follow and follow and find you
As you go through the Difficult Place.
The strong snake-shadows shall bind you,
The swords of the stars shall blind you,
And the terrible bells of the sea shall crash and cry;
The bells of the sea shall ring you out from under the sky,
In a lost grave to lie
Under the ashes of space.
Ah, never look back, run fast, you impotent passer-by!—
Those three
Run behind you.

By Stella Benson
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Posted by duathir

A Married Coquette

Sit still, I say, and dispense with heroics!
I hurt your wrists? Well, you have hurt me.
It is time you found out that all men are not stoics,
Nor toys to be used as your mood may be.
I will not let go of your hands, nor leave you
Until I have spoken. No man, you say,
Dared ever so treat you before? I believe you,
For you have dealt only with boys till to-day.

You women lay stress on your fine perception,
Your intuitions are prated about;
You claim an occult sort of conception
Of matters which men must reason out.
So then, of course, when you asked me kindly
"To call again soon," you read my heart.
I cannot believe you were acting blindly;
You saw my passion for you from the start.

You are one of those women who charm without trying;
The clay you are made of is magnet ore,
And I am the steel; yet, there's no denying
You led me to loving you more and more.
You are fanning a flame that may burn too brightly,
Oft easily kindled, but hard to put out;
I am not a man to be played with lightly,
To come at a gesture and go at a pout.

A brute you call me, a creature inhuman;
You say I insult you, and bid me go.
And you? Oh, you are a saintly woman,
With thoughts as pure as the drifted snow.
Pah! you are but one of a thousand beauties
Who think they are living exemplary lives.
They break no commandments, and do all their duties
As Christian women and spotless wives.

But with drooping of lids, and lifting of faces,
And baring of shoulders, and well-timed sighs,
And the devil knows what other subtle graces,
You are mental wantons, who sin with the eyes.
You lure love to wake, yet bid it keep under,
You tempt us to fall, but bid reason control;
And then you are full of an outraged wonder
When we get to wanting you, body and soul.

Why, look at yourself! You were no stranger
To the fact that my heart was already on fire.
When you asked me to call you knew my danger,
Yet here you are, dressed in the gown I admire;
For half of the evil on earth is invented
By vain, pretty women with nothing to do
But to keep themselves manicured, powdered and scented,
And seek for sensations amusing and new.

But when I play at love at a lady's commanding,
I always am certain to win one game;
So there—there—there! I will leave my branding
On the lips that are free now to cry "Shame, shame!"
You hate me? Quite likely! It does not surprise me.
Brute force? I confess it; but still you were kissed;
And one thing is certain—you cannot despise me
For having been played with, controlled, and dismissed.

And the next time you see that a man is attracted
By the beauty and graces that are not for him,
Don't lead him on to be half distracted;
Keep out of deep waters although you can swim.
For when he is caught in the whirlpool of passion,
Where many bold swimmers are seen to drown,
A man will reach out and, in desperate fashion,
Will drag whoever is nearest him down.

Though the strings of his heart may be wrenched and riven
By a maiden coquette who has led him along,
She can be pardoned, excused and forgiven,
For innocence blindfolded walks into wrong.
But she who has willingly taken the fetter
That Cupid forges at Hymen's command—
Well, she is the woman who ought to know better;
She needs no mercy at any man's hand.

In the game of hearts, though a woman be winner,
The odds are ever against her, you know;
The world is ready to call her a sinner,
And man is ready to make her so.
Shame is likely, and sorrow is certain,
And the man has the best of it, end as it may.
So now, my lady, we'll drop the curtain,
And put out the lights. We are through with our play.

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)

Agent Coco Butter

Jul. 24th, 2017 10:40 pm
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Posted by Tom "The Kittenmaster" Cooper

Please give a huge TDK warm welcome to our latest Star Kit, Agent Coco Butter. He is 4 weeks old from Arlington, Texas.

Agent Coco Butter

We found him in the yard all alone, so we took him in and have been bottle feeding him. He is now 4 weeks old.

Agent Coco Butter

Agent Coco Butter

Wang Wei, 'The Beautiful Hsi-Shih'

Jul. 24th, 2017 08:00 am
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Posted by duathir

The Beautiful Hsi-Shih

Since beauty is honored all over the empire,
How could Hsi-shih remain humbly at home?
At dawn washing clothes by a lake in Yueh;
At dusk in the Palace of Wu, a great lady!
Poor, no rarer than the others—
Exalted, everyone praising her rareness.
But above all honors, the honor was hers
Of blinding with passion an emperor’s reason.
Girls who had once washed silk beside her
Now were ordered away from her carriage….
Ask them, in her neighbors’ houses,
If by wrinkling their brows they can copy her beauty.

By Wang Wei
translation by Witter Bynner and Kiang Kung-hu
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Posted by duathir

"I will make You Brooches"

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.
I will make a palace fit for you and me
Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

By Robert Louis Stevenson


Jul. 22nd, 2017 08:22 pm
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Posted by Tom "The Kittenmaster" Cooper

Please put your paws in the air and welcome our Caturday Star Kit, Smokey. She is 7 years old from Preston, Lancashire, UK.


Smokey was adopted when she was 6 years old. She was abandoned by her owner and then spent 10 months in the shelter without a single expression of interest. I saw her on a featured cat advert and fell in love. Happy 1 year anniversary!

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Posted by duathir

'Băneasă’s Green Glade'

In Băneasă’s green forest out under the trees
We’d lie on our backs we’d live at our ease,

We’d wake in the morning at the first shafts of day
And watch the shy deer as they scampered away,

We’d rise from our warm beds as the sun it got higher
And cook up our breakfast on a sweet scented fire,

In the still early morning a cool gentle breeze
And the echo of woodpeckers ring through the trees,

We’d sit in our glade till the heat of the day
Walk down to the zoo to sing and to play,

Well the money rolled in and the people looked on
When the hat was quite full we’d up and be gone,

In Dimbovitsa tavern we spent money free
And drank to our friends where’er they may be,

We’d talk of old times fond memories we’d trade
At dusk we’d walk home to Băneasă’s Green Glade.

By Andy Irvine


Jul. 21st, 2017 07:48 pm
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Posted by Tom "The Kittenmaster" Cooper

Please join me in meeting and greeting our newest Star Kit, Clementine. She is a 3 month old British Shorthair from Hong Kong.


This is Clementine, we found her at a pet shop here in Hong Kong. She is the first cat of my boyfriend and I. Clementine loves to play football, sleep in the litter, sit in front of the air conditioner, and purring. She has been a very sweet and clever girl, here is wishing that she’ll stay so loving even when she grows up.



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Posted by duathir

Cross-post from war_poetry:

There's a Pathway

There's a pathway through a forest in the Picardie I know,
A port where girls haul up the boats with men and fish in tow,
And the hills run down to the market town where the country-women go.

And behind it is the village, and the coast-line lies below,
And down the road, the dusty road, the carts ply to and fro
By the stately frieze of forest trees beyond the old Chateau.

There were three of us on bicycles upon the road that day,
You wore your coat of hunting green, and vanished down the way.
"Le petit Chasseur, la mere et soeur", we heard the women say.

You vanished as a speck of green among the shadows blue,
And children trudging up the hill stood still and called to you:
"Le petit Chasseur, qui n'a pas peur", they laughed and called to you.

O boys, you wield a bayonet now and lift the soldier's load !
O girls you've learnt to drive the plough and use the bullock-goad !
But the hunter's laid, still unafraid, near the trodden Bethune road.

There's a pathway through the forest in the Picardie I know,
And O I'll dream and wander there; and poppy fields will glow;
And I'll watch the glare of the dusty air where the market wagons go.

By Alys Fane Trotter

[Lieutenant A. N. Trotter, her son, was killed near Bethune in France early in the First World War. This poem recalls a holiday they had spent in the same district six years earlier, when her son was a boy of fourteen.]

request: jon sands poem

Jul. 21st, 2017 05:53 am
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Posted by comebackdarling

Hi there!

So i hipe nobody requested this yet. Im searching a poem by jon sands which ends with the lines

I have always been your moment,
first time
any time
this universe exploded inside your stomach
and you could not stop saying
I love you.

I cant find it anywhere and i seem to remember that it was posted on a livejournal poetry community at one point, it's also quite long. Anyone know which poem I'm talking about?

I would love to find it again so ty so much in advance if you have it and are able to share!


Jul. 20th, 2017 10:04 pm
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Posted by Tom "The Kittenmaster" Cooper

Please join me in putting paws in the air for today’s Star Kit, Dorian. She is an 8 week old Blue Russian from Edinburgh, Scotland.


Hello everyone, I have just adopt Dorian an amazing male Blue Russian kitten. I have him since 2 days now and is still on the “hiding & crying” mood. Hopefully soon will get used to the new environment and me 🙂


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Posted by duathir

The Road: a Querencia

The road, still roughly graveled, drops the length
Of a strong man’s throw, angles down between
Hedgerows of sage and milkweed, even though
The houses on both sides are long since lost
To re-building and to disrepair. The road
Still travels furrow-straight past the homestead,
Widening slightly where tractors turned and turn
Into the yard. The house is no longer theirs,
Long since bricked over Grandpa’s rough logs,
Cemented over Grandma’s flowerbeds,
The wide box-elders cut and hauled away.

But the road continues straight, over the wooden
Trestle bridge where crawdads still prefer
Scrub-willow shades to sunlight flickering
On irrigation water brought from Cleveland’s slopes.
The road runs straight to the first mile-post,
Then turns due west, between pastures still hip-high
Green, bordered in great mounds of golden
Wild roses, studded along the creek-banks with
Butter-irises in spring. It runs straight until
The northward turn at the city park, once little
More than weeds, not watered, mowed, waiting
For the next reunion to bloom with children’s laughter.

From there, a mile to the north, then an angled turn
As sharp as Grandpa’s plow lines, east this time,
Toward the rising sun and—one mile distant—
The final turn, and I stand again at the graveled
Drop, not having seen a single person
In the fields, a single child playing in overgrown
Front yards. A mile square, cut from the valley floor,
Where long years lost still huddle in cottonwood shades,
And memories bid me stay and rest in peace.

By Michael R. Collings


Jul. 19th, 2017 10:59 pm
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Posted by Tom "The Kittenmaster" Cooper

It gives me great pleasure to introduce our latest Star Kit, Feebie. She is 8 years old from Gainesboro, Tennessee.


I got her when she was a baby at a yard sale. They found her on the side of the road. I talked my mom into it because of the cat my granny had died, and I told her she needed another one, but she’s mine.

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Posted by duathir

A Song of the Road

The way was black,
The night was mad with lightning; I bestrode
My wild young colt upon a mountain road.
And, crunching onward, like a monster’s jaws
His ringing hoof-beats their glad rhythm kept;
Breaking the glassy surface of the pools
Where hidden waters slept.
A million buzzing insects in the air
On droning wing made sullen discord there.
But suddenly, afar, beyond the wood,
Beyond the dark pall of my brooding thought,
I saw lights cluster like a swarm of wasps
Among the branches caught.
“The inn!” I cried, and on his living flesh
My broncho felt the lash and neighed with eagerness.

And all this time the cool and quiet wood
Uttered no sound, as though it understood.

Until there came to me upon the night
A voice so clear, so clear, so ringing sweet!—
A voice as of a woman, and her song
Dropped like soft music winging at my feet,
And seemed a sigh that, with my spirit blending,
Lengthened and lengthened out, and had no ending.

And through the empty silence of the night,
And through the quiet of the hills, I heard
That music; and the sounds the night wind bore me,
Like spirit voices from an unseen world,
Came drifting o’er me.

I curbed my horse, to catch what she might say:
“At night they come, and they are gone by day.”
And then another voice, with low refrain
And untold tenderness, took up the strain:
“Oh, love is but an inn upon life’s way—
At night they come, and they are gone by day,”
Their voices mingled in that wistful lay,
Then I dismounted and stretched out my length
Beside a pool, and while my mind was bent
Upon that mystery within the wood
My eyes grew heavy and my strength was spent.
And so I slept there, huddled in my cloak.
And now, when by untrodden paths I go
Through the dim forest, no repose I know
At any inn at nightfall, but apart
I sleep beneath the stars, for through my heart
Echoes the burden of that wistful lay:
“At night they come, and they are gone by day;
And love is but an inn upon life’s way.”

By José Santos Chocano
Translated by John Pierrepont Rice
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Posted by elenbarathi

World Below the Brine
by Walt Whitman

The world below the brine;
Forests at the bottom of the sea—the branches and leaves,
Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds—
the thick tangle, the openings, and the pink turf,
Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold—
the play of light through the water,
Dumb swimmers there among the rocks—coral, gluten, grass, rushes—
and the aliment of the swimmers,
Sluggish existences grazing there, suspended, or slowly crawling
close to the bottom,
The sperm-whale at the surface, blowing air and spray, or disporting
with his flukes,
The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy sea-leopard,
and the sting-ray;
Passions there—wars, pursuits, tribes—sight in those ocean-depths—
breathing that thick-breathing air, as so many do;
The change thence to the sight here, and to the subtle air breathed by beings
like us, who walk this sphere;
The change onward from ours, to that of beings who walk other spheres.


Jul. 18th, 2017 10:57 pm
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Posted by Tom "The Kittenmaster" Cooper

Please join me to meet and greet today’s Star Kit, Sasha. She is 9 years old from Illinois.


Sasha was an adorable farm kitten that I took home and have loved for 9 years 🙂 She loves to sleep in the sun and treats


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