How to use an otter to negotiate

 

Otter_Steve_Slocomb_6178538861_3979396802_zHow to use an otter to negotiate
Is to turn it loose in the room
Among the lawyers and business types
Trusting its liquid eyes and old-woman whiskers
To get us to a place where everyone is happy

While knowing they all know you know
Otters live by their wits
And teeth and claws
Are fiercely territorial
Defend their young to the death
Only sometimes mate for life

But prefer loafing in the waves
If only everyone could get along

 

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The Lives of the Poets

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Ogden Nash
As a poet was brash
His lines rushed out in a lengthy and seemingly unstoppable torrent
And his rhymes were abhorrent.

Ezra Pound
Wrote verse difficult and profound
The fact that even he couldn’t figure it out
Should suffice to remove any doubt.

Edward Lear
Was rather queer.
But of course, the word had a different meaning back then
So instead, one should simply say that he preferred men.

Edmund Clerihew Bentley
Died discontently
Aware that decent rhymes for Clerihew
Are, alas, very few.

Edna St. Vincent Millay
Was heard on occasion to say
That only the author of Euclid’s Elements
Had ever seen Beauty without habiliments.

 

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The Hangover

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Zeus had quite a head on him
after last night’s binge
too much nectar and ambrosia
hoo boy! So this morning
when Athena in bright armor sprang
full blown, well sure
he was proud of himself
(who else could have after all?)
but honestly he could have done
without the clanking and
(Ye gods!) the glare!
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Paradise (pt.10)

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One walked in silence,
remembering Paradise,
Mourning for Paradise,
the Paradise that was in desire,
and remains in desire,
Stones gathered together never to be used aright,
Paradise too long in the building,
Ruin of nothing,
lapped by the sea,

Surge of the sea…

* * *

“‘No ideas but in things,’
Bill Williams said,

“But as for me,
& I’ve minted a slogan or 2
in my day,
slogans thick as money,
words heavy as coins

& would have minted more
had my time not come…

“But as for me,
let me assure you,
“There are ideas
and not only in things,
“There is nothing easier than to get ideas,
let me assure you,
let me assure you of this.”

* * *

What can only be communicated in silence,
Darkness and silence….

 

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Paradise (p.9)

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Little-read now,
but in truth little-read even in his time;
And less loved,
but known for those who loved him in his time.
And the great tower
which was to have reached as high as Heaven
Undercut — or top-heavy,
or with too weak a foundation, —
Too long in the building, in any case.

The sea which gnaws at the land
The land which fills up the sea

* * *

And now in Venice, antique city,
All history encrusted upon her,
and in all her long impatience a kind of patience at last visible,
Pearl of the middle-world,
Her treasures flotsam, flotsam her art,
her history flotsam;
Her citizens flotsam, borne to the edge of the world…

And now, in Venice, what thoughts?

But to have envisioned Paradise
Though the hand was not the eye’s equal;
And to have approached the shoals of Paradise,
Of the chosen island, the site where the great building should take place,
Braved the reefs, stone to tear out a ship’s belly;
To have heard the waves crash and the susurrus,
Sea-surge, waves on the stones,
Day-long, night-long, as ever, so now,
And to have made a start anyway, though never an ending,
Is this a little thing?

“Bill Williams said you had a mystic ear, did you know?”
“He never said that to me. No, I never heard that.”
“A mystic ear, he said. Never a word wrongly chosen,
Never a word misplaced.”

Silence then, the old man perhaps pleased for a while…

But to have had a vision,
To have felt in one’s hand the heft of the stone,
To have made a beginning of things, —
Though on a too-narrow foundation,
The stone on stone laid too high,
Stone laid on stone, and on stone,
The vision made real,
which could not stand the weight of being made real,
Art outstripped by fancy…

 And to have had such a vision,
And to have made such a start

Is this a little thing?
Is this insignificant?

A start, never an ending.
And here, and here…
what thoughts, shaped in silence?

 

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Paradise (p.8)

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And so Paris, and so then Italy,
between wars,
as always between wars,
her shores lapped by the gentle sea,
habitation of old gods…
So Rapallo,
so mare medius terraneum,
the sea in the middle of the world,
the cradle of man’s ambition…

Rapallo, Rapallo,
Hers a quiet grace,
neither the sinuous grace of Provence
nor the assured grace of Firenze
Hers a grace that cannot be multiplied
that cannot be exploited
She can be loved only by those who love her.

And the mule-driver:
“The famous poet
lives in that villa; I’ve seen him:
black hat and a purple cloak, and
he carries a stick. Maybe he was in the war?
‘s very famous, and so many visitors!”

Only the love of those who love…

(and twenty years on a new word will enter the language,
Rapallizare, meaning to put up concrete buildings all over the place,
to build without thought,
to scatter hotels like money.)

 

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Paradise (pt.7)

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And Ezra, become an old man,
Having been born out of his time, although
born neither too late
nor too early;
And had not charity, although
charity was not the quality he was wanting of…

Become old, an old man in an old city,
the old city lapped by the sea;
Speaking not, not writing,
excepting only fragments,
shards of his thought,

poetry of old age,
old age and ruin.

“The world is not as we would have it
but as we have made it.”

 

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Paradise (pt.6)

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… to have made a start …

“Benito, there was soldier
& a statesman, understd. Art
Economics
& Poetry of his kind
which is in the proper balance —

non crede
né alla possibilità
né all’utilità della
pace perpetua.

Kilt of course
& they like to have kilt me the same — “

Wrong, all wrong, wrong from the start…

But to have made a start, at any rate,
to have had a vision…

A thirty years fury,
China and Pisa conflated,
Jefferson and Mussolini conflated,
H. Adams and Odysseus,
Hell in England,
Satan in Usura, —

And to have had a vision…

To be
To be the stone
To be the stone that splits the in-rushing tide,
And was, some would say he was like that stone —

on which many a foot would stumble,
which could not bear the weight of being builded with,
which, having been spit out from the earth,
returns to earth —

Of such stone, to make Paradise —
Paradise!
Always it comes to this notion of Paradise —

To make Paradise, or “a paradise,” any Paradise,
it is necessary to have had a vision,
it is necessary to have had some plan in mind

And to find Paradise (or any Paradise), it is necessary to walk a long road,
for Paradise is not close by,
and Paradise is not given easily,
it is not a thing given —

For Paradise exists already
and Paradise must be builded;
Paradise must be discovered, and
Paradise must be invented also.

In this it is like a mystery.
O,
it is very like a mystery.

 

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Paradise (pt.4)

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(and in London,
which disgraced itself,
and he left later,
singing…)

O London town’s a town of stink,
A town of Wells and Bennett
Where once old Shaw has said “’tis so”
No man dares speak again’ it.

A man may labour 20 years
I’ th’ vineyard of the min’
But the grapes o’ filthy London town
They make a bitter wine.

A man may labour 30 years
I’ th’ brickyard of the soul
Or make as grand a difference
By pissin’ in a hole.

O London town, O London town,
I’ll see thee never more
Till all thy murdered artists march
Triumphant home from war,

Till all thy streets be paved wi’ gold
Beneath an azure sky,
And Bloomsbury be buried
And the Lakes have all gang dry.

 

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Paradise (pt.1)

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And the sea,
the sea tranquil this winter’s day;
and Ezra, old man gone silent at last, —
ear, ear for the sea-surge
— gone silent, hearing no voices,

only the sea, the measureless sea
fills his ears
bidding him be silent,
bidding him hear no voices

who took genius for wisdom
who took passion for faith
who for atonement took sadness and silence,

took bitterness, despairing of Paradise.

“How are you today, Maestro?”
“Senile!”

And the great sea
surges, surges, the world’s measure.
He may hear it who has the ear for it,
he may bring it forth who has a tongue for it.

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