I Shall Stand Against Them
I shall stand against them, whether I be like
the willow, or the ancient oak, trembling
or impersonally strong, I shall stand against them.
The sun may shine upon my corpse, and cause
the rot to quicken, but in my memory they
sing, and I shall stand again.
The swarm is all about me, about my head, about my soul,
about my home and nation;
all is torn asunder by their grimy little hands,
stained with dirt of bitterness, they go in to the heap,
a trembling tower of crumbling corpses,
and to collapse,
the wind it blows, and howls about
their hollow skulls.
Her image is cast,
marble with her tears for him.
Downcast eyes divine.
Skin like pearl and silk,
feather drops in to the blood.
Her eyes now open.
The night passes by,
rain falling on her, smoking,
people fading dark.
A Yankee Poet in Greenwich Village
Remembering William Butler Yeats:
June 13, 1865–January 28, 1939
Whitsuntide: Sacred Fire, Divine Gifts, & the Quest for the Holy Grail
The Most Dangerous Game: Capital Riddles in Western Culture
Interview with George Burdi: Man Against the Modern World
Mihai Eminescu: Romania’s Morning Star
“He Doesn’t Worry Too Much If Mediocre People Get Killed in Wars and Such” Tito Perdue’s The Smut Book & Cynosura
Jalal El-Kadali’s Oyster Mountain