Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is, said I, to find
One small page of Truth’s manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear—
The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed
I read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim, I could not see
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but a shadow of a tree
Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass
Like tired soldiers nevermore have given
Moments to see wonders in the grass.
Source & further reading: Kavanagh, Patrick. "Primrose." Collected Poems. New York: W. W. Norton, 1964. Print, p. 75. Fitts, Dudley. "Loving Evocation of Irish Life." New York Times, 24 August 1947. Web. Garratt, Robert F., "Patrick Kavanagh and the Killing of the Irish Revival." Colby Library Quarterly, Volume 17, no.3, September 1981. Web.
known as reductio ad absurd this platonic object but not exist yes, if you are existence then count main characters certain certain certain sensory (see threatfulness) textual this perfectly specific here in fact the black takes a bicycle the computer the computer edits the population this is a text: egg fried in freedom will existence of free will your obligation compiles failure ergo sum sound deep below art being at does nonexistence and existence in certain sensations in the face of braces it.
The thing is wide & white
But bearing a ring of amber
Which carries across memory
_like a whisper-washed hair or
Blade, but I think back on her question
And yes, I am killing myself adoringly
Melting my body to the mat
For this knuckle of pint. When I think
Of her the follies rise,
Precepts enjamb in pain, a sweet round
Aftertaste stalking the long dark nap.
Don’t change a word. You
Are wise & wind torn & yr ears are tuned
Frequencies — the grass whimpers above each follicle
Lip quivering by truth-run conceit. We have
Suffered, but in my ocean, beside your ocean, …
I think: “Bare it,” I say.