Daye 38 / The Most Haunted House In England

Daye 37 / Foaming Bays

it seemed a nice way to start a day
shipped in sheba's foaming bay
a distant swimmer in a sea of trees
and then a bleached man with juggler's hands
scaled an oak to understand
the childlike sweetness in the sky's blue breeze

goddess in the fortress
of the world is just a slaughteress
so let's grow into the sky
just like a grove of trees

I danced thunderbound up to the mound
of past and present pleasures found
all caged and guarded by the eyes of
blind river men with twisted limbs
devised to choke the throats of kings
robed in willow woven skins of hind
~ Marc Bolan

Daye 36 / Jabberwocky

'twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wade
all mimsy were the borogoves
and the mome raths outgrabe

"beware the jabberwock, my son!
the jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
beware the jubjub bird, and shun
the frumious bandersnatch!"

he took his vorpal sword in hand
long time the manxome foe he sought
so rested he by the tumtum tree
and stood awhile in thought

and as in uffish thought he stood
the jabberwock, with eyes of flame
came wiffling through the tulgey wood
and burbled as it came!

one, two! one, two! and through and through
the vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
he left it dead, and with its head
he went galumphing back

"and hast thou slain the jabberwock?
come to my arms, my beamish boy!
o frabjous day! callooh! callay!"
he chortled in his joy

'twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wade
all mimsy were the borogoves
and the mome raths outgrabe
~Lewis Carroll

Daye 35 / Swan Girl

Daye 34 / Bottle-Trees

Daye 33 / The Nightmare

Daye 32 / The Song Of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood
because a fire was in my head
and cut and peeled a hazel wand
and hooked a berry to a thread

and when white moths were on the wing
and moth-like stars were flickering out
I dropped the berry in a stream
and caught a little silver trout

when I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame
but something rustled on the floor
and some one called me by my name
it had become a glimmering girl
with apple blossom in her hair
who called me by my name and ran
and faded through the brightening air

though I am old with wandering
through hollow lands and hilly lands
I will find out where she has gone
and kiss her lips and take her hands
and walk among long dappled grass
and pluck till time and times are done
the silver apples of the moon
the golden apples of the sun
~William Butler Yeats

Daye 31 / Licorice

licorice they named her
after one of the girls
from the incredible string band
wonderous were her eyes
raven-coloured her hair
like her namesake
disappeared into the ether
I came home one evening
in november
the house was dark and still
and she was no longer there
left only a cool note
in a spidery-light hand
and fifteen short fragments of song
one for each emotion
that she had known on that autumn day
and I don’t know where she is
or whether she wants to be found
but I once saw her sitting on a moonbeam
when she was still dreaming of me
watched as she stooped to kiss
the flowers for hours and hours
I saw her face on the low grey cloud
on a snowy december morning
find her floating in a tiny boat
on a becalmed lake
she is disguised as robin puck
when I awake
as a child in a field of poppies
she appears as pan
when I am lost in the willow wood
only now do I recognize her masquerade
as the morning star
one time in swansea at dawn
long ago
and as the evening star
in flowery fields one dusk
recall that in a previous life
she had lived in a big house on tempest drive
then see far into her future life
when she’ll live in the slums of mumbai
and I’ll travel to some far-off planet
where aldebaran is hovering above us
mmm, how crimson and eerily pretty she'll look
in that failing star’s light
in a wintery lane
star-gazing
she slaps my face
when I mistake her for a spiral galaxy
and tell her she is beautiful
she has become the motherstorm
blowing in from across the atlantic
to wash away the great green irish sea
she’s the simultaneous equation
to which their can never be a solution
and the golden flash of light
that streaks overhead
as we lay in the long soft grass
one balmy august
and from high on a hillside in disley
I can still see her gathering
mushrooms in the half-light
and hear her in the harmonium
that begins to play itself the next night
as I lay half-asleep on the rug by the fire
she floats over to whisper at me
that she is here

Daye 30 / B.M.E.

Daye 29 / Mmmm, The Moon Meadows Of Flowery Fields

Daye 27 / The Birds Of Tin

the birds of tin
we cannot eat
we play with them
they cost us nothing
the birds of tin
municipal
they fly
they float
they wave to us
from far away
they come to rest
perfectly flat medals of innumerable sizes
on the surface of the sea
some are enormously large
some are six feet high
some you can hold
some you can put in your mouth
some slip through your fingers
and there are microscopic tiny birds
in vain we speak to them
in vain we call to them
or entreat them to open their wings
they are affixed to walls
pinned to the sky
attached by screws
tied by chains
the birds of tin
are dead
~ Charles Madge

Daye 26 / The Dome Chapel

Daye 25 / Lark Hill

Daye 24 / The Emperor Of Ice-Cream

call the roller of big cigars
the muscular one
and bid him whip
in kitchen cups concupiscent curds
let the wenches dawdle in such dress
as they are used to wear
and let the boys
bring flowers in last month's newspapers
let be be finale of seem
the only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream

take from the dresser of deal
lacking the three glass knobs
that sheet on which she embroidered fantails once
and spread it so as to cover her face
if her horny feet protrude
they come to show how cold she is
and dumb
let the lamp affix its beam
the only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream
~ Wallace Stevens

Daye 23 / Revisionism Terrorism

Daye 22 / The Universist

Daye 21 / The Moon And The Yew Tree

this is the light of the mind
cold and planetary
the trees of the mind are black
the light is blue
the grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were god
prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
fumy spiritous mists inhabit this place
separated from my house by a row of headstones
I simply cannot see where there is to get to

the moon is no door
it is a face in its own right
white as a knuckle and terribly upset
it drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
with the o-gape of complete despair
I live here
twice on sunday
the bells startle the sky --
eight great tongues affirming the resurrection
at the end they soberly bong out their names

the yew tree points up
it has a gothic shape
the eyes lift after it and find the moon
the moon is my mother
she is not sweet like mary
her blue garments unloose small bats and owls
how I would like to believe in tenderness -
the face of the effigy
gentled by candles
bending
on me in particular
its mild eyes

I have fallen a long way
clouds are flowering
blue and mystical over the face of the stars
inside the church
the saints will all be blue
floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews
their hands and faces stiff with holiness
the moon sees nothing of this
she is bald and wild
and the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence
~ Sylvia Plath

Daye 20 / Our Lady Of The Lights