a third of the stars in heaven wheeling in its into that rushing beast of the night, wake sucked up by that dragon, to split wheels in wheels around the moon that cradles from my life with no flag, round the sun no belly, no cry. and if I can only trail these whirling eternal stars with one sweep of the brush like Michael's sword if I can Vincent van Gogh, The Starry Night (1889) cut the life out of the beast - safeguard the mother and the son The Starry Night all heaven will hymn in conflagration blazing By Robert Fagles [1933-2008] down the the mountain ranges down Long as I paint the claustrophobic valleys of the mad I feel myself less mad Madness the brush in my hand is what I have instead of heaven a lightning rod to madness God deliver me - help me now deliver all this frenzy back into your hands But never ground that madness our brushstrokes burning clearer into dawn. execute it ride the lightning up from these benighted streets and steeple up with the cypress look its black is burning green I am that I am it it lifts me up the nightfall up the cloudrack coiling like a dragon's flanks In Goya’s Greatest Scenes We Seem to See cadavers and carnivorous cocks By Lawrence Ferlinghetti [1919-] and all the final hollering monsters of the In Goya’s greatest scenes we seem to see of disaster’ ‘imagination the people of the world they are so bloody real exactly at the moment when it is as if they really still they first attained the title of existed And they do ‘suffering humanity’ Only the landscape is changed They writhe upon the page They still are ranged along the roads in a veritable rage plagued by legionnaires of adversity false windmills and demented roosters Heaped up They are the same people groaning with babies and bayonets only further from home under cement on freeways fifty lanes wide skies on a concrete continent in an abstract landscape of blasted trees spaced with bland billboards bent statues bats wings and beaks illustrating imbecile illusions of slippery gibbets happiness
into that rushing beast of the night, sucked up by that dragon, to split from my life with no flag, no belly, no cry. Vincent van Gogh, The Starry Night (1889) The Starry Night By Robert Fagles [1933-2008] Long as I paint I feel myself less mad the brush in my hand a lightning rod to madness But never ground that madness execute it ride the lightning up from these benighted streets and steeple up with the cypress look its black is burning green I am that I am it it lifts me up the nightfall up the cloudrack coiling like a dragon's flanks a third of the stars in heaven wheeling in its wake wheels in wheels around the moon that cradles round the sun and if I can only trail these whirling eternal stars with one sweep of the brush like Michael's sword if I can cut the life out of the beast - safeguard the mother and the son all heaven will hymn in conflagration blazing down the the mountain ranges down the claustrophobic valleys of the mad Madness is what I have instead of heaven God deliver me - help me now deliver all this frenzy back into your hands our brushstrokes burning clearer into dawn. In Goya’s Greatest Scenes We Seem to See By Lawrence Ferlinghetti [1919-] In Goya’s greatest scenes we seem to see the people of the world exactly at the moment when they first attained the title of ‘suffering humanity’ They writhe upon the page in a veritable rage of adversity Heaped up groaning with babies and bayonets under cement skies in an abstract landscape of blasted trees bent statues bats wings and beaks slippery gibbets cadavers and carnivorous cocks and all the final hollering monsters of the ‘imagination of disaster’ they are so bloody real it is as if they really still existed And they do Only the landscape is changed They still are ranged along the roads plagued by legionnaires false windmills and demented roosters They are the same people only further from home on freeways fifty lanes wide on a concrete continent spaced with bland billboards illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness
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