But you prefer Dover Beach

because you can understand
because the sentiment is fine
and the metered lines stike soft as waves on stones
touched white as if by moonlight
tired moonlight

because you prefer to reach for me
than to rage in that night
in blind moonlight
filigreed upon slate stones as if by electic needles
which have no need for us to see, though we watch
because their audience is one and we are two

because the world circles round us there
though we may dance mechanical
and our tune may ring tinny
because we circle there, and slow
we two alone with no more light than stony glow

because you know the moon and stars
are the only metaphor, not sea beats, filigreed
slick reflections, nor lights of ships;
because you know the memory of the Greeks is written in the sky
and it is right to shout those names out above the waves
and the struggle has no true foes, deaf and blind

because you know Zeus too feasted on godly flesh

and we are gods, were like gods
and even that does not change us

Tristesse, mighty song

Depressing days,
Depressing days
Make me feel sad.

The air is chilly,
the sky is grey
I feel bad.

The laughing kids,
The funny clown
can't bring me cheer.

I cry and cry,
I get so sad,
I can't hold my beer.

I wrote a poem,
to let it out,
entitled "Tristesse."

If you don't know
what it's about
just take a guess.

The Dung Beetle

I was expecting too much from the Metamorphosis. I'm not saying it's bad, but the jacket quoted some so and so who said it was perfect. A perfect work.

It is certainly an interesting novella/short story, but I agree with Kafka that is suffers from a weakening of focus and power at the end. And don't tell me that mirrors Samsa. Good as it is, I don't find it to be the axe for the frozen sea within me.

Reading the criticism at the end (Norton critical ed.), I was reminded of my undergrad approach to criticism. Talking about a metaphor that inverts a metaphor that inverts a metaphor. Not helping anyone else understand, maybe not understanding yourself. Just confusing things; and why? Perhaps so as to maintain a belief in literature as a complex, important philosophical/psychological phenomena, something which stands apart from regular people, regular events, regular texts, exalted or vilified or deconstructed or set on Freud's couch or whatever.

That's a little harsh, though. Some of the criticism is helpful, in its limited way.

Bene he

The angels wondered why man was
when they were, excelling,
but God whispered to Adam
to play a trick
names for everything

and when Adam had learned
how to understand these whispers, in the assembly
of the sons of elohim,
proudly called each beast
and with loud growling, roaring, grunting
the sons were driven from the company of men

and God said it was not good,
though Adam was called good,
for him to be alone, made in God's image,
performed thoracic operation
and was Eve brought into the world of names

and Adam wondered why she was
when he was, and knowing every beast and every name,
and Eve heard whispers of a new knowing
and Adam proudly deciphered
so learned new names for he and she
and this we call

I don't think I shall say.