a poem for today, 20 November 2012
[a word-sorted sonnet of six sentences and its image]
We are all omnibuses in which our ancestors ride, and every now and then one of them sticks his head out and embarrasses us.
Beauty is no quality in things themselves: It exists merely in the mind which contemplates them; and each mind perceives a different beauty.
All I know is that I am not a Marxist.
They take him to heart, he takes them to bed.
It's, it's plump, it's juicy, it's three inches thick.
One ought not strive to eliminate their complexes but to get into accord with them: they are legitimately what directs one's conduct in the world.
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