"In order that the mind may not be taxed, moreover, by the manifold and confused reading of so many such things, and in order to prevent the escape of something valuable that we have read, heard, or discovered through the process of thinking itself, it will be found very useful to entrust to notebooks ... those things which seem noteworthy and striking."

[Commonplace books: Thomas Farnaby, 17th-century]

What Argus could not see was not worth seeing. The fishy slime of his one hundred eyes Shimmered all over his entire being To lubricate his vision. A Voyeur Of the first order, he would hardly blench At the fine calculations of your dress.

[Canine voyeurs: Anthony Hecht, "Le Masseur de ma Soeur"]

Posted by stronzo on 03.11.2012

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A young man's voice, by the sound, Coming, it seems, from the twist in the martini. "You arrogant, elderly letch, you broken-down Brother of Apeneck Sweeney! Thought I was buried for good Under six thick feet of mindless self-regard? Dance on my grave, would you, you galliard stud, Silenus in leotard?"

[Younger Selves: Anthony Hecht, "The Ghost in the Martini"]

Posted by stronzo on 03.11.2012

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It began, I suppose, as a color, yellow-green, The tincture of spring willows, not so much color As the sensation of color, haze that took shape As a light scum, a doily of minutiae On the smooth pool and surface of your mind. A founding colony, Pilgrim amoebas Descended from the gaseous flux when Zeus Tossed down his great original thunderbolt That flashed in darkness like an electric tree Or the lit-up veins in an old arthritic hand.

[Origination: Anthony Hecht, "Green: An Epistle"]

Posted by stronzo on 03.11.2012

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