Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

Aug 27, 2007 at 11:23 o\clock

Emily Dickinson

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Aug 27, 2007 at 01:14 o\clock

Taking off Emily Dickinson Clothes By Billy Collins

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank, First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

 @ Billy Collins





Aug 23, 2007 at 23:14 o\clock

Stoat

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Aug 23, 2007 at 23:10 o\clock

Stoat Song by Cilla McQueen

[ Stoat Song ]

Flick of a sinuous body
in lounge suit. Teeth.
I find you deliciously musical,
O eggs, thrill
to throttle shrill cadences,
plumb your skinny holes!

Ah piteous nest
of silken flesh exposed
to my spry jaw,
soothe me and sing to me within!
Innocence drowns in my throat.
All the trees are empty.

Scarce leisure to preen the brows
of supple stoats, sated with song.

Aug 23, 2007 at 00:16 o\clock

Flowers and world war two Bag @N Furby

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Aug 22, 2007 at 09:40 o\clock

Iceland Mens names and English translation

 

Austmann: Eastern Man
Ástríkur: Rich with Passion
Ástbjörn: Passion Bear
Álfur: Elf
Ás: [a] God
Björgólfur Rescue Wolf
Blær: Breeze
Búri: Peasant
Bogi: Bow (weapon)
Dómaldur: Judge
Eldgrímur: Fire Mask
Fífill: Dandelion
Friðbjartur: Bright peace
Garpur: Brave
Hugi: Thought
Hreinn: Clean
Knútur: Knot
Ljósálfur: Light Elf
Muninn: Memory
Safír: Sapphire
Svanlaugur: Swan Pool
Veturliði: Winter Traveller

Aug 16, 2007 at 04:45 o\clock

Cow Poetry

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Aug 16, 2007 at 04:26 o\clock

Chinese Poetry Reading Poster

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Aug 16, 2007 at 03:56 o\clock

Poetry Shards

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Aug 7, 2007 at 04:51 o\clock

world metro when the planet is to toxic to breathe

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Aug 2, 2007 at 09:05 o\clock

INLAND EMPIRE 3 hours of film art I enjoyed today

INLAND EMPIRE is so Lynchian that it often appears to veer into self-parody, but somehow this works for the movie; like the unmotivated laugh track of the recurring sitcom where everybody wears a rabbit mask, the audience can never be quite sure what's meant as a joke and what's dead serious. INLAND EMPIRE is in turn maddeningly absurd, haunting, and bizzarely funny (such as Harry Dean Stanton's monologue about his "damn landlord.")

Some of the shivers are all too real, and I'll admit that the film contained moments of subconscious recognition that frightened me to the core. At the end of INLAND EMPIRE, prostitutes lip-synch Nina Simone's "Sinner Man" while a pet monkey frolicks and a man in a red wool cap saws a log. I have no idea what it means, but I'm glad that as unique a visionary as Lynch can still get funding (in Europe) to make exactly the movie he wants. A fertile and overwhelming work of art.

Aug 2, 2007 at 08:30 o\clock

Figure and fruit Drink bottle Neil Furby

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