Junior Ganymede
We endeavor to give satisfaction

Lose Things Faster

February 24th, 2017 by G.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
-thus Elizabeth Bishop
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February 24th, 2017 06:58:27

Red Canyon, Manzanos

April 18th, 2016 by G.

Mountain canyon mist,

snow falls on ferns and spring grass,

the swift creek gives voice.


Laughing, children cross

from rock to rock.  The family

chatter echoes with the creek’s.

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April 18th, 2016 08:59:50

The Muse of Goobers Strikes Again

March 16th, 2016 by G.

Wear your bolo solo
and never in a pair.
It’s haute couture for those who dare
like models in their underwear.

Turquoise blue and silver too,
The bolo tie’s the tie for you,
Manly, rugged, and quite prieux,
You’re the cock-a-doodle-doo.

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March 16th, 2016 08:38:43

Blessed is the Road

February 12th, 2016 by G.

Blessed is the road that keeps us homeless.
Blessed is the mountain that blocks our way.

Blessed are hunger and thirst, loneliness and all forms of desire.
Blessed is the labor that exhausts us without end.

Blessed are the night and the darkness that blinds us.
Blessed is the cold that teaches us to feel.

-Gioia. From a review by blog friend Huston. I ordered Gioia’s collection on the strength of the review.

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February 12th, 2016 09:37:24

Tennyson Tolkien

February 05th, 2016 by G.

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February 05th, 2016 08:53:42

In dream I met the Faery Queen

November 20th, 2015 by G.

Centuries passed on Middle Earth – My story
Remains, inspires, enchants – is garbled.
But truth persists. The Eildon Hills
Still cast enchantment wide into the world.

-from Bruce Charlton

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November 20th, 2015 10:56:14


September 19th, 2015 by G.

I AM riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall pass to ashes.)
I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he answers: “Omaha.”

Limited, by Carl Sandburg.  Hat tip to Leo.

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September 19th, 2015 10:45:52

Trial by Existence, Frost

December 16th, 2014 by G.


Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore’er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare.

The light of heaven falls whole and white
And is not shattered into dyes,
The light for ever is morning light;
The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angel hosts with freshness go,
And seek with laughter what to brave;—

-thus Frost. The poem goes on, but not nearly so well. In fairness, though, anything would be letdown after the line ‘wide fields of asphodel forever.’

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December 16th, 2014 12:30:24

After Prayers, Lie Cold

February 07th, 2014 by G.

Arise my body, my small body, we have striven
Enough, and He is merciful; we are forgiven.
Arise small body, puppet-like and pale, and go,
White as the bed-clothes into bed, and cold as snow,
Undress with small, cold fingers and put out the light,
And be alone, hush’d mortal, in the sacred night,
-A meadow whipt flat with the rain, a cup
Emptied and clean, a garment washed and folded up,
Faded in colour, thinned almost to raggedness
By dirt and by the washing of that dirtiness.
Be not too quickly warm again. Lie cold; consent
To weariness’ and pardon’s watery element.
Drink up the bitter water, breathe the chilly death;
Soon enough comes the riot of our blood and breath.

Thus C.S. Lewis.

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February 07th, 2014 12:01:43

For the Last Time

January 29th, 2014 by G.

Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986), “Límites” (tr. Kenneth Krabbenhoft):

There is a line by Verlaine that I will not remember again.
There is a street nearby that is off limits to my feet.
There is a mirror that has seen me for the last time.
There is a door I have closed until the end of the world.
Among the books in my library (I’m looking at them now) are some I will never open.
This summer I will be fifty years old.
Death is using me up, relentlessly.
—from Inscriptions (Montevideo, 1923) by Julio Platero Haedo

Hay una línea de Verlaine que no volveré a recordar.
Hay una calle próxima que está vedada a mis pasos,
Hay un espejo que me ha visto por última vez,
Hay una puerta que he cerrado hasta el fin del mundo.
Entre los libros de mi biblioteca (estoy viéndolos)
Hay alguno que ya nunca abriré.
Este verano cumpliré cincuenta años;
La muerte me desgasta, incesante.

From here.

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January 29th, 2014 13:55:45

At the End of Spring

April 02nd, 2013 by G.

The flower of the pear-tree gathers and turns to fruit;
The swallows’ eggs have hatched into young birds.
When the Seasons’ changes thus confront the mind
What comfort can the Doctrine of Tao give? (more…)

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April 02nd, 2013 12:40:01

Resignation, by Po Chu-i

March 22nd, 2013 by G.

Keep off your thoughts from things that are past and done. (more…)

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March 22nd, 2013 08:03:58

In Spring the Gardener Finds Out Death

March 13th, 2013 by G.

From mysliveroflife.blogspot.com

From mysliveroflife.blogspot.com

In Spring the gardener finds out death.
He finds which limbs did not o’erwinter.
Some stems twig and bud and bloom,
Some stems splinter.

I lost a limb some seasons back,
Of my flesh, my firstborn daughter.
Time dried the break, but I still lack
The fruits–a moiety of laughter.


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March 13th, 2013 10:55:58

Coplas de Jorge Manrique

October 01st, 2010 by G.

How have these couplets on the death of the poet’s father until now escaped the grasp of my hispanophilia?

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October 01st, 2010 07:49:56


June 04th, 2010 by G.

“The white whale of the world
Hauled me down to its pit.”

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June 04th, 2010 09:24:45