Meyran Kraus

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Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

A poem by Rossetti, anagrammed into a paraphrase that is also an acrostic on the poet's name.


When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me:
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain;
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.


Ha, darling, when I perish,
Read me no poems please;
I shan't be - to heed heather bells,
Strong hops shall only tease;
The weed that grows nearby me
In rain and wind shall rot;
Needn't you to regard me -
And don't if you want not.

Raw phantoms? I won't sight them,
Or thunders - far and here;
Shy sonnet of a hummingbird
Shan't meet my lifeless ears;
Envisaging light-ages,
The sad glow of a sea...
Try as I might to fight it -
I'd drop my wish for thee.

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A poem by Plath, anagrammed into a paraphrase that is also an acrostic on the poet's name.

Sheep in Fog

The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the color of rust,
Hooves, dolorous bells----
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,
A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.

    The Lost Lamb

Snowy mountains go by. Masses or planets probe me,
Yearning, lamenting, then ill-tempered.
Locomotive releases the noble
Veil. Oh, tired stallion,
Its torso red,
All flaked off;
Puffs, his hops unstable,
Ah, the clear dawn dies,
The rose forlorn. High hopes frost -
How I long for the earth.

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George Meredith
Love in the Valley

Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward,
  Couch'd with her arms behind her golden head,
Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,
  Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.
Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her,
  Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow,
Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me:
  Then would she hold me and never let me go?

Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,
  Swift as the swallow along the river's light
Circleting the surface to meet his mirror'd winglets,
  Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.
Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops,
  Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,
  Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

Lee Tyler
Hot Lover Giving Me Head

Her melon-like breasts shine and glisten, white as pearl.
  Her slit and teddy land under the bed.
With her ripe lips wrapped around my cock, my darling
  Drives me crazy as she gives me head.
The bed trembles when she melts and handles me,
  Her long tongue wiggles, deep... ah, she's so hot!
Gee, how much longer can I endure the penetration
  Before I lose it and unload one in her throat?

She goes down lower, faster now, with hasty rhythm.
  The pace is sensual, I cannot stand the raw delight!
I hold her rich hair, thrusting her harder onwards
  As she chews and fellates, the lady of the night.
I get quite eager as my thighs start to quiver;
  'Quarts of sperm on their way now,' inform the balls.
I cry when waves of pleasure heighten, caress me:
  "On, sweetest love! Swallow! Swallow it all!"

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Hamlet, V, ii, 232-237

"Not a whit, we defy augury: There 's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 't is not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is 't to leave betimes?"
(Shakespeare's 'Hamlet')

A woeful speaker, Hamlet weeps of a flying bird's fate, I believe, then, in a combination of poetic feats and wit, he, um, welcomes a new, positive view as his...
Oy. Truth is, I can't tell what the hell is he saying to me. I lost him after the second 'now'... "To be or not to be" was a lot clearer, wasn't it?

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A poem by an Israeli poet.

Yehuda Amichai
What Kind of a Person

"What kind of a person are you," I heard them say to me.
I'm a person with a complex plumbing of the soul,
Sophisticated instruments of feeling and a system
Of controlled memory at the end of the twentieth century,
But with an old body from ancient times
And with a God even older than my body.

I'm a person for the surface of the earth.
Low places, caves and wells
Frighten me. Mountain peaks
And tall buildings scare me.
I'm not like an inserted fork,
Not a cutting knife, not a stuck spoon.

I'm not flat and sly
Like a spatula creeping up from below.
At most I am a heavy and clumsy pestle
Mashing good and bad together
For a little taste
And a little fragrance.

Arrows do not direct me. I conduct
My business carefully and quietly
Like a long will that began to be written
The moment I was born.

Now I stand at the side of the street
Weary, leaning on a parking meter.
I can stand here for nothing, free.

I'm not a car, I'm a person,
A man-god, a god-man
Whose days are numbered. Hallelujah.

Mey K.
Is this truly me?

"Is this truly you?", people ask me
When they're looking at each album. No, it's not.
I'm a fallen elder with a bad, crap-filled brain locked on self-destruction,
Dead senses and a fucked-up, apathetic approach,
But stuffed in a tall, buff figure in modern times,
Part of a society phase that's almost newer than me.

I'm more of a living-room man.
I can dread the outside world,
Yet get anxious when closed in my
Own damp room for too long.
I'm nothing like a loud dog,
A warm toaster or a black desk.

Ah, I'm certainly not an on-line connection,
Fast, netted and changing,
But more of a television channel,
Generating mindless entertainment,
Always fake
And always self-aware.

Few pointers are called for
When I think and when I try and anagram a long poem;
I'm a square-dance, which peglegged steps
Were drafted at birth.

My left hand rests on the empty mouse-pad.
It oughtn't to move the cursor by itself.
That's not its job.

I'm a man, not a mouse,
A deity-born, a born deity
That won't last much longer... Amen for that.

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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