#conrad aiken

[shisasan]

Conrad Aiken, Nocturne of Remembered Spring, and Other Poems originally published: 1917

[nobeerreviews]

Music I heard with you was more than music, and bread I broke with you was more than bread. Now that I am without you, all is desolate; all that was once so beautiful is dead.

-- Conrad Aiken

(Mamaia, Romania)

[lillyli-74]

Her glimmering phantom loveliness.

~Conrad Aiken

[thefrankshow]

Silent Snow, Secret Snow

[invisible-woe]

"We tried to turn away; but still Above we heard her sorrow thrill; And those that slept, they dreamed of ill And dreadful things: Of skies grown red with rending flames And shuddering hills that cracked their frames; Of twilights foul with wings; And skeletons dancing to a tune; And cries of children stifled soon; And over all a blood-red moon A dull and nightmare size. They woke, and sought to go their ways, Yet everywhere they met her gaze, Her fixed and burning eyes."

— from The Vampire, by Conrad Aiken

[reoccurrence]

[gay-mormon-wizard]

can someone PLEASE tell me what the fuck conrad aiken was talking about

[cozy4countrycottages]

Jeake's House,the home of American poet Conrad Aiken,and the childhood home of his daughter,English novelist Joan Aiken,author of The Wolves of Willoughby Chase

Jeake's House,mermiad Strete,Rye,East Sussex,TN31 7ET. Currently a Bed & Breakfast Hotel.

[theshatterednotes]

Conrad Aiken

[eluviannaa]

Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact,

Deceiving you—as far as I may know it—

Only so much as I deceive myself.

Conrad Aiken, Palimpsest: The Deceitful Portrait

[artisthomes]

Conrad Aiken's home at 228 East Oglethorpe Avenue in Savannah, Georgia, United States

[unbloodiedmartyr]

while still obedient to valves and knobs, the vascular jukebox throbs and sobs, expounding hope propounding yearning, proposing love but never learning!! jesus christ!!!!

[famousdeaths]

Conrad Potter Aiken was an American writer and poet, honored with a Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award, and was United States Poet Laureate from 1950 to 1...

Link: Conrad Aiken

[chiclet-go-boom]

Rimbaud and Verlaine

Rimbaud and Verlaine, precious pair of poets, Genius in both (but what is genius?) playing Chess on a marble table at an inn With chestnut blossom falling in blond beer And on their hair and between knight and bishop - Sunlight squared between them on the chess-board, Cirrus in heaven, and a squeal of music Blown from the leathern door of St. Sulpice -

Discussing, between moves, iamb and spondee Anacoluthon and the open vowel God the great peacock and his angel peacocks And his dependant peacocks the bright stars: Disputing too of fate as Plato loved it, Or Sophocles, who hated and admired, Or Socrates, who loved and was amused: Verlaine puts down his pawn upon a leaf And closes his long eyes, which are dishonest, And says, "Rimbaud, there is one thing to do: We must take rhetoric, and wring its neck! . . ." Rimbaud considers gravely, moves his Queen; And then removes himself to Timbuctoo.

And Verlaine dead, - with all his jades and mauves; And Rimbaud dead in Marseilles with a vision, His leg cut off, as once before his heart; And all reported by a later lackey, Whose virtue is his tardiness in time.

Let us describe the evening as it is: - The stars disposed in heaven as they are: Verlaine and Shakspere rotting, where they rot, Rimbaud remembered, and too soon forgot;

Order in all things, logic in the dark; Arrangement in the atom and the spark; Time in the heart and sequence in the brain -

Such as destroyed Rimbaud and fooled Verlaine. And let us then take godhead by the neck -

And strangle it, and with it, rhetoric. - Conrad Aiken

[poem-today]

A poem by Conrad Aiken

                              The Quarrel

Suddenly, after the quarrel, while we waited, Disheartened, silent, with downcast looks, nor stirred Eyelid nor finger, hopeless both, yet hoping Against all hope to unsay the sundering word: While all the room's stillness deepened, deepened about us And each of us crept his thought's way to discover How, with as little sound as the fall of a leaf, The shadow had fallen, and lover quarreled with lover; And while, in the quiet, I marveled–alas, alas– At your deep beauty, your tragic beauty, torn As the pale flower is torn by the wanton sparrow– This beauty, pitied and loved, and now forsworn; It was then, when the instant darkened to its darkest,– When faith was lost with hope, and the rain conspired To strike its gray arpeggios against our heartstrings,– When love no longer dared, and scarcely desired: It was then that suddenly, in the neighbor's room, The music started: that brave quartette of strings Breaking out of the stillness, as out of our stillness, Like the indomitable heart of life that sings When all is lost; and startled from our sorrow, Tranced from our grief by that diviner grief, We raised remembering eyes, each looked at other, Blinded with tears of joy; and another leaf Fell silently as that first; and in the instant The shadow had gone, our quarrel became absurd; And we rose, to the angelic voices of the music, And I touched your hand, and we kissed, without a word.

Conrad Aiken (1889-1973)

[imaginemirage]