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By Patrick Woodcock
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Here's the definitive number of poetry from certainly one of America’s best-loved writers—now to be had in paperback. With the booklet of this e-book, 8 volumes of poetry have been introduced again into print, together with the early nature-based lyrics of undeniable tune, the explosive Outlyer & Ghazals, and the startling "correspondence" with a useless Russian poet in Letters to Yesenin.
Il fait bon lire Clément Marot aujourd'hui. Malgré les siècles qui nous séparent du " prince des poëtes françoys ", c'est une voix familière qui nous parle, et qui n'a rien perdu de sa fraîcheur. Valet de chambre de François 1er et de Marguerite de Navarre, Marot est de ces courtisans qui flattent leur mécène en raillant leur propre flagornerie ; fervent défenseur de l'Evangile, il est de ces croyants qui jouent les bouffons pour révéler leur foi ; poète Protée insaisissable, il est aussi bien le traducteur des Psaumes que l'auteur de pièces badines comme l'éloge " Du beau tétin ".
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Additional resources for Always die before your mother
I ordered rum and cigarettes and now sit watching an old woman struggling with a flower arrangement twice as big as she is. Two hours ago, I was in that same cemetery taking photographs of graves and burnt crosses piled upon each other, like those who couldn’t find shelter in Armero. I saw the bleakest of portraits — humidity can twist any smile into a scowl. I found the rain -stained letters of the living taped to headstones. They were too faded, and my Spanish too limited, for me to read. Right now, I am thinking about the children I met this morning.
Take that one — he smokes like a hairdresser — eyes full of sunshine and all that teaboy scurry. And him — drunk and reeling like a whirlpool . . he could silhouette even the finest Catholic vision. Okay, I have been drinking, but I still think their horns sound like a harpsichord shitting a cat. 59 LOS MAGNIFICOS I am watching six men create fire: in a perfect arc they lob halved leaden balls at two triangles of gunpowder. I sit below a corrugated metal roof that is being battered by rain — it is leaking in three places — always on us.
51 THE TOILET SONG There is no wall to hide your junk, no ceiling and no seat. Just a trough and cigarettes sunk and urine at your feet. The smell is like the tongue of a corpse dragged damp across your face. Like being slapped by their great lord, then buggered by His grace. It is dark — a black nightmare dark, her father’s chasing me. Simply because I left this mark, seed and apostasy. It is white, a cold padded white, I’m shackled to my bed. ” But powder formed and powder shaped can shock me from my gloom.