tounge twister

A bitter biting bittern
Bit a better brother bittern,
And the bitter better bittern
Bit the bitter biter back.
And the bitter bittern, bitten,
By the better bitten bittern,
Said: "I'm a bitter biter bit, alack!"

POEM

IF AT THE SEA,

WERE TWO BEAUTIFUL PEARLS,

AS YOUR EYES,

OBVIOUSLY I RETURNED,

BECAUSE THE ONLY THING THAT I WANT,

ARE YOUR BEAUTIFUL AND COLORFUL EYES,

AS THE WAY YOU FEEL,

DEPENDS WHAT COLOR OF YOUR EYES,

BLUE, WHEN YOU’RE HAPPY,

RED, WHEN YOU’RE ANGRY,

YELLOW, WHEN YOU’RE HUNGRY,

GREEN, WHEN YOU’RE SAD,

NO MATTERS WHAT THEY SAY,

FOR ME,

YOU HAVE SUCH A BEAUTIFUL EYES,

poeM

Conrad AikenWhy do I look at you? Why do I touch you? What do I seek in you, woman,
That I should to meet you again?
Why must I sound once more your abysmal anothingnees,
And draw up only pain?
Hard, hard, I stare at you watery ayes; yet am not convinced, Now no more than ever before,
That they are only two mirrors reflecting the sky’s blank light,
That, and nothing more.
And I press my body against your body, as thoungh I hoped to break
Clean through to another sphere;
And I strive to speak to you with a speech beyond my speech,
In which all things are clear;
Till exhausted I drown once more in your abysmal nothingnees,
And the cold nothignees of me:
You, laughing and crying in this ridiculous room,
With your had upon my knee;
Crying because you think me perverse and unhappy; and laughing
To find our love so strange;
Our eyes fixed hard on each other in a last blind desperate hope
That the whole world might change.

POEM!!

This is the shape of the leaf, and this of the flower,
And this the pale bole of the tree
Which watches its boughs in a pool of unwavering water
In a land we never shall see.

The thrush on the bough is silent, the dew falls softly,
In the evening is hardly a sound.
And the three beautiful pilgrims who come here together
Touch lightly the dust of the ground,

Touch it with feet that trouble the dust but as wings do,
Come shyly together, are still,
Like dancers who wait, in a pause of the music, for music
The exquisite silence to fill.

This is the thought of the first, and this of the second,
And this the grave thought of the third:
"Linger we thus for a moment, palely expectant,
And silence will end, and the bird

"Sing the pure phrase, sweet phrase, clear phrase in the twilight
To fill the blue bell of the world;

And we, who on music so leaf like have drifted together,
Leaflike apart shall be whirled

Into what but the beauty of silence, silence forever?" . . .
. . . This is the shape of the tree,
And the flower, and the leaf, and the three pale beautiful pilgrims
This is what you are to me.