In Memory of the Unknown Poet Robert Boardman Vaughn. Justice, D. The Sunset Maker, 1987. abstract bibtex But the essential advantage for a poet is not, to have a beautiful world with which to deal: it is to be able to see beneath both beauty and ugliness; to see the boredom, and the horror, and the glory. –T. S. Eliot It was his story. It had always been his story. It followed him, it overtook him finally– The boredom, and the horror, and the glory. Probably at the end he was not yet sorry, Even as the boots were brutalizing him in the alley. It was his story. It had always been his story. Blown on a blue horn, full of sound and fury, But signifying, O signifying magnificently The boredom, and the horror, and the glory. I picture the snow as falling without hurry To cover the cobbles and toppled ashcans completely. It was his story. It had always been his story. Lately he had wandered between St. Mark's place and the Bowery, Already half a spirit, mumbling and muttering sadly. O the boredom, and the horror, and the glory! All done now. But I remember the fiery, Hypnotic eye and the raised voice blazing with poetry. It was his story and had always been his story– The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
@article{justice_memory_1987,
title = {In {Memory} of the {Unknown} {Poet} {Robert} {Boardman} {Vaughn}},
shorttitle = {In {Memory} of the {Unknown} {Poet} {Robert} {Boardman} {Vaughn}},
abstract = {But the essential advantage for a poet is not, to have a beautiful world with which to deal: it is to be able to see beneath both beauty and ugliness; to see the boredom, and the horror, and the glory. --T. S. Eliot
It was his story. It had always been his story.
It followed him, it overtook him finally--
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
Probably at the end he was not yet sorry,
Even as the boots were brutalizing him in the alley.
It was his story. It had always been his story.
Blown on a blue horn, full of sound and fury,
But signifying, O signifying magnificently
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
I picture the snow as falling without hurry
To cover the cobbles and toppled ashcans completely.
It was his story. It had always been his story.
Lately he had wandered between St. Mark's place and the Bowery,
Already half a spirit, mumbling and muttering sadly.
O the boredom, and the horror, and the glory!
All done now. But I remember the fiery,
Hypnotic eye and the raised voice blazing with poetry.
It was his story and had always been his story--
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.},
journal = {The Sunset Maker},
author = {Justice, Donald},
year = {1987},
keywords = {Appendix II Villanelles Done},
}
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