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To: mr.mark who wrote (3204)	3/14/1999 11:30:00 PM
From: Volsi Mimir	Respond to of 13018

If I did not know that I was a true Dane, I might almost be tempted to suppose I was an Irishman in order to explain the contradictions at work within me. For the Irish have not the heart to baptize their children completely, they want to preserve just a little paganism and whereas a child is normally completely immersed, they keep his right arm out of the water so that in after life he can grasp a sword and hold a girl in his arm. Soren Aabye Kierkegaard [ i will type out the authors note in this poem book of scofield]

To: mr.mark who wrote (3204)	3/15/1999 12:10:00 AM
From: Volsi Mimir	Respond to of 13018

Lullaby James Scofield Last night I found a loneliness I could hold. Arms crossed, knees drawn up, we sat and rocked, This thing and I, the dawn far off, so far.... It is autumn, and the apples are falling, Our bodies are falling, souls oozing through the exit Of a cruel bruise. Time dies its minute death, Stiffens, moves on again, blind as an arrow. And all the dead scatter like fallen stars Startle this thing and I, locked in love and grief. [i will have to find the book its somewhere around... why is it when you want something, it isn't there?]

To: mr.mark who wrote (3204)	3/15/1999 12:31:00 AM
From: Volsi Mimir	Respond to of 13018

Trí shagas fear go dteipeann ortha bean do thuisgint, -- fir óga, fir aosda, agus fir mheadhon-aosda. Three kinds of men who fail to understand women-- young men, old men and middle-aged men Gaelic Proverb

To: mr.mark who wrote (3204)	3/15/1999 1:04:00 AM
From: Volsi Mimir	Respond to of 13018

Ceileann súil an ni ná faiceann. The eyes hides what it does not see Irish Superstition- The Head Examined and Healed All heads, whether of geniuses or of ordinary people, are of course susceptible to illness, which was imagined to be caused by a spirit entering the person and putting his dimensions out of proportion. It was thought that the head should have the same circumference when measured vertically and horizontally, and so in order to cure headaches or nervous tension, it was measured both ways to discover what abnormality had occurred. A bandage or stocking would then be tightened around the head and gently squeeeeeezed to bring it back to shape. A common fancy was that the shape of the head indicated personal characteristics. For instance, a broad brow was taken to mean a very developed intelligence, whereas wrinkles on the forehead meant that the person was prone to worry and anxiety. The head was accorded importance in aesthetic terms too. In both early and modern times, a person with a broad temple, bright forehead and gradually narrowing cheeks was considered very handsome. The mantic importance of the head was reflected in the widespread belief that cures could be obtained by drinking milk from a skull, and the custom in some areas of swearing oaths on skulls. [sure puts a new spin on gettin some skull..... .......Got Milk?...... she asked.] Chan fheil liaigh no léigheas ar a' ghráidh. There is no physician or cure for love

To: mr.mark who wrote (3204)	3/15/1999 1:18:00 AM
From: Volsi Mimir	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 13018

James Scofield is a poet and essayist whose work has appeared throughout the United States, and in England, Canada, and India. He began writing 30 years ago, and wrote each day for 6 years, producing only 26 poems, all of which he destroyed. In the seventh year he finished "Festival", which was then published by Bellowing Ark of Seattle, Washington. During the remaining years he has written 30 poems which he has wished to keep, and those poems make up this, his first book of poems. Throughout 30 years he has written with the enduring belief that poems should possess a rhetorical surge and a mythopoeic posture, poems that sprung into presence and stand there, as Czeslaw Milosz said, "blinking and lashing their tails." 55 and Losing My collection of moments had a hole in the bottom, the fertility of order dribbled away. Time, his kids sprawling and spawning, joked, "Soon you will stop losing ground and gain ground!" Seventeen coats of lacquer on a '46 Chevy, girls with sandy feet and high-flying bikes, frying lust, garden veggies and rope swings, all poor fish now, all alike dissolving. From out of the center the gurney wheels roll. Now that awful moment of a moment's surrender. [guess he wasn't very prolific, just a little slow or over and over the same, day after day the same, over and over the same o!o! losing it., G'nite] 6 years every day= 2190days/ 26 poems =84 days per poem hope he wasnt doing that for a living. and then he threw them away.