https://wiki.uni-konstanz.de/offroad/api.php?action=feedcontributions&feedformat=atom&user=Jakob.brossmerOff the Road Database - User contributions [en]2026-04-22T02:07:13ZUser contributionsMediaWiki 1.43.8https://wiki.uni-konstanz.de/offroad/index.php?title=She_being_Brand&diff=673She being Brand2025-02-26T09:00:57Z<p>Jakob.brossmer: </p>
<hr />
<div><meta<br />
author="Cummings, Edward Estline"<br />
additional_information=""<br />
year_of_publication="1926"<br />
genre="Poetry"<br />
publisher="Liveright"<br />
journal="E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962"<br />
page_range="246"<br />
/><br />
<annotations><br />
<paragraph keywords="technology, pleasure, gender, personification"><br />
<poem><br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="personification, gender"><br />
<poem><br />
she being Brand<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
-new;and you<br />
know consequently a<br />
little stiff i was<br />
careful of her and(having<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car part, haptic, gender, maintenance, oil"><br />
<poem><br />
thoroughly oiled the universal<br />
joint tested my gas felt of<br />
her radiator made sure her springs were O.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="driving, car, car part, metaphor, sound"><br />
<poem><br />
K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="driving, driver, driving skill, car part, gender, haptic, agency, personification"><br />
<poem><br />
up,slipped the<br />
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she<br />
kicked what<br />
the hell)next<br />
minute i was back in neutral tried and<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="slowness, driving"><br />
<poem><br />
again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. &nbsp; &nbsp; ing(my<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car part, driving, engine, oil, gender, metaphor, haptic, driving, pleasure, sublime"><br />
<poem><br />
lev-er Right-<br />
oh and her gears being in<br />
A 1 shape passed<br />
from low through<br />
second-in-to-high like<br />
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="driving, road, speed"><br />
<poem><br />
avenue i touched the accelerator and give<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="gasoline"><br />
<poem><br />
her the juice,good<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
::::::::(it<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="driving, gender, haptic, affect, pleasure, urban"><br />
<poem><br />
was the first ride and believe i we was<br />
happy to see how nice she acted right up to<br />
the last minute coming back down by the Public<br />
Gardens i slammed on<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car part, personification, driving, engine, speed, death"><br />
<poem><br />
the<br />
internalexpanding<br />
&<br />
externalcontracting<br />
brakes Bothatonce and<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
brought allofher tremB<br />
-ling<br />
to a:dead.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="slowness, stop, parking"><br />
<poem><br />
stand-<br />
&semi;Still)<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
</annotations></div>Jakob.brossmerhttps://wiki.uni-konstanz.de/offroad/index.php?title=She_being_Brand&diff=672She being Brand2025-02-21T15:28:54Z<p>Jakob.brossmer: </p>
<hr />
<div><meta<br />
author="Cummings, Edward Estline"<br />
additional_information=""<br />
year_of_publication="1926"<br />
genre="Poetry"<br />
publisher="Liveright"<br />
journal="E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962"<br />
page_range="246"<br />
/><br />
<annotations><br />
<paragraph keywords="technology, pleasure, gender, personification"><br />
<poem><br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="personification, gender"><br />
<poem><br />
she being Brand<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
-new;and you<br />
know consequently a<br />
little stiff i was<br />
careful of her and(having<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car part, haptic, gender, maintenance, oil"><br />
<poem><br />
thoroughly oiled the universal<br />
joint tested my gas felt of<br />
her radiator made sure her springs were O.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="driving, car, car part, metaphor, sound"><br />
<poem><br />
K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="driving, driver, driving skill, car part, gender, haptic, agency, personification"><br />
<poem><br />
up,slipped the<br />
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she<br />
kicked what<br />
the hell)next<br />
minute i was back in neutral tried and<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="slowness, driving"><br />
<poem><br />
again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car part, driving, engine, oil, gender, metaphor, haptic, driving, pleasure, sublime"><br />
<poem><br />
lev-er Right-<br />
oh and her gears being in<br />
A 1 shape passed<br />
from low through<br />
second-in-to-high like<br />
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="driving, road, speed"><br />
<poem><br />
avenue i touched the accelerator and give<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="gasoline"><br />
<poem><br />
her the juice,good<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
::::::::(it<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="driving, gender, haptic, affect, pleasure, urban"><br />
<poem><br />
was the first ride and believe i we was<br />
happy to see how nice she acted right up to<br />
the last minute coming back down by the Public<br />
Gardens i slammed on<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car part, personification, driving, engine, speed, death"><br />
<poem><br />
the<br />
internalexpanding<br />
&<br />
externalcontracting<br />
brakes Bothatonce and<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
brought allofher tremB<br />
-ling<br />
to a:dead.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="slowness, stop, parking"><br />
<poem><br />
stand-<br />
&semi;Still)<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
</annotations></div>Jakob.brossmerhttps://wiki.uni-konstanz.de/offroad/index.php?title=Brown%E2%80%99s_Descent_or,_the_Willy-Nilly_Slide&diff=671Brown’s Descent or, the Willy-Nilly Slide2025-02-21T14:36:13Z<p>Jakob.brossmer: Created page with "<meta author="Frost, Robert" year_of_publication="1920" additional_information="" genre="Poetry" publisher="Henry Holt and Company" journal="Selected Poems" page_range="132-135" /> <annotations> <paragraph keywords=""> <poem> </poem> </paragraph> <paragraph keywords=""> <poem> Brown lived at such a lofty farm That everyone for miles could see His lantern when he did his chores In winter after half-past three. </poem> </paragraph> <paragraph keywords=""..."</p>
<hr />
<div><meta<br />
author="Frost, Robert"<br />
year_of_publication="1920"<br />
additional_information=""<br />
genre="Poetry"<br />
publisher="Henry Holt and Company"<br />
journal="Selected Poems"<br />
page_range="132-135"<br />
/><br />
<annotations><br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Brown lived at such a lofty farm<br />
That everyone for miles could see<br />
His lantern when he did his chores<br />
In winter after half-past three.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
And many must have seen him make<br />
His wild descent from there one night,<br />
’Cross lots, ’cross walls, ’cross everything,<br />
Describing rings of lantern light.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Between the house and barn the gale<br />
Got him by something he had on<br />
And blew him out on the icy crust<br />
That cased the world, and he was gone!<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Walls were all buried, trees were few:<br />
He saw no stay unless he stove<br />
A hole in somewhere with his heel.<br />
But though repeatedly he strove<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
And stamped and said things to himself,<br />
And sometimes something seemed to yield,<br />
He gained no foothold, but pursued<br />
His journey down from field to field.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Sometimes he came with arms outspread<br />
Like wings, revolving in the scene<br />
Upon his longer axis, and<br />
With no small dignity of mien.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Faster or slower as he chanced,<br />
Sitting or standing as he chose,<br />
According as he feared to risk<br />
His neck, or thought to spare his clothes,<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
He never let the lantern drop.<br />
And some exclaimed who saw afar<br />
The figures he described with it,<br />
“I wonder what those signals are<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Brown makes at such an hour of night!<br />
He’s celebrating something strange.<br />
I wonder if he’s sold his farm,<br />
Or been made Master of the Grange.”<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked;<br />
He fell and made the lantern rattle<br />
(But saved the light from going out.)<br />
So half-way down he fought the battle<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Incredulous of his own bad luck.<br />
And then becoming reconciled<br />
To everything, he gave it up<br />
And came down like a coasting child.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="road, roadside, river, road condition, risk, safety"><br />
<poem><br />
“Well—I—be——” that was all he said,<br />
As standing in the river road,<br />
He looked back up the slippery slope<br />
(Two miles it was) to his abode.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car"><br />
<poem><br />
Sometimes as an authority<br />
On motor-cars, I’m asked if I<br />
Should say our stock was petered out,<br />
And this is my sincere reply:<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car, metaphor"><br />
<poem><br />
Yankees are what they always were.<br />
Don’t think Brown ever gave up hope<br />
Of getting home again because<br />
He couldn’t climb that slippery slope;<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Or even thought of standing there<br />
Until the January thaw<br />
Should take the polish off the crust.<br />
He bowed with grace to natural law,<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
And then went round it on his feet,<br />
After the manner of our stock;<br />
Not much concerned for those to whom,<br />
At that particular time o’clock,<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="road, navigation, car, driving, driving skill "><br />
<poem><br />
It must have looked as if the course<br />
He steered was really straight away<br />
From that which he was headed for—<br />
Not much concerned for them, I say.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="road, affect, navigation"><br />
<poem><br />
But now he snapped his eyes three times;<br />
Then shook his lantern, saying, “Ile’s<br />
’Bout out!” and took the long way home<br />
By road, a matter of several miles.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</annotations></div>Jakob.brossmerhttps://wiki.uni-konstanz.de/offroad/index.php?title=Don%27t_get_me_wrong_oblivion&diff=670Don't get me wrong oblivion2025-02-21T14:05:14Z<p>Jakob.brossmer: </p>
<hr />
<div><meta<br />
author="Cummings, Edward Estline"<br />
year_of_publication="1916"<br />
additional_information=""<br />
genre="Poetry"<br />
publisher="Liveright"<br />
journal="E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962"<br />
page_range="940-941"<br />
/><br />
<annotations><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
don't get me wrong oblivion<br />
I never loved you kiddo<br />
you that was always sticking around<br />
::::::::::::::::spoiling me for everyone else<br />
::::::::::::::::telling me how it would make<br />
::::::::::::::::you nutty if I didn’t let you<br />
::::::::::::::::go the distance<br />
and I gave you my breasts to feel<br />
didn’t I<br />
:::and my mouth to kiss<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
O I was too good to you oblivion old kid that’s all<br />
and when I might have told you<br />
::::::::::::::::to go ahead and croak yourselflike<br />
::::::::::::::::you was always threatening you was<br />
::::::::::::::::going to do<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::I didn’t<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::I said go on you inter-<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::est me<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::I let you hang around<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::and whimper<br />
and I’ve been getting mine<br />
Listen<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car, driving, driver, urban, affect, passenger"><br />
<poem><br />
there’s a fellow I love like I never love anyone else that’s six<br />
foot two tall with a face like any girl would die to kiss and a skin<br />
like a little kitten’s<br />
that’s asked me to go to Murray’s tonight with him and see the cab-<br />
aret and dance you know<br />
well<br />
if he asks me to take another I’m going to and if he asks me to take<br />
another after that I’m going to do that and if he puts me into a taxi<br />
and tells the driver to take her easy and steer for the morning I’m<br />
going to let him and if he starts in right away putting it to me in<br />
the cab<br />
I’m not going to whisper<br />
oblivion<br />
do you get me<br />
not that I’m tired of automats and Childs’s and handling out ribbon to<br />
old ladies that ain’t got three teeth and being followed home by pimps<br />
and stewed guys and sleeping lonely in a whitewashed room three thou-<br />
sand below Zero&nbsp; &nbsp;oh no<br />
::::::::::::::::I could stand that<br />
but it’s that I’m O Gawd how tired<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::of seeing the white face of you and<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::feeling the old hands of you and<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::being teased and jollied about you<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::and being prayed and implored and<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::bribed and threatened<br />
to give you my beautiful white body<br />
kiddo<br />
:::::that’s why<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</annotations></div>Jakob.brossmerhttps://wiki.uni-konstanz.de/offroad/index.php?title=The_Bridge:_VII_The_Tunnel&diff=669The Bridge: VII The Tunnel2025-02-21T12:33:28Z<p>Jakob.brossmer: </p>
<hr />
<div><meta<br />
author="Crane, Hart"<br />
additional_information=""<br />
year_of_publication="1933"<br />
genre="Poetry"<br />
publisher="Liveright Publishing Corporation"<br />
journal="The Collected Poems of Hart Crane"<br />
page_range="49-54"<br />
/><br />
<annotations><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
::::::::::: <i>To Find the Western path</i><br />
::::::::::: <i>Right thro' the Gates of Wrath</i><br />
:::::::::::::::::::: <i>—Blake</i><br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="infrastructure"><br />
<poem><br />
Performances, assortments, résumés&mdash;<br />
Up Times Square to Columbus Circle lights<br />
Channel the congresses, nightly sessions,<br />
Refractions of the thousand theatres, faces&mdash;<br />
Mysterious kitchens.... You shall search them all.<br />
Some day by heart you’ll learn each famous sight<br />
And watch the curtain lift in hell’s despite;<br />
You’ll find the garden in the third act dead,<br />
Finger your knees&mdash;and wish yourself in bed<br />
With tabloid crime-sheets perched in easy sight.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
::: Then let you reach your hat<br />
::: and go.<br />
::: As usual, let you—also<br />
::: walking down—exclaim<br />
::: to twelve upward leaving<br />
::: a subscription praise<br />
::: for what time slays.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="train"><br />
<poem><br />
Or can’t you quite make up your mind to ride;<br />
A walk is better underneath the L a brisk<br />
Ten blocks or so before? But you find yourself<br />
Preparing penguin flexions of the arms,—<br />
As usual you will meet the scuttle yawn:<br />
The subway yawns the quickest promise home.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Be minimum, then, to swim the hiving swarms<br />
Out of the Square, the Circle burning bright—<br />
Avoid the glass doors gyring at your right,<br />
Where boxed alone a second, eyes take fright<br />
—Quite unprepared rush naked back to light:<br />
And down beside the turnstile press the coin<br />
Into the slot. The gongs already rattle.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="train"><br />
<poem><br />
::: And so<br />
::: of cities you bespeak<br />
::: subways, rivered under streets<br />
::: and rivers.... In the car<br />
::: the overtone of motion<br />
::: underground, the monotone<br />
::: of motion is the sound<br />
::: of other faces, also underground—<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
“Let’s have a pencil Jimmy—living now<br />
at Floral Park<br />
Flatbush—on the Fourth of July—<br />
like a pigeon’s muddy dream&mdash;potatoes<br />
to dig in the field&mdash;travlin the town&mdash;too&mdash;<br />
night after night&mdash;the Culver line&mdash;the<br />
girls all shaping up&mdash;it used to be&mdash;”<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Our tongues recant like beaten weather vanes.<br />
This answer lives like verdigris, like hair<br />
Beyond extinction, surcease of the bone;<br />
And repetition freezes&mdash;“What<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
“what do you want? getting weak on the links?<br />
fandaddle daddy don’t ask for change—IS THIS<br />
FOURTEENTH? it’s half past six she said—if<br />
you don’t like my gate why did you<br />
swing on it, why <i>didja</i><br />
swing on it<br />
anyhow—”<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
::: And somehow anyhow swing—<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
The phonographs of hades in the brain<br />
Are tunnels that re-wind themselves, and love<br />
A burnt match skating in a urinal—<br />
Somewhere above Fourteenth TAKE THE EXPRESS<br />
To brush some new presentiment of pain—<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
“But I want service in this office SERVICE<br />
I said—after<br />
the show she cried a little afterwards but—”<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Whose head is swinging from the swollen strap?<br />
Whose body smokes along the bitten rails,<br />
Bursts from a smoldering bundle far behind<br />
In back forks of the chasms of the brain,—<br />
Puffs from a riven stump far out behind<br />
In interborough fissures of the mind...?<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
And why do I often meet your visage here,<br />
Your eyes like agate lanterns—on and on<br />
Below the toothpaste and the dandruff ads?<br />
—And did their riding eyes right through your side,<br />
And did their eyes like unwashed platters ride?<br />
And Death, aloft,—gigantically down<br />
Probing through you—toward me, O evermore!<br />
And when they dragged your retching flesh,<br />
Your trembling hands that night through Baltimore—<br />
That last night on the ballot rounds, did you<br />
Shaking, did you deny the ticket, Poe?<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
For Gravesend Manor change at Chambers Street.<br />
The platform hurries along to a dead stop.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="anthropomorphism, car, metaphor, sound, road, weather, thunder, train"><br />
<poem><br />
The intent escalator lifts a serenade<br />
Stilly<br />
Of shoes, umbrellas, each eye attending its shoe, then<br />
Bolting outright somewhere above where streets<br />
Burst suddenly in rain.... The gongs recur:<br />
Elbows and levers, guard and hissing door.<br />
Thunder is galvothermic here below.... The car<br />
Wheels off. The train rounds, bending to a scream,<br />
Taking the final level for the dive<br />
Under the river—<br />
And somewhat emptier than before,<br />
Demented, for a hitching second, humps; then<br />
Lets go.... Toward corners of the floor<br />
Newspapers wing, revolve and wing.<br />
Blank windows gargle signals through the roar.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
And does the Daemon take you home, also,<br />
Wop washerwoman, with the bandaged hair?<br />
After the corridors are swept, the cuspidors—<br />
The gaunt sky-barracks cleanly now, and bare,<br />
O Genoese, do you bring mother eyes and hands<br />
Back home to children and to golden hair?<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Daemon, demurring and eventful yawn!<br />
Whose hideous laughter is a bellows mirth<br />
—Or the muffled slaughter of a day in birth—<br />
O cruelly to inoculate the brinking dawn<br />
With antennae toward worlds that glow and sink;—<br />
To spoon us out more liquid than the dim<br />
Locution of the eldest star, and pack<br />
The conscience navelled in the plunging wind,<br />
Umbilical to call—and straightway die!<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
O caught like pennies beneath soot and steam,<br />
Kiss of our agony thou gatherest;<br />
Condensed, thou takest all—shrill ganglia<br />
Impassioned with some song we fail to keep.<br />
And yet, like Lazarus, to feel the slope,<br />
The sod and billow breaking,—lifting ground,<br />
—A sound of waters bending astride the sky<br />
Unceasing with some Word that will not die...!<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
::::::::::*<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="driving, infrastructure, pollution, ocean, river, urban, city"><br />
<poem><br />
A tugboat, wheezing wreaths of steam,<br />
Lunged past, with one galvanic blare stove up the River.<br />
I counted the echoes assembling, one after one,<br />
Searching, thumbing the midnight on the piers.<br />
Lights, coasting, left the oily tympanum of waters;<br />
The blackness somewhere gouged glass on a sky.<br />
And this thy harbor, O my City, I have driven under,<br />
Tossed from the coil of ticking towers.... Tomorrow,<br />
And to be.... Hereby the River that is East—<br />
Here at the waters’ edge the hands drop memory;<br />
Shadowless in that abyss they unaccounting lie.<br />
How far away the star has pooled the sea—<br />
Or shall the hands be drawn away, to die?<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Kiss of our agony Thou gatherest,<br />
::::::::: O Hand of Fire<br />
::::::::::::: gatherest—<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
</annotations></div>Jakob.brossmerhttps://wiki.uni-konstanz.de/offroad/index.php?title=The_Bridge:_VII_The_Tunnel&diff=668The Bridge: VII The Tunnel2025-02-21T12:19:55Z<p>Jakob.brossmer: </p>
<hr />
<div><meta<br />
author="Crane, Hart"<br />
additional_information=""<br />
year_of_publication="1933"<br />
genre="Poetry"<br />
publisher="Liveright Publishing Corporation"<br />
journal="The Collected Poems of Hart Crane"<br />
page_range="49-54"<br />
/><br />
<annotations><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
::::::::::: <i>To Find the Western path</i><br />
::::::::::: <i>Right thro' the Gates of Wrath</i><br />
:::::::::::::::::::: <i>—Blake</i><br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="infrastructure"><br />
<poem><br />
Performances, assortments, résumés&mdash;<br />
Up Times Square to Columbus Circle lights<br />
Channel the congresses, nightly sessions,<br />
Refractions of the thousand theatres, faces&mdash;<br />
Mysterious kitchens.... You shall search them all.<br />
Some day by heart you’ll learn each famous sight<br />
And watch the curtain lift in hell’s despite;<br />
You’ll find the garden in the third act dead,<br />
Finger your knees&mdash;and wish yourself in bed<br />
With tabloid crime-sheets perched in easy sight.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
::: Then let you reach your hat<br />
::: and go.<br />
::: As usual, let you—also<br />
::: walking down—exclaim<br />
::: to twelve upward leaving<br />
::: a subscription praise<br />
::: for what time slays.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="train"><br />
<poem><br />
Or can’t you quite make up your mind to ride;<br />
A walk is better underneath the L a brisk<br />
Ten blocks or so before? But you find yourself<br />
Preparing penguin flexions of the arms,—<br />
As usual you will meet the scuttle yawn:<br />
The subway yawns the quickest promise home.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Be minimum, then, to swim the hiving swarms<br />
Out of the Square, the Circle burning bright—<br />
Avoid the glass doors gyring at your right,<br />
Where boxed alone a second, eyes take fright<br />
—Quite unprepared rush naked back to light:<br />
And down beside the turnstile press the coin<br />
Into the slot. The gongs already rattle.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="train"><br />
<poem><br />
::: And so<br />
::: of cities you bespeak<br />
::: subways, rivered under streets<br />
::: and rivers.... In the car<br />
::: the overtone of motion<br />
::: underground, the monotone<br />
::: of motion is the sound<br />
::: of other faces, also underground—<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
“Let’s have a pencil Jimmy—living now<br />
at Floral Park<br />
Flatbush—on the Fourth of July—<br />
like a pigeon’s muddy dream&mdash;potatoes<br />
to dig in the field&mdash;travlin the town&mdash;too&mdash;<br />
night after night&mdash;the Culver line&mdash;the<br />
girls all shaping up&mdash;it used to be&mdash;”<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Our tongues recant like beaten weather vanes.<br />
This answer lives like verdigris, like hair<br />
Beyond extinction, surcease of the bone;<br />
And repetition freezes&mdash;“What<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
“what do you want? getting weak on the links?<br />
fandaddle daddy don’t ask for change—IS THIS<br />
FOURTEENTH? it’s half past six she said—if<br />
you don’t like my gate why did you<br />
swing on it, why <i>didja</i><br />
swing on it<br />
anyhow—”<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
::: And somehow anyhow swing—<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
The phonographs of hades in the brain<br />
Are tunnels that re-wind themselves, and love<br />
A burnt match skating in a urinal—<br />
Somewhere above Fourteenth TAKE THE EXPRESS<br />
To brush some new presentiment of pain—<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
“But I want service in this office SERVICE<br />
I said—after<br />
the show she cried a little afterwards but—”<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Whose head is swinging from the swollen strap?<br />
Whose body smokes along the bitten rails,<br />
Bursts from a smoldering bundle far behind<br />
In back forks of the chasms of the brain,—<br />
Puffs from a riven stump far out behind<br />
In interborough fissures of the mind...?<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
And why do I often meet your visage here,<br />
Your eyes like agate lanterns—on and on<br />
Below the toothpaste and the dandruff ads?<br />
—And did their riding eyes right through your side,<br />
And did their eyes like unwashed platters ride?<br />
And Death, aloft,—gigantically down<br />
Probing through you—toward me, O evermore!<br />
And when they dragged your retching flesh,<br />
Your trembling hands that night through Baltimore—<br />
That last night on the ballot rounds, did you<br />
Shaking, did you deny the ticket, Poe?<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
For Gravesend Manor change at Chambers Street.<br />
The platform hurries along to a dead stop.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="anthropomorphism, car, metaphor, sound, road, weather, thunder, train"><br />
<poem><br />
The intent escalator lifts a serenade<br />
Stilly<br />
Of shoes, umbrellas, each eye attending its shoe, then<br />
Bolting outright somewhere above where streets<br />
Burst suddenly in rain.... The gongs recur:<br />
Elbows and levers, guard and hissing door.<br />
Thunder is galvothermic here below.... The car<br />
Wheels off. The train rounds, bending to a scream,<br />
Taking the final level for the dive<br />
Under the river—<br />
And somewhat emptier than before,<br />
Demented, for a hitching second, humps; then<br />
Lets go.... Toward corners of the floor<br />
Newspapers wing, revolve and wing.<br />
Blank windows gargle signals through the roar.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
And does the Daemon take you home, also,<br />
Wop washerwoman, with the bandaged hair?<br />
After the corridors are swept, the cuspidors—<br />
The gaunt sky-barracks cleanly now, and bare,<br />
O Genoese, do you bring mother eyes and hands<br />
Back home to children and to golden hair?<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Daemon, demurring and eventful yawn!<br />
Whose hideous laughter is a bellows mirth<br />
—Or the muffled slaughter of a day in birth—<br />
O cruelly to inoculate the brinking dawn<br />
With antennae toward worlds that glow and sink;—<br />
To spoon us out more liquid than the dim<br />
Locution of the eldest star, and pack<br />
The conscience navelled in the plunging wind,<br />
Umbilical to call—and straightway die!<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
O caught like pennies beneath soot and steam,<br />
Kiss of our agony thou gatherest;<br />
Condensed, thou takest all—shrill ganglia<br />
Impassioned with some song we fail to keep.<br />
And yet, like Lazarus, to feel the slope,<br />
The sod and billow breaking,—lifting ground,<br />
—A sound of waters bending astride the sky<br />
Unceasing with some Word that will not die...!<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
**<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="driving, infrastructure, pollution, ocean, river, urban, city"><br />
<poem><br />
A tugboat, wheezing wreaths of steam,<br />
Lunged past, with one galvanic blare stove up the River.<br />
I counted the echoes assembling, one after one,<br />
Searching, thumbing the midnight on the piers.<br />
Lights, coasting, left the oily tympanum of waters;<br />
The blackness somewhere gouged glass on a sky.<br />
And this thy harbor, O my City, I have driven under,<br />
Tossed from the coil of ticking towers.... Tomorrow,<br />
And to be.... Hereby the River that is East—<br />
Here at the waters’ edge the hands drop memory;<br />
Shadowless in that abyss they unaccounting lie.<br />
How far away the star has pooled the sea—<br />
Or shall the hands be drawn away, to die?<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
Kiss of our agony Thou gatherest,<br />
::::::::: O Hand of Fire<br />
::::::::::::: gatherest—<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
</annotations></div>Jakob.brossmerhttps://wiki.uni-konstanz.de/offroad/index.php?title=Dominic_has&diff=667Dominic has2025-02-21T11:24:21Z<p>Jakob.brossmer: Created page with "<meta author="Cummings, Edward Estline" additional_information="" year_of_publication="1958" genre="Poetry" publisher="Liveright" journal="E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962" page_range="680" /> <annotations> <paragraph keywords=""> <poem> </poem> </paragraph> <paragraph keywords=""> <poem> dominic has </poem> </paragraph> <paragraph keywords="car, car part, metaphor, sound, onomatopoeia"> <poem> a doll wired to the radiator of his ZOOM DOOM </poem..."</p>
<hr />
<div><meta<br />
author="Cummings, Edward Estline"<br />
additional_information=""<br />
year_of_publication="1958"<br />
genre="Poetry"<br />
publisher="Liveright"<br />
journal="E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962"<br />
page_range="680"<br />
/><br />
<annotations><br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
dominic has<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car, car part, metaphor, sound, onomatopoeia"><br />
<poem><br />
a doll wired<br />
to the radiator of his<br />
ZOOM DOOM<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car"><br />
<poem><br />
icecoalwood truck a<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
wistful little<br />
clown<br />
whom somebody buried<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
upsidedown in an ashbarrel so<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
of course dominic<br />
took him<br />
home<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="car"><br />
<poem><br />
& mrs dominic washed his sweet<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
dirty<br />
face & mended<br />
his bright torn trousers(quite<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
as if he were really her &<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
she<br />
but)& so<br />
that<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
's how dominic has a doll<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
& every now & then my<br />
wonderful<br />
friend dominic depaola<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
gives me a most tremendous hug<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
knowing<br />
i feel<br />
that<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
we & worlds<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords=""><br />
<poem><br />
are<br />
less alive<br />
than dolls &<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
</annotations></div>Jakob.brossmerhttps://wiki.uni-konstanz.de/offroad/index.php?title=Baby&diff=664Baby2025-02-14T12:00:08Z<p>Jakob.brossmer: </p>
<hr />
<div><meta<br />
author="Hughes, Langston"<br />
additional_information=""<br />
year_of_publication="pre 1930"<br />
genre="Poetry"<br />
publisher="Vintage Classics"<br />
journal="The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes"<br />
page_range="120"<br />
/><br />
<annotations><br />
<br />
<br />
<paragraph keywords="road, car, truck, accident, death, risk, traffic"><br />
<poem><br />
Albert! <br />
Hey, Albert!<br />
Don't you play in dat road. <br />
::You see dem trucks <br />
::A-goin' by. <br />
::One run ovah you <br />
::An' you die. <br />
Albert, don't you play in dat road.<br />
</poem><br />
</paragraph><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</annotations></div>Jakob.brossmer