gri_2003_m_46_b03_f08_028
- Max. dissimilarity: 0.035
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.016
- Image votes: 0.0
Transcribers
- WINNER - 65873133 - tmeconverse
- 65944428 - dguent
- 65950944 - pleiades33
- 66012827 - j_l_alfred
- 66030491 - not-logged-in-b2c7ec1fa1590df80a8b
- 66056282 - Scifigirl12
WINNER - 65873133 - tmeconverse
Polydor, or the The Poet's CenturyIn a corridor of poets
Who stand like statues at the doors of years
The first person passes, like a pen writing,
Puzzling on the extent of hidden suites.
A poet holds the handle of the door
In his mouth and mumbles to the first person:
I remember my name but not who I am.
I am the first person, to be so fated.
Another poet draws bottles on the a door
And writes their names in the tung-tung underneath:
The number of his fingers is pre-destined
Though not the filling of calligraphic jars.
The third poet is posting a telegram
Through a letter box fringed with hair:
Such slots do not bewilder statuesque poets
So much as the immobility of doors.
Who is the poet with keyholes for eyes?
Is he blinded by keys or can he see both ways?
Can he see what the servant saw and Katy did,
Voluptuous as the hands on an Edwardian clock?
Is the clue to the occupant a lion
In the wake of whose leap the curtains sway,
The water of the upset vase still falling:
The poet in the fifth door guesses so.
A poet taps the sill of melancholy,
His poems an electric light that shows
Arabian girls asleep behind the door
Among chaotic symbols of their blood.
65944428 - dguent
Polydor, or The Poet's CenturyIn a corridor of poets
Who stand like statues at the doors of years
The first person passes, like a pen writing,
Puzzling on the extent of hidden suites.
A poet holds the handle of the door
In his mouth and mumbles to the first person:
I remember my name but not who I am.
I am the first person, to be so fated.
Another poet draws bottles on a door
And writes their names in tung-tung underneath:
The number of his fingers is pre-destined
Though not the filling of calligraphic jars.
The third poet is posting a telegram
Through a letter box fringed with hair:
Such slots do not bewilder statuesque poets
So much as the immobility of doors.
Who is the poet with keyholes for eyes?
Is he blinded by keys or can he see both ways?
Can he see what the servant saw and Katy did,
Voluptuous as the hands on an Edwardian clock?
Is the clue to the occupant a lion
In the wake of whose leap the curtains sway,
The water of the upset vase still falling:
The poet in the fifth door guesses so.
A poet taps the sill of melancholy,
His poems an electric light that shows
Arabian girls asleep behind the door
Among chaotic symbols of their blood.
65950944 - pleiades33
Polydor, or The Poet's CenturyIn a corridor of poets
Who stand like statues at the doors of years
The first person passes, like a pen writing,
Puzzling on the extent of hidden suites.
A poet holds the handle of the door
In his mouth and mumbles to the first person:
I remember my name but not who I am.
I am the first person, to be so fated.
Another poet draws bottles on a door
And writes their names in tung-tung underneath:
The number of his fingers is pre-destined
Though not the filling of calligraphic jars.
The third poet is posting a telegram
Through a letter box fringed with hair:
Such slots do not bewilder statuesque poets
So much as the immobility of doors.
Who is the poet with keyholes for eyes?
Is he blinded by keys or can he see both ways?
Can he see what the servant saw and Katy did,
Voluptuous as the hands on an Edwardian clock?
Is the clue to the occupant a lion
In the wake of whose leap the curtains sway,
The water of the upset vase still falling:
The poet in the fifth door guesses so.
A poet taps the sill of melancholy,
His poems an electric light that shows
Arabian girls asleep behind the door
Among chaotic symbols of their blood.
66012827 - j_l_alfred
Polydor, or The Poet's CenturyIn a corridor of poets
Who stand like statues at the doors of years
The first person passes, like a pen writing,
Puzzling on the extent of hidden suites.
A poet holds the handle of the door
In his mouth and mumbles to the first person:
I remember my name but not who I am.
I am the first person, to be so fated.
Another poet draws bottles on a door
And writes their names in tung-tung underneath:
The numbers of his finger is pre-destined
Though not the filling of calligraphic jars.
The third poet is posting a telegram
Through a letter box fringed with hair:
Such slots do not bewilder statuesque poets
So much as the immobility of doors.
Who is the poet with keyholes for eyes?
Is he blinded by keys or can he see both ways?
Can he see what the servant saw and Katy did,
Voluptuous as the hands on an Edwardian clock?
Is the clue to the occupant a lion
In the wake of whose leap the curtains away,
The water of the upset vase still falling:
The poet in the fifth door guesses so.
A poet taps the sill of melancholy,
His poems an electric light that shows
Arabian girls asleep behind the door
Among chaotic symbols of their blood.
66030491 - not-logged-in-b2c7ec1fa1590df80a8b
Polydor, or The Poet's CenturyIn a corridor of poets
Who stand like statues at the doors of years
The first person passes, like a pen writing,
Puzzling on the extent of hidden suites.
A Poet holds the handle of the door
In his mouth and mumbles to the first person:
I remember my name but not who I am.
I am the first person, to be so fated.
Another poet draws bottles on a door
And writes their names in tung-tung underneath:
The number of his fingers is pre-destined
Though not the filling of calligraphic jars.
The third poet is posting a telegram
Through a letter box fringed with hair:
Such slots do not bewilder statuesque poets
So much as the immobility of doors.
Who is the poet with keyholes for eyes?
Is he blinded by keys or can he see both ways?
Can he see what the servants saw and Katy did,
Voluptuous as the hands on an Edwardian clock?
Is the clue to the occupant a lion
In the wake of whose leap the curtains away,
The water of the upset vase still falling:
The poet in the fifth door guesses so.
A poet taps the sill of melancholy,
His poems an electric light that shows
Arabian girls asleep behind the door
Among chaotic symbols of their blood.
66056282 - Scifigirl12
Polydor, or The Poet's CenturyIn a corridor of poets
Who stand like statues at the doors of years
The first person passes, like a pen writing,
Puzzling on the extent of hidden suites.
A poet holds the handle of the door
In his mouth and mumbles to the first person:
I remember my name but not who I am.
I am the first person, to be so fated.
Another poet draws bottles on a door
And writes their names in tung-tung underneath:
The number of his fingers is pre-destined
Though not the filling of calligraphic jars.
The third poet is posting a telegram
Through a letter box fringed with hair:
Such slots do not bewilder statuesque poets
So much as the immobility of doors.
Who is the poet with keyholes for eyes?
Is he blinded by keys or can he see both ways?
Can he see what the servant saw and Katy did,
Voluptuous as the hands on an Edwardian clock?
Is the clue to the occupant a lion
In the wake of whose leap the curtains sway,
The water of the upset vase still falling:
The poet in the fifth door guesses so.
A poet taps the sill of melancholy,
His poems an electric light that shows
Arabian girls asleep behind the door
Among chaotic symbols of their blood.