gri_2003_m_46_b06_f09_024
- Max. dissimilarity: 0.162
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.112
- Image votes: 0.0
Transcribers
- WINNER - 71784105 - not-logged-in-2807516bf88681b5c1fc
- 71930414 - tmeconverse
- 72191043 - racjohn
- 72578644 - jesseytucker
- 72828897 - mcathzoo
- 72861114 - Preacher357
WINNER - 71784105 - not-logged-in-2807516bf88681b5c1fc
BLACKHEATH16 September
Dearest Sylvia:
Looking back at one of your letters I considered the pictures you
suggest for London Exhibitions. I think the ones you suggest are
most suitable: Dressing Table and View from Attic for the London
group sounds alright to me. Your idea of taking them to Kensing-
ton on 24th is a good idea, too, if you don't find it too tiring.
Here are two poems which are about my attitude to poetry. The
poets referred to in the first one are Stevens (who tends to be a
bit Olympian and elderly) and Cummings who is just too boyish at
times:
The loaves of autumn are baked for Stevens.
The elderly avenues take auroras.
He's lucky, but poor us,
less adjusted to 'the painter's season.*
Though short of Fall we're not so young as
the boyish printemps merchant of sixty
Who's again fixity.
His name if you spring him is Cummings.
Where shall we drop from Cummings' trapeze
if it isn't into the lap of autumn,
from high bar to the down
where wounded forests collapse at a sneeze
Midair were perfect, if we could wait
between the most of gravity and flight.
POET AT HOME
The world is some poets' table
tapping out yes like a mad thing,
do you love, yes, girls, yes, land, yes,
like a big hand for the fireman
who saved the little girl and dog.
I read such poems in less time
than they took to write, can forget
the spiels in moments of any day.
I write on a table, too. It rocks,
but is not jumping anywhere.
Time for bed now, dearest Sylvia. I hope you sleep well. I love
you so much.
*(the picturesque description autumn (with its colour) 'the painter's season')
71930414 - tmeconverse
BLACKHEATH16 September
Dearest Sylvia:
Looking back at one of your letters I considered the pictures you
suggest for London Exhibitions. I think the ones you suggest are
most suitable: Dressing Table and View from Attic for the London
Group sounds alright to me. Your idea of taking them to Kenging-
ton on 24 is a good idea, too, if you don't find it too tiring.
Here are two poems which are about my attitude to poetry. The
poets referred to in the the first one are Stevens (who tends to be a
bit Olympian and elderly and Cummings who is just too boyish at
times:
The loaves of autumn are baked for Stevens.
The elderly avenues take auroras.
He's lucky, but poor us,
less adjusted to 'the painter's season'*
Though short of Fall we're not so young as
the boyish printemps merchant of sixty
who's again fixity.
His name if you spring him is Cummings.
Where shall we drop from Cummings' trapeze
if it isn't into the lap of autumn,
from high bar to the down
where wounded forests collapse at a sneeze.
Midair were perfect if we could wait
between the most of gravity and flight.
* (the picturesque
theorists thought
outre (until its color)
'the painter's season')
POET AT HOME
The world is some poets' table
tapping out yes like a mad thing,
do you love, yes, girls, yes, land, yes,
like a big hand for the fireman
who saved the little girl and dog.
I read such poems in less time
than they took to write, can forget
the spiels in moments of any day.
I write on a table, too. It rocks,
but is not jumping everywhere.
Time for bed, now, Sylvia. I hope you sleep well. I love
you so much.
72191043 - racjohn
Blackheath16 September
Dearest Sylvia:
Looking back at one of your letters I considered the pictures you
suggest for London Exhibitions. I think the ones you suggest are
most suitable: Dressing Table and View from Attic for the London
Group sounds alright to me. Your idea of taking them to Kensing-
ton on 24th is a good idea, too, if you don't find it too tiring.
Here are two poems which are about my attitude to poetry. The
poets referred to in the first on are Stevens (who tends to be a
bit Olympian and elderly) and Cummings who is just too boyish at
times:
The loaves of autumn are baked for Stevens.
The elderly avenues take auroras.
He's lucky, but poor us,
less adjusted to the 'painter's season'. (The picturesque thought autumn (with its colour) 'the painter's season')
Though short of Fall we're not so young as
the boyish printemps merchant of sixty
who's agin fixity.
His name if you spring him is Cummings.
Where shall we drop from Cummings' trapeze
if it isn't into the lap of autumn,
from high bar to the down
where wounded forests collapse at a sneeze.
POET AT HOME
The world is some poets' table
tapping out yes like a mad thing,
do you love, yes, girls, yes, land, yes,
like a big hand for the fireman
who saved the little girl and dog.
I read such poems in less time
than they took to write, can forget
the spiels in moments of any day.
I write on a table, too. It rocks,
but is not jumping everywhere.
Time for be, now, dearest Sylvia. I hope you sleep well. I love
you so much.
72578644 - jesseytucker
BLACKHEATH16 September
Dearest Sylvia:
Looking back at one of your letters I considered the pictures you
suggest for London Exhibitions. I think the ones you suggest are
most suitable: Dressing Table and View from Attic for the London
Group sounds alright to me. Your idea of taking them to Kensing-
ton on 24th is a good idea, too, if yo don't find it too tiring.
Here are two poems which are about my attitude to poetry. The
poets referred to in the first one are Stevens (who tends to be a
bit Olymian and elderly) and Cummings who is just too boyish at
times:
The leaves of autumn are baked for Stevens.
The elderly avenues take auroras.
He's lucky, but poor us,
less adjusted to 'the painter's season'.
Though short of Fall we're not so young as
the boyish pritemps merhant of sixty
who's agin fixity.
His name if you spring him is Cummings.
Where shall we drop from Cummings' trapeze
if it isn't into the lap of autumn,
from high bar to the down
where wounded forests collapse at a sneeze.
Midair were perfect, if we could wait
between the most of gravity and flight.
POET AT HOME
The world is some poets' table
tapping out yes like a mad thing,
do you love, yes, girls, yes, land, yes,
like a big hand for the fireman
who saved the little girl and dog.
I read such poems in less time
than they took to write, cna forget
the spiels in moments of any day.
I write on a table, too. It rocks,
but is not jumping everywhere.
Time for bed, now, dearest Sylvia. I hope you sleep well. I love
you so much.
72828897 - mcathzoo
BLACKHEATH16 September
Dearest Sylvia:
Looking back at one of your letters I considered the pictures you
suggest for London Exhibitions. I think the ones you suggest are
most suitable: Dressing Table and View from Attic for the London
Group sounds alright to me. Your idea of taking them to Kensing-
ton on the 24th is a good idea, too, if you don't find it to tiring.
Here are two poems which are about my attitude to poetry. The
poets referred to in the first one are Stevens (who tends to be a
bit Olmypian and elderly) and Cummings who is just too boyish at
times:
The leaves of autumn are back for Stevens.
The elderly avenues take auroras.
He's lucky, but poor us,
less adjusted to 'the painter's season'. x
Thought short of Fall we're not so young as
the boyish printemps merchant of sixty
who's agin fixity.
His name if you spring him is Cummings
Where shall we drop from Cummings' trapeze
if it isn't into the lap of autumn,
from high bar to the down
where wounded forests collapse at a sneeze.
Midair were perfect, if we could wait,
between the most of gravity and flight.
POET AT HOME
The world is some poets' table
tapping out yes like a mad thing,
do you love, yes, girls, yes, land, yes,
like a big hand for the fireman
who saved the girl and the dog.
I read such poems in less time
than they took to write, can forget
the spiels in moment of any day.
I write on a table, too. I rocks,
but is not jumping everywhere.
Time for bed, now, dearest Sylvia. I hope you sleep well. I love
you so much.
x (the picturesque Qeoride called autumn ( with its color) 'the painter's season')
72861114 - Preacher357
16 September BLACKHEATH Dearest Sylvia:Looking back at one of your letters I considered the pictures you
suggest for London Exhibition. I think the ones you suggest are
most suitable: Dressing Table and View from Attic for the London
Goup sounds alright to me. Your idea of taking them to Kensing-
ton on 24th is a good idea, too, if you don't find it to tiring.
Here are two poems which are about my attitude to poetry. The
poets referred to in the first one are Stevens (who tends to be a
bit Olympian and elderly) and Cummings who is just too boyish at
times:
The loaves of autumn are baked for Stevens.
The elderly avenues take auroras.
He's lucky, but poor us,
less adjusted to 'the painter's season'.
The picturesque theoricts changed autumn
(with its color the painter's season'
Though short of Fall we're not so young as
the boyish printemps merchant of sixty
Who's agin fixity.
His name if you spring him is Cummings.
Where shall we drop from Cummings' trapeze
if it isn't into the lap of autumn,
from high bar to the down
where wounded forests collapse at a sneeze.
Midair were perfect, if we could wait
between the most of gravity and flight.
POET AT HOME
The world is some poet's table
tapping out yes like a mad thing,
do you love, yes, girls, yes, land, yes,
like a big hand for the fireman
who saved the little girl and dog.
I read such poems in less time
than they took to write, can forget
the spiels in moments of any day.
I write on a table, too. It rocks,
but is not jumping everywhere.
Time for bed, now, dearest Sylvia. I hope you sleep well. I love
you so much.