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+@default_files = ('anthology.tex');
+$pdflatex = 'lualatex';
+$pdf_mode = 1;
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+\documentclass[11pt, parskip=half-]{scrartcl}
+
+\AddToHook{cmd/section/before}{\clearpage}
+
+\usepackage{fontspec}
+\setsansfont{Arial}
+\renewcommand{\familydefault}{\sfdefault}
+
+\usepackage{geometry}
+\geometry{
+	top=2cm,
+	bottom=1cm,
+	includefoot
+}
+
+\title{Poetry Revision}
+\author{From Songs of Ourselves Volume 1 Part 4}
+
+
+\begin{document}
+\maketitle
+\tableofcontents
+
+\section{The City Planners}
+
+Cruising these residential Sunday\\
+streets in dry August sunlight:\\
+what offends us is\\
+the sanities:\\
+the houses in pedantic rows, the planted\\
+sanitary trees, assert\\
+levelness of surface like a rebuke\\
+to the dent in our car door.\\
+No shouting here, or\\
+shatter of glass; nothing more abrupt\\
+than the rational whine of a power mower\\
+cutting a straight swath in the discouraged grass.
+
+But though the driveways neatly\\
+sidestep hysteria\\
+by being even, the roofs all display\\
+the same slant of avoidance to the hot sky,\\
+certain things:\\
+the smell of spilt oil a faint\\
+sickness lingering in the garages,\\
+a splash of paint on brick surprising as a bruise,\\
+a plastic hose poised in a vicious\\
+coil; even the too-fixed stare of the wide windows
+
+give momentary access to\\
+the landscape behind or under\\
+the future cracks in the plaster\\
+when the houses, capsized, will slide\\
+obliquely into the clay seas, gradual as glaciers\\
+that right now nobody notices.
+
+That is where the City Planners\\
+with the insane faces of political conspirators\\
+are scattered over unsurveyed\\
+territories, concealed from each other,\\
+each in his own private blizzard;
+
+guessing directions, they sketch\\
+transitory lines rigid as wooden borders\\
+on a wall in the white vanishing air
+
+tracing the panic of suburb\\
+order in a bland madness of snows.
+
+\section{The Planners}
+
+They plan. They build. All spaces are gridded,\\
+filled with permutations of possibilities.\\
+The buildings are in alignment with the roads\\
+which meet at desired points\\
+linked by bridges all hang\\
+in the grace of mathematics.\\
+They build and will not stop.\\
+Even the sea draws back\\
+and the skies surrender.
+
+They erase the flaws,\\
+the blemishes of the past, knock off\\
+useless blocks with dental dexterity.\\
+All gaps are plugged\\
+with gleaming gold.\\
+The country wears perfect rows\\
+of shining teeth.\\
+Anaesthesia, amnesia, hypnosis.\\
+They have the means.\\
+They have it all so it will not hurt,\\
+so history is new again.\\
+The piling will not stop.\\
+The drilling goes right through\\
+the fossils of last century.
+
+But my heart would not bleed\\
+poetry. Not a single drop\\
+to stain the blueprint\\
+of our past's tomorrow.
+
+\section{The Man With Night Sweats}
+
+I wake up cold, I who\\
+Prospered through dreams of heat\\
+Wake to their residue,\\
+Sweat, and a clinging sheet.
+
+My flesh was its own shield:\\
+Where it was gashed, it healed.
+
+I grew as I explored\\
+The body I could trust\\
+Even while I adored\\
+The risk that made robust,
+
+A world of wonders in\\
+Each challenge to the skin.
+
+I cannot but be sorry\\
+The given shield was cracked\\
+My mind reduced to hurry,\\
+My flesh reduced and wrecked.
+
+I have to change the bed,\\
+But catch myself instead
+
+Stopped upright where I am\\
+Hugging my body to me\\
+As if to shield it from\\
+The pains that will go through me,
+
+As if hands were enough\\
+To hold an avalanche off.
+
+\section{Night Sweat}
+
+Work-table, litter, books and standing lamp,\\
+plain things, my stalled equipment, the old broom --\\
+but I am living in a tidied room,\\
+for ten nights now I've felt the creeping damp\\
+float over my pajamas' wilted white\ldots{}\\
+Sweet salt embalms me and my head is wet,\\
+everything streams and tells me this is right;\\
+my life's fever is soaking in night sweat --\\
+one life, one writing! But the downward glide\\
+and bias of existing wrings us dry --\\
+always inside me is the child who died,\\
+always inside me is his will to die --\\
+one universe, one body\ldots{} in this urn\\
+the animal night sweats of the spirit burn.\\
+Behind me! You! Again I feel the light\\
+lighten my leaded eyelids, while the gray\\
+skulled horses whinny for the soot of night.\\
+I dabble in the dapple of the day,\\
+a heap of wet clothes, seamy, shivering,\\
+I see my flesh and bedding washed with light,\\
+my child exploding into dynamite,\\
+my wife\ldots{} your lightness alters everything,\\
+and tears the black web from the spider's sack,\\
+as your heart hops and flutters like a hare.\\
+Poor turtle, tortoise, if I cannot clear\\
+the surface of these troubled waters here,\\
+absolve me, help me, Dear Heart, as you bear\\
+this world's dead weight and cycle on your back.
+
+\section{From Long Distance}
+
+Though my mother was already two years dead\\
+Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,\\
+put hot water bottles her side of the bed\\
+and still went to renew her transport pass.
+
+You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone.\\
+He'd put you off an hour to give him time\\
+to clear away her things and look alone\\
+as though his still raw love were such a crime.
+
+He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief\\
+though sure that very soon he'd hear her key\\
+scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.\\
+He \emph{knew} she'd just popped out to get the tea.
+
+I believe life ends with death, and that is all.\\
+You haven't both gone shopping; just the same,\\
+in my new black leather phone book there's your name\\
+and the disconnected number I still call.
+
+\section{Funeral Blues}
+
+Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,\\
+Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,\\
+Silence the pianos and with muffled drum\\
+Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
+
+Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead\\
+Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,\\
+Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,\\
+Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
+
+He was my North, my South, my East and West,\\
+My working week and my Sunday rest.\\
+My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;\\
+I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
+
+The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;\\
+Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;\\
+Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;\\
+For nothing now can ever come to any good.
+
+\section{He Never Expected Much}
+
+Well, World, you have kept faith with me,\\
+\qquad Kept faith with me;\\
+Upon the whole you have proved to be\\
+\qquad Much as you said you were.\\
+Since as a child I used to lie\\
+Upon the leaze and watch the sky,\\
+Never, I own, expected I\\
+\qquad That life would all be fair.
+
+'Twas then you said, and since have said,\\
+\qquad Times since have said,\\
+In that mysterious voice you shed\\
+\qquad From clouds and hills around:\\
+`Many have loved me desperately,\\
+Many with smooth serenity.\\
+While some have shown contempt of me\\
+\qquad Till they dropped underground.
+
+`I do not promise overmuch,\\
+\qquad Child; overmuch;\\
+Just neutral-tinted haps and such,'\\
+\qquad You said to minds like mine.\\
+Wise warning for your credit's sake!\\
+Which I for one failed not to take,\\
+And hence could stem such strain and ache\\
+\qquad As each year might assign.
+
+\section{The Telephone Call}
+
+They asked me `Are you sitting down?\\
+Right? This is Universal Lotteries',\\
+they said. `You've won the top prize,\\
+the Ultra-super Global Special.\\
+What would you do with a million pounds?\\
+Or, actually, with more than a million --\\
+not that it makes a lot of difference\\
+once you're a millionaire.' And they laughed.
+
+`Are you OK?' they asked -- `Still there?\\
+Come on, now, tell us, how does it feel?'\\
+I said `I just\ldots{} I can't believe it!'\\
+They said `That's what they all say.\\
+What else? Go on, tell us about it.'\\
+I said `I feel the top of my head\\
+has floated off, out through the window,\\
+revolving like a flying saucer.'
+
+`That's unusual' they said. `Go on.'\\
+I said `I'm finding it hard to talk.\\
+My throat's gone dry, my nose is tingling.\\
+I think I'm going to sneeze -- or cry.'\\
+`That's right' they said, `don't be ashamed\\
+of giving way to your emotions.\\
+It isn't every day you hear\\
+you're going to get a million pounds.
+
+Relax, now, have a little cry;\\
+we'll give you a moment\ldots' `Hang on!' I said.\\
+`I haven't bought a lottery ticket\\
+for years and years. And what did you say\\
+the company's called?' They laughed again.\\
+`Not to worry about a ticket.\\
+We're Universal. We operate\\
+A retrospective Chances Module.
+
+Nearly everyone's bought a ticket\\
+in some lottery or another,\\
+once at least. We buy up the files,\\
+feed the names into our computer,\\
+and see who the lucky person is.'\\
+`Well, that's incredible' I said.\\
+`It's marvellous. I still can't quite\ldots{}\\
+I'll believe it when I see the cheque.'
+
+`Oh,' they said, `there's no cheque.'\\
+`But the money?' `We don't deal in money.\\
+Experiences are what we deal in.\\
+You've had a great experience, right?\\
+Exciting? Something you'll remember?\\
+That's your prize. So congratulations\\
+from all of us at Universal.\\
+Have a nice day!' And the line went dead.
+
+\section{A Consumer's Report}
+
+The name of the product I tested is \emph{Life},\\
+I have completed the form you sent me\\
+and understand that my answers are confidential.
+
+I had it as a gift,\\
+I didn't feel much while using it,\\
+in fact I think I'd have liked to be more excited.\\
+It seemed gentle on the hands\\
+but left an embarrassing deposit behind.\\
+It was not economical\\
+and I have used much more than I thought\\
+(I suppose I have about half left\\
+but it's difficult to tell) --\\
+although the instructions are fairly large\\
+there are so many of them\\
+I don't know which to follow, especially\\
+as they seem to contradict each other.\\
+I'm not sure such a thing\\
+should be put in the way of children --\\
+It's difficult to think of a purpose\\
+Also the price is much too high.\\
+Things are piling up so fast,\\
+after all, the world got by\\
+for a thousand million years\\
+without this, do we need it now?\\
+(Incidentally, please ask your man\\
+to stop calling me `the respondent',\\
+I don't like the sound of it.)\\
+There seems to be a lot of different labels,\\
+sizes and colours should be uniform,\\
+the shape is awkward, it's waterproof\\
+but not heat resistant, it doesn't keep\\
+yet it's very difficult to get rid of:\\
+whenever they make it cheaper they seem\\
+to put less in -- if you say you don't\\
+want it, then it's delivered anyway.\\
+I'd agree it's a popular product,\\
+it's got into the language; people\\
+even say they're on the side of it.\\
+Personally I think it's overdone,\\
+a small thing people are ready\\
+to behave badly about. I think\\
+we should take it for granted. If its\\
+experts are called philosophers or market\\
+researchers or historians, we shouldn't\\
+care. We are the consumers and the last\\
+law makers. So finally, I'd buy it.\\
+But the question of a `best buy'\\
+I'd like to leave until I get\\
+the competitive product you said you'd send.
+
+\section{Request to a Year}
+
+If the year is meditating a suitable gift,\\
+I should like it to be the attitude\\
+of my great-great-grandmother,\\
+legendary devotee of the arts,
+
+who, having had eight children\\
+and little opportunity for painting pictures,\\
+sat one day on a high rock\\
+beside a river in Switzerland
+
+and from a difficult distance viewed\\
+her second son, balanced on a small ice-floe,\\
+drift down the current towards a waterfall\\
+that struck rock-bottom eighty feet below,
+
+while her second daughter, impeded,\\
+no doubt, by the petticoats of the day,\\
+stretched out a last-hope alpenstock\\
+(which luckily later caught him on his way).
+
+Nothing, it was evident, could be done;\\
+and with the artist's isolating eye\\
+my great-great-grandmother hastily sketched the scene.\\
+The sketch survives to prove the story by.
+
+Year, if you have no Mother's day present planned;\\
+reach back and bring me the firmness of her hand.
+
+\section{On Finding a Small Fly Crushed in a Book}
+
+Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt,\\
+Has crushed thee here between these pages pent;\\
+But thou has left thine own fair monument,\\
+Thy wings gleam out and tell me what thou wert:\\
+Oh! that the memories, which survive us here,\\
+Were half as lovely as these wings of thine!\\
+Pure relics of a blameless life, that shine\\
+Now thou art gone: Our doom is ever near:\\
+The peril is beside us day by day;\\
+The book will close upon us, it may be,\\
+Just as we lift ourselves to soar away\\
+Upon the summer-airs. But, unlike thee,\\
+The closing book may stop our vital breath,\\
+Yet leave no lustre on our page of death.
+
+\section{Ozymandias}
+
+I met a traveller from an antique land\\
+Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone\\
+Stand in the desert\ldots{} Near them, on the sand,\\
+Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,\\
+And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,\\
+Tell that its sculptor well those passions read\\
+Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,\\
+The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:\\
+And on the pedestal these words appear:\\
+`My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:\\
+Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'\\
+Nothing beside remains. Round the decay\\
+Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare\\
+The lone and level sands stretch far away.
+
+\section{Away, Melancholy}
+
+Away, melancholy,\\
+Away with it, let it go.
+
+Are not the trees green,\\
+The earth as green?\\
+Does not the wind blow,\\
+Fire leap and the rivers flow?\\
+Away melancholy.
+
+The ant is busy\\
+He carrieth his meat,\\
+All things hurry\\
+To be eaten or eat.\\
+Away, melancholy.
+
+Man, too, hurries.\\
+Eats, couples, buries,\\
+He is an animal also\\
+With a hey ho melancholy,\\
+Away with it, let it go.
+
+Man of all creatures\\
+Is superlative\\
+(Away melancholy)\\
+He of all creatures alone\\
+Raiseth a stone\\
+(Away melancholy)\\
+Into the stone, the god\\
+Pours what he knows of good\\
+Calling, good, God.\\
+Away melancholy, let it go.
+
+Speak not to me of tears,\\
+Tyranny, pox, wars,\\
+Saying, Can God\\
+Stone of man's thought, be good?
+
+Say rather it is enough\\
+That the stuffed\\
+Stone of man's good, growing\\
+By man's called God.\\
+Away, melancholy, let it go.
+
+Man aspires\\
+To good,\\
+To love,\\
+Sighs;
+
+Beaten, corrupted, dying\\
+In his own blood lying\\
+Yet heaves up an eye above\\
+Cries, Love, love.\\
+It is his virtue needs explaining,\\
+Not his failing.
+
+Away, melancholy,\\
+Away with it, let it go.
+
+\end{document}