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Flowers
There's another skin inside my skin that gathers to your touch, a lake to the light; that looses its memory, its lost language into your tongue, erasing me into newness. Just when the body thinks it knows the ways of knowing itself, this second skin continues to answer. In the street - café chairs abandoned on terraces; market stalls emptied of their solid light, though pavement still breathes summer grapes and peaches. Like the light of anything that grows from this newly-turned earth, every tip of me gathers under your touch, wind wrapping my dress around our legs, your shirt twisting to flowers in my fists. --Anne Michaels |
Love After Love
The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life. --Derek Walcott |
O Tell Me The Truth About Love
O Tell Me The Truth About Love (annotated)
Some say Love's a little boy, Some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world go round, Some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next-door Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do. Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Or a ham in a temperance hotel? Does it odour remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about Love. Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? Does it only like Classical stuff? Will it stop when one wants to be quiet? O tell me the truth about Love. When it comes, will it come without warning Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on my door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about Love. (W H Auden) Auden is one of my favorite poets. I love his usage of language, esp. in rhythm. He can be very funny and profound at the same time. A shame he is not better known in the country. (He was an English poet.) Lady_Wu, gnarled tree (see Chuang-Tzu for explanation of THAT one. Or just PM me if curious. lol) |
Aubade by Philip Larkin
Aubade
Philip Larkin I work all day, and get half drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain edges will grow light. Till then I see what's really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse - The good not used, the love not given, time Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never: But at the total emptiness forever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here, Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says no rational being Can fear a thing it cannot feel, not seeing that this is what we fear - no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision Most things may never happen: this one will, And realisation of it rages out In furnace fear when we are caught without People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no-one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can't escape Yet can't accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house. |
I read some poems by Gwendolyn Brooks in an african american literature class in college. This is one of my favorites...
A Sunset of the City Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love. My daughters and sons have put me away with marbles and dolls, Are gone from the house. My husband and lovers are pleasant or somewhat polite And night is night. It is a real chill out, The genuine thing. I am not deceived, I do not think it is still summer Because sun stays and birds continue to sing. It is summer-gone that I see, it is summer-gone. The sweet flowers indrying and dying down, The grasses forgetting their blaze and consenting to brown. It is a real chill out. The fall crisp comes I am aware there is winter to heed. There is no warm house That is fitted with my need. I am cold in this cold house this house Whose washed echoes are tremulous down lost halls. I am a woman, and dusty, standing among new affairs. I am a woman who hurries through her prayers. Tin intimations of a quiet core to be my Desert and my dear relief Come: there shall be such islanding from grief, And small communion with the master shore. Twang they. And I incline this ear to tin, Consult a dual dilemma. Whether to dry In humming pallor or to leap and die. Somebody muffed it?? Somebody wanted to joke. |
A NOISELESS, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated; Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding, It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself; Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly speeding them. And you, O my Soul, where you stand, Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to connect them; Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor hold; Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul |
Song of the Barren Orange Tree
by Federico García Lorca Woodcutter. Cut my shadow from me. Free me from the torment of seeing myself without fruit. Why was I born among mirrors? The day walks in circles around me, and the night copies me in all its stars. I want to live without seeing myself. And I will dream that ants and thistleburrs are my leaves and my birds. Woodcutter. Cut my shadow from me. Free me from the torment of seeing myself without fruit. Translated by W. S. Merwin |
Most recent one...
I know it may not be the best time
To reveal my heart and cross that line But I am in love with you And see in your eyes, you feel it too. I can't tell you I'll never hurt you But can promise I never mean to. I can't guarantee forever and a day But I'll do everything I can to make it that way. No matter where you are or what your doing If you miss me, all you have to do is make the phone ring I'll answer your call and calm your fears And offer to hold you in my arms for the rest of our years. The more "you" you are, the more I become the true "me" As we spend time together and share that special energy. Any situation that arises, we can weather for all rules fade away once we just exist together. We have the freedom to love, plan, and dream Without worry of what it all might mean. I really do wish to know you forever As my friend, counterpart, and lover. I hope as you work on becoming the person you want to be You don't forget about the little things in your time with me. |
I'm Your Man by Leonard Cohen
If you want a lover I'll do anything you ask me to And if you want another kind of love I'll wear a mask for you If you want a partner Take my hand Or if you want to strike me down in anger Here I stand I'm your man If you want a boxer I will step into the ring for you And if you want a doctor I'll examine every inch of you If you want a driver Climb inside Or if you want to take me for a ride You know you can I'm your man Ah, the moon's too bright The chain's too tight The beast won't go to sleep I've been running through these promises to you That I made and I could not keep Ah but a man never got a woman back Not by begging on his knees Or I'd crawl to you baby And I'd fall at your feet And I'd howl at your beauty Like a dog in heat And I'd claw at your heart And I'd tear at your sheet I'd say please, please I'm your man And if you've got to sleep A moment on the road I will steer for you And if you want to work the street alone I'll disappear for you If you want a father for your child Or only want to walk with me a while Across the sand I'm your man If you want a lover I'll do anything you ask me to And if you want another kind of love I'll wear a mask for you *Cohen also set this to music. Very cool song! |
Enigmas, Pablo Neruda
You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with his golden feet? I reply, the ocean knows this. You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? What is it waiting for? I tell you it is waiting for time, like you. You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms? Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know. You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal, and I reply by describing how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies. You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers, which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides? Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on the crystal architecture of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now? You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean spines? The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks? The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out in the deep places like a thread in the water? I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its jewel boxes is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure, and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the petal hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl. I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead of human eyes, dead in those darknesses, of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes on the timid globe of an orange. I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind |
one of many favourites ...
Pablo Neruda
Poema XV Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente, y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca. Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca. Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma, emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía. Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma, y te pareces a la palabra melancolía. Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante. Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo. Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza: Déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo. Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo. Eres como la noche, callada y constelada. Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo. Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente. Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto. Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan. Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto. Poem XV I like it when you're quiet. It's as if you weren't here now, and you heard me from a distance, and my voice couldn't reach you. It's as if your eyes had flown away from you, and as if your mouth were closed because I leaned to kiss you. Just as all living things are filled with my soul. you emerge from all living things filled with the soul of me. It's as if, a butterfly in dreams, you were my soul, and as if you were the soul's word, melancholy. I like it when you're quiet. It's as if you'd gone away now, And you'd become the keening, the butterfly's insistence, And you heard me from a distance and my voice didn't reach you. It's then that what I want is to be quiet with your silence. It's then that what I want is to speak to you your silence in a speech as clear as lamplight, as plain as a gold ring. You are quiet like the night, and like the night you're star-lit. Your silences are star-like, they're a distant and a simple thing. I like it when you're quiet. It's as if you weren't here now. As if you were dead now, and sorrowful, and distant. A word then is sufficient, or a smile, to make me happy, Happy that it seems so certain that you're present. |
La Bodega Sold Dreams
dreamt i was a poet & writin' silver sailin' songs words strong & powerful crashing' thru walls of steel & concrete erected in minds weak & those asleep replacin' a hobby of paper candy wrappin', collectin' potent to pregnate sterile young thoughts i dreamt i was this poeta words glitterin' brite & bold strikin' a new rush for gold in las bodegas where our poets' words & songs are sung but sunlite stealin' thru venetian blinds eyes hatin', workin' of time clock sweatin' & swearin' & slavin' for the final dime runnin' a maze a token ride perspiration insultin' poets pride words stoppin' on red goin' on green poets' dreams endin' in a factoria as one in a million unseen buyin' bodega sold dreams . . . |
Lonely Love
The Lonely Lover
I came into your life without ever knowing that I would feel the way I do about you That w/o permission I wanted to save you from ever knowing any type of hurt that could stumble upon you. I don’t have the right to ask you, if you could ever love me I don’t have the right to ask you, if we could just spend one night together, You holding me, touching, whispering softly into my ear.., Me holding you, listening, touching, kissing, and all those others things I much to shy to say… I’ve been foolish to think that I could ever be enough You see I’ve been waiting to be your love I’ve been waiting for this lonely to go away So I guess I am but the lonely lover, Who dreams of you holding her in your arms, whose hands long for the warmth that your body holds, to feel the soft caress of your endless kisses, and the desire for you to quench my lustful thirst. Sometimes I wonder if you notice that my gaze of you is just a little longer than normal, But I just want you to know that in that moment I just want to be there lost in that gaze with you forever But yet I am that lonely lover, who doesn’t have permission to hold, kiss, or caresses you, only to steal moments passing by, just to edit them in my mind. |
Dorothy Parker
I love a good martini
Two at the very most Three I'm under the table. Four I'm under my host. Dorothy Parker Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live. Dorothy Parker |
Ordinary Heartbreak, David Levine
She climbs easily on the box That seats her above the swivel chair At adult height, crosses her legs, left ankle over right, Smoothes the plastic apron over her lap While the beautician lifts her ponytail and laughs, "This is coarse as a horse's tail." And then as if that's all there is to say, The woman at once whacks off and tosses its foot and a half into the trash. And the little girl who didn't want her hair cut, But long ago learned successfully how not to say What it is she wants, Who, even at this minute cannot quite grasp her shock and grief, Is getting her hair cut. "For convenience," her mother put it. The long waves gone that had been evidence at night, When loosened from their clasp, She might secretly be a princess. Rather than cry out, she grips her own wrist And looks to her mother in the mirror. But her mother is too polite, or too reserved, So the girl herself takes up indifference, While pain follows a hidden channel to a deep place Almost unknown in her, Convinced as she is, that her own emotions are not the ones her life depends on, She shifts her gaze from her mother's face Back to the haircut now, So steadily as if this short-haired child were someone else. |
Vocation - by Sandra Beasley
For six months I dealt Baccarat in a casino.
For six months I played Brahms in a mall. For six months I arranged museum dioramas; my hands were too small for the Paleolithic and when they reassigned me to lichens, I quit. I type ninety-one words per minute, all of them Help. Yes, I speak Dewey Decimal. I speak Russian, Latin, a smattering of Tlingit. I can balance seven dinner plates on my arm. All I want to do is sit on a veranda while a hard rain falls around me. I'll file your 1099s. I'll make love to strangers of your choice. I'll do whatever you want, as long as I can do it on that veranda. If it calls you, it's your calling, right? Once I asked a broker what he loved about his job, and he said Making a killing. Once I asked a serial killer what made him get up in the morning, and he said The people. |
Birthplace - by Michael Cirelli
Deep in the Boogie Down—
the bassinet of the boom bap where the trinity is The Treacherous Three, English is the third language behind Bronx and Puerto Rican, and I was nervous because I only speak Catholic school and I'm a Red Sox fan. I'm just a student of KRS-1, not a son, on a train fourteen stops beyond my comfort zone hiding behind headphones coughing bass, and a backpack full of lyrics: Notorious B.I.G., Rakim, Perdomo, Run DMC, Brooks, wanting to be real cool, wanting to be their "dawg"— but feeling like a mailman, another Elvis to the students I will lead through a workshop in a language I itch to get my rusted cavities around. |
Quote:
what a great poem. i totally dig it. |
“Being happy doesn't mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections.”
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Death is not the end Death can never be the end. Death is the road. Life is the traveller. ... The Soul is the Guide ... Our mind thinks of death. Our heart thinks of life Our soul thinks of Immortality. By: Sri Chinmoy |
Beautiful...
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
Christopher Marlowe Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of th purest gold; A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love. The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. |
When you are old
a poem by William Butler Yeats When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. |
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love - for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace wit...h God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.- Max Ehrmann |
This wasn't supposed to happen
Thoughts, Feelings, emotions ... For months I've longed Wondering what it would feel like Your touch, your kiss, your soul To know and to feel you Completely Warmth, comfort, safety Things that I've found in you Your smile, your laughter, your beauty are a thousand sensations A moment away seems like a thousand Anxiousness, excitement, longing Then the moment comes What it would be like with you Warmth, comfort, safety Wrapped around you Flooding thoughts of Fear, sadness, heartbreak Reality hits me hard How could I feel so much in such a little time? But it did And here is where I'll stay Wanting to give you more Even though This wasn't supposed to happen Author: Unknown |
This line is piercing--"all in comes the fury of love"mmmmmm inspiring..
THE BIG HEART
"Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold." From an essay by W. B. Yeats Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have: Max, Lois, Joe, Louise, Joan, Marie, Dawn, Arlene, Father Dunne, and all in their short lives give to me repeatedly, in the way the sea places its many fingers on the shore, again and again and they know me, they help me unravel, they listen with ears made of conch shells, they speak back with the wine of the best region. They are my staff. They comfort me. They hear how the artery of my soul has been severed and soul is spurting out upon them, bleeding on them, messing up their clothes, dirtying their shoes. And God is filling me, though there are times of doubt as hollow as the Grand Canyon, still God is filling me. He is giving me the thoughts of dogs, the spider in its intricate web, the sun in all its amazement, and a slain ram that is the glory, the mystery of great cost, and my heart, which is very big, I promise it is very large, a monster of sorts, takes it all in-- all in comes the fury of love. Anne Sexton |
I need and want to talk
You don't see anything to talk about. I long to touch you, caress you You don't need my touch I ache to hold you, feel your heat You don't need my arms I have a desire that burns You don't have the desire I wish to speak to your soul You don't need my wishes I dream of your passion You don't need my dreams I would love all of you You don't need my love I want to be your lover You want to be my friend Can you feel my passion You can't feel me I can see your heart and soul You don't want to see mine But I will forever see her's |
Tragic Rabbit
Tragic rabbit, a painting. The caked ears green like rolled corn. The black forehead pointing at the stars. A painting on my wall, alone as rabbits are and aren’t. Fat red cheek, all Art, trembling nose, a habit hard to break as not. You too can be a tragic rabbit; green and red your back, blue your manly little chest. But if you’re ever goaded into being one beware the True Flesh, it will knock you off your tragic horse and break your tragic colors like a ghost breaks marble; your wounds will heal so quickly water will be jealous. Rabbits on white paper painted outgrow all charms against their breeding wild; and their rolled corn ears become horns. So watch out if the tragic life feels fine – caught in that rabbit trap all colors look like sunlight’s swords, and scissors like The Living Lord. Stan Rice Some Lamb |
Swift hummingbird
Swift hummingbird by Ray Bradbury
You are to me Calligraphy of God Whose word Is symboled on the air for me to read, The screed and scroll of sky unrolls to see While everywhere you shape and form the air Cross section clouds and winds To circumnavigate my sight, Only the bumblebee And dragonfly Ensnare my eye as you Do swiftly write invisible words That that one who Intuits the heavens, first guesses the blue, And births the great ox me And thistle you. All joy in a thimble, I ask for the gist of life, You paint a symbol, And leave it to blow on the crystal air, And go, and lo! You were never there! Copyright © Ray Bradbury 2002 & 2008 |
The Secret
Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry. I who don't know the secret wrote the line. They told me (through a third person) they had found it but not what it was not even what line it was. No doubt by now, more than a week later, they have forgotten the secret, the line, the name of the poem. I love them for finding what I can't find, and for loving me for the line I wrote, and for forgetting it so that a thousand times, till death finds them, they may discover it again, in other lines in other happenings. And for wanting to know it, for assuming there is such a secret, yes, for that most of all. by Denise Levertov |
"Barbie Doll" by Marge Piercy
This girlchild was born as usual and presented dolls that did pee-pee and miniature GE stoves and irons and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy. Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said: You have a great big nose and fat legs. She was healthy, tested intelligent, possessed strong arms and back, abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity. She went to and fro apologizing. Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs. She was advised to play coy, exhorted to come on hearty, exercise, diet, smile and wheedle. Her good nature wore out like a fan belt. So she cut off her nose and her legs and offered them up. In the casket displayed on satin she lay with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on, a turned-up putty nose, dressed in a pink and white nightie. Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said. Consummation at last. To every woman a happy ending. |
"Phenomenal Woman" by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. |
Love by Roy Croft
I love you
Not only for what you are, But for what I am When I am with you. I love you, Not only for what You have made of yourself, But for what You are making of me. I love you For the part of me That you bring out; I love you For putting your hand Into my heaped-up heart And passing over All the foolish, weak things That you can't help Dimly seeing there, And for drawing out Into the light All the beautiful belongings That no one else had looked Quite far enough to find I love you because you Are helping me to make Of the lumber of my life Not a tavern But a temple. Out of the works Of my every day Not a reproach But a song. I love you Because you have done More than any creed Could have done To make me good. And more than any fate Could have done To make me happy. You have done it Without a touch, Without a word, Without a sign. You have done it By being yourself. Perhaps that is what Being a friend means, After all. by Roy Croft |
somewhere i have never travelled
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands Edward Estlin Cummings |
Love Song
Love Song
by Henry Dumas Beloved, I have to adore the earth: The wind must have heard your voice once. It echoes and sings like you. The soil must have tasted you once. It is laden with your scent. The trees honor you in gold and blush when you pass. I know why the north country is frozen. It has been trying to preserve your memory. I know why the desert burns with fever. It was wept too long without you. On hands and knees, the ocean begs up the beach, and falls at your feet. I have to adore the mirror of the earth. You have taught her well how to be beautiful. |
The Moon by Emily Dickinson
The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below. Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known. Her lips of amber never part; But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will! And what a privilege to be But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door. Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue. |
I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries hidden within itself the light of those flowers, and thanks to your love, darkly in my body lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close |
The Poet
O hour of my muse: why do you leave me,
Wounding me by the wingbeats of your flight? Alone: what shall I use my mouth to utter? How shall I pass my days? And how my nights? I have no one to love. I have no home. There is no center to sustain my life. All things to which I give myself grow rich and leave me spent, impoverished, alone. Rainer Maria Rilke |
Everybody Tells Me Everything
I find it very difficult to enthuse
Over the current news. Just when you think that at least the outlook is so black that it can grow no blacker, it worsens, And that is why I do not like the news, because there has never been an era when so many things were going so right for so many of the wrong persons. Ogden Nash |
Simple Amidah
I open my mouth in astonishment.
Praises fall forth with my every breath. I bless that I am not the first, nor shall I be the last, to wonder under the stars that everything is. I bless that everything is, and that I am part of it all. I bless that no one has any final answers, and that no name can be the final name for ultimacy. I bless that it will still be possible on my deathbed to grow deeper. I bless that only the painful work of forgiveness allows for any real joy in this life. I bless that what is fractured still dares to dream of wholeness. I bless that there is enough to go around if we give, not grab. I bless that distance can usually give way to intimacy. I bless that justice is only just if it transforms me as well as the world outside me. I bless that the good are not those who strive to do good, but those who allow their hearts to be vulnerable to the inherent dignity of others. I bless that peace can never be declared impossible, even in the Middle East. I bless that ruined cities and ruined lives can often be rebuilt. I bless that prayers like this are not foolish incantations, but invitations to bless, question, and praise as often as possible. I bless that there is no place in the whole universe that is not as sacred as any temple. I bless that my breathing can be a kind of thanking. I bless the peace that takes nourishment at the breast of justice. I bless that both singing and silence are possible. ~Mark Belletini |
Self Portrait It doesn't interest me if there is one God Or many gods. I want to know if you belong -- or feel abandoned; If you know despair Or can see it in others. I want to know If you are prepared to live in the world With its harsh need to change you; If you can look back with firm eyes Saying "this is where I stand." I want to know if you know how to melt Into that fierce heat of living Falling toward the center of your longing. I want to know if you are willing To live day by day With the consequence of love And the bitter unwanted passion Of your sure defeat. I have been told In that fierce embrace Even the gods Speak of God. ~ David Whyte ~ |
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