...~* Poetry from my heart of hearts *~...
Over the years, I've written some of my own poetry: Some of my poems are about how I view social issues or the human condition... But I wanted to leave some of my poetry here in this community. I hope you will enjoy the poetry and/or prose that I have written over the years. ~ALK :candle: :candle: :candle:
Pythagorean Melody These thoughts, Transposed: onto your Berlin Papyrus, Come from the cosine Of indexical, yet identical thought – Not Euclidean, nor Chaldean by origin. But some would say follow this star: Star of night, or the Star of day Numbered in succinctness – a Delectable: ballet. Perplexed by the theorem No angled cosine to save; yet Though I know the camel travels Isolated, yet free to roam rivulet – oh! Water of life, plenty for thirst The desert will not perish, nor its fruits Dates, coconut palms, and currants bleeding with juice; In Egypt the kings sleep – but the Queen of the Nile, Who walked more than many a mile, Was buried at deep before birth – Ideas born of myrrh Frankincense adored with gold Nonetheless, brilliant and bold Pharaohs’ scepter was touching my soul: Like a stealth mathematickoi Code of honor No breach of trust – It’s a must. Cicero'd by trig tempered rhetoric Quietly listening as an akousmatikoi Conceptualizing: The akousmata, tis powerful Bend it with imagination Flow with the force of the river – you Stepped into the waters Cleansed; and as you emerged, the Stellar musculature of medicine will Take hold within your might: For tis the principle of the strongest Dreamed link, predicated on a starless journey – No moon to wish on, but Deeply moaning, we go into the night. Never looking back, There is nothing to gain, ‘cept the repeat of an egregious stain Cultured by anger, greed and bane – There is no ‘iron’ veil. This Pythagorean Theorem Remains steady, For what is behind you Propels you, feel the pain Motivated by numbers, it Will manifest in transmigration Of the peculiar soul Purification, rituals, mysticism Equations translated into music Pounded out by heart The path to heaven Is true, just start. Harmonious, they don’t give a damn This anvil of life Cascades into a freefall, Navigating perilously Mitigated with gall, Jettisoning the baggage No time to stall; This cup will not pass This way again, for today – nor Tomorrow, but certainly in the present, a Diabolical amusement is Explored from a lens: Molten in lava black, Red hot with thunder, Encasing the problem With shellac’d metaphysics, Preserved forever more Never: lack. Hang on tight I’ve got your back. Arranged in the motion Of a key Sharpened with knowledge Sting worthy of a bee Hark! Hear that voice – Carpathian Mountains speak the answer; For in my heart I rejoice. LDS (2007, March 31) |
Untitled Come closer to my heart And feel the sounds that long to take you Through all the hollows: a labyrinth of sorrow. The sorrow of my life Has long been dimmed from the walls of fear But the still, deep and cool blue waters of my being Welcome the clatter of the babbling brook: your Presence. The sounds that pulse through my being Are shaped by good and bad Mostly, conveying a sharper image ~ Yours: for proper consumation. I will listen to the sounds of your streaming brook: Echo’s that come from the corridors Being sought out methodically by your deep hunger Releasing trinkets of treasured wisdom Spun of the finest microfibre: a llama’s woolen fur Meant to keep me warm inside For those days that I will miss you most ~ I turn to memories Made by the pounding of surging waters Colliding within this deep labyrinth Where sorrow did once reside Only Now: with patience and time The wounded and healed: do abide. LDS (2006, Sept. 13th) |
The Etymology of You Where shall I turn my gaze to? Is it within today’s moment? Which skin of thought will be capricious? Around the corner, in my mind A slow burn of fear Cast waves of bent emotion A paroxysm Imploding My existentialist point of view. It seemed so ordinary This seepage of entanglement But it floated Off like a silken slip Pieces Jagged, sharp, puncturing ~ The Store of desire Changing the garment with struggled stain I’m no different ~ You proclaim. Everyone is just everyone Simple No pain. Even in the immensity of shared feelings The towering inferno Of shame Dropped like a floating balloon Was swept away By the fullness of this new moon. Here and now Appearing like a light Emerging from the fog of life Is the Etymology Of You. LDS (2006, Novemberr 30th) |
I have several close friends who have lost loved ones in death over the past few years and recently, I learned that my mother has been diagnosed with cancer. She's a Psy Nurse and she keeps working as if there is nothing wrong with her - determined not to miss one moment in life - saying that she'd rather keep herself busy until the end. When she came to see me this past spring break, she let me in on the news because I asked her if she was going to come to my universities commencement ceremony next year - even though I graduate this December. She said she didn't think she would make it. Each day I talk with her by phone, I wonder if it will be the last time I hear her voice.
Since then, other losses have occurred in my own family. I feel like I've been through a threshold of painful experiences - a series of them - and when I wrote the poem below, I had no idea how much I would need it for myself. So, I'm leaving it here tonight - not only for me - but for others who might need some small bit of encouragement, too. :candle: :candle: :candle: The Valley of Bones Dense is the structure upon which our foundation is built: chakra's pleading for balance and harmony living cells searching for truth blood giver of life, the invisible hand we seek Temple of mine: as we work to breathe, in and out; let my mind release all there is, which is toxic let my mind welcome all that is nourishing, for as we wander through the caverns of life we seek safety from what hurts us: As we reach for what best there is let us remember where our densest manifestation of spirit lay, within the valley of the bones: The last part of our body to solidify, the last to decompose, we dance to the drumming of the living pulse as if we grow like a rose. Encumbered at times in a thorny briar seeking relief from a scorching fire our beloved bones dance, our hips in scarlet; bathed in the blood of life, a single desire: to be released from our pain and sorrow rising from sack cloth are our smoking ashes; the river of Gilead's balm washes us, and releases us to experience life anew; causing us to allow what the drumming vibrations signal -- to rise from the valley of death, to the embered skies which are hued in blue: Soaring to heights yet explored let us dance: dance for all that is new, dance because we know it's true, that where balance and harmony exist it's because in the valley of the bones we dared to dance: dancing dancing dancing in shades of glorious blue. LDS (2008, December 24th) |
The question that is asked the most; we hear it everyday,
“What time Is it?” they want to know, and then they go away. It's time for bed, it's time for work, or time to feed the fishes, It's time to take your medicine, or wash and dry the dishes. Time in seconds, time in hours, so many freckles past a hair, depending on the zone, or whether daylights savings there. Time is measured many ways from minutes to months, Time is what keeps everything from happening at once! A time to live, a time to die, a time for having fun, Clocks and calenders alike, all scheduled by the sun. Intervals that cant be hurried, will not be denied, a season that we know that's coming, as surely as the tide. If there ever comes a time when time will be no more, I wonder how we'll know to quit, or when it was before. Do we hurry? Do we loaf? It depends upon the time... Had we started earlier, we'd be finished with this rhyme. author Erin F "Time" |
Le Fragrance du Jour
I’ve been on my own for far too long, Not that this is what I prefer – It is just the way the ‘cards’ were seemingly dealt: Even if I wanted to melt It would take careful timing, Diligence of mind, Deliberately applied and felt. Today, as I make my way into the world, I stand before my closet – Scanning my wardrobe, left to right: Sweaters begin on the left, Migrating toward the middle of night wear; Then Slips, garters, stockings and skirts, Dresses made for a Cascadian night. Lifting, teasing out, sorting colors I feel akin to, Holding them close before me – I decide if I should try them on: Slipping one on, then relieved Over and over again, I go Kinesthetically, making conscious choices, Until a perfection of fit - has been achieved. Thus is the fragrance of life that I live by, Not entirely on my own – I seek that which is most likely to send these vibrations: With deep need for me My desire is to make you groan, Sated only by your ability That causes me to moan. ~LDS (24, November, 2009) |
Some poetry that I have written over the years...
I thought I would leave a few of them here tonight. :moonstars: Beneath the Winter Snow Every season brings its change: Spring with its scented rain, Summer with its incredible sunshine; and Fall with its leaves of glory, conveying earths strain. Whilst all previous seasonal changes exemplify change, Winter gives a promise: the promise of undying hope -- The hope that buried priori will reveal its passionate syrup, Bubbling in its crucible; dangling by a rope. Laden in the throws of effervescent primordial epiphany, Your Star leads me through the darkness of night. Hallowed by the presence of an eerily shrouded Moon My eyes dimly see: refractions of your prismatic light. Buried in my heart of hearts is the seed of Your love: Encased by coldness, the crucible engenders its glow; Melting, metaphorical seasonal changes: galvanized- Beneath the Winter Snow. LDS (9th, November, 2007) :moonstars: An Exercise in Abstract Puzzle Theory How practical is it, When the obsession of your mind Exists only in the shadows? Who’s half blind? Will the fruit of your efforts Personify the kiss of a stone-cold, Calculated flame, meant to burn? Adding exacted guilt? In the hours it takes to comply Work must be done on the fly, Wander then delay, purposely with precision; Relief, again, will come during the Fall rotation, With a round-like Key: on the by-and-by. LDS (25th, January, 2008) :moonstars: Ode to Billy Bob You thought you would weaken me Being all brazen with your `tude How dare you strut like that ‘come taste the mood’. I raise the ambiance To titillate you back Inviting you to try on my love Don’t gorge, just snack. I lift my dress a smidge And adjust my garter and hose Careful to take in the effect I lean over and kiss your nose. Your hands held my face Your tongue sent me into throws could it be your magic really curls my toes??? Taking off my rings And stroking gently my wandering curls I see you weakening Cuz i’m not just one of those ‘girls’. Billy Bob, you keep that up I like you just like that You lead, I will follow Thanks ~ Your Playful Pussy Cat. LDS (10th, July, 2006) :moonstars: Words my dress fits in a loose way but your hand will never lose it's direction or impact night or day. the Bear in You manifests like a dare will I shed my dress? With your help, I stand bare. Standing still like a deer caught in your gaze yes Dear, I am smitten by the energy of your haze. My Femme energy may seem Coy but as i slide through your legz You realise, I am a sensual Koi. LDS (27th, August, 2006) :moonstars: |
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i really like your poem "words" |
I'm taking a small break this morning (while having some breakfast) and I wanted to leave 2 poems today that mean a lot to me. I have long adored the works of (1) Czeslaw Milosz and recently, I have begun to learn more about a wonderful Romanian poet - (2) Nichita Stãnescu.
Burned Forest ~ Nichita Stãnescu Black snow was falling. The tree line shone when I turned to see - I had wondered long and silent, alone, trailing memory behind me. And it seemed the stars, fixed as they were, ground their teeth, a stiffened nexus, an infernal machine, tolling the halted hours of conciousness. Then, a thick silence descends, and my every gesture leaves a comet tail in the heavens. And I hear evey glance I cast as it echoes against some tree. Child, what were you seeking there, with your gangly arms and pointed shoulders on which the wings were barely dry - black snow drifting in the evening sky. A horizon howling, far from view, darting its tongues and anthracite, dragged me forever down the mute row, my body, half naked, sliding from sight. In distances of smoke the town afire, blazing beneath the planes, a frigid pyre. We two, forest, what did we do? Why did they burn you, forest, in a toga of ash - and the moon no longer passes over you? From the book "Bas-Relief with Heroes" english translation by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru. How It Was ~ Czeslaw Milosz Stalking a deer I wandered deep into the mountains and from there I saw. Or perhaps it was for some other reason that I rose above the setting sun. Above the hills of blackwood and a slab of ocean and the steps of a glacier, carmine-colored in the dusk. I saw absence; the mighty power of counter-fulfillment; the penalty of a promise lost forever. If, in tepees of plywood, tire shreds, and grimy sheet iron, ancient inhabitants of this land shook their rattles, it was all in vain. No eagle-creator circled in the air from which the thunderbolt of its glory had been cast out. Protective spirits hid themselves in subterranean beds of bubbling ore, jolting the surface from time to time so that the fabric of freeways was bursting asunder. God the Father didn’t walk about any longer tending the new shoots of a cedar, no longer did man hear his rushing spirit. His son did not know his sonship and turned his eyes away when passing by a neon cross flat as a movie screen showing a striptease. This time it was really the end of the Old and the New Testament. No one implored, everyone picked up a nodule of agate or diorite to whisper in loneliness: I cannot live any longer. Bearded messengers in bead necklaces founded clandestine communes in imperial cities and in ports overseas. But none of them announced the birth of a child-savior. Soldiers from expeditions sent to punish nations would go disguised and masked to take part in forbidden rites, not looking for any hope. They inhaled smoke soothing all memory and, rocking from side to side, shared with each other a word of nameless union. Carved in black wood the Wheel of Eternal Return stood before the tents of wandering monastic orders. And those who longed for the Kingdom took refuge like me in the mountains to become the last heirs of a dishonored myth. |
As I was walking today, I found a poem that was left on the trunk of a tree - the tree was absolutely gorgeous and of course, the leaves on trees, around here, are beginning to change.
Trees I think that I shall never see A poem as lovely as a tree, A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast. A tree that looks at God all day And lifts her leafy arms to pray, A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair. Upon whose bosom snow has lain Who intimately lives with rain, Poems are made by fools like me But only God can make a tree. ~ Joyce Kilmer (words used by permission of Aline Kilmer) |
Anne Sexton (1928 - 1974)
It's been a long while since I've written anything - prose or poetry - but I've been experiencing a lot of change in my life this past year. I am not sure how others deal with change in their lives, but since I have been through so many threshold experiences, I think the poetic side of my brain is broken (for the moment).
Well, maybe in time, things will change, yes? Anyway, recently I was at Powell's Book store and I picked a book off the stand to browse through and it was a book of Anne Sexton's poetry. I found this poem and it spoke to my heart... Letter Written on a Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound by Anne Sexton I am surprised to see that the ocean is still going on. Now I am going back and I have ripped my hand from your hand as I said I would and I have made it this far as I said I would and I am on the top deck now holding my wallet, my cigarettes and my car keys at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday in August of 1960. Dearest, although everything has happened, nothing has happened. The sea is very old. The sea is the face of Mary, without miracles or rage or unusual hope, grown rough and wrinkled with incurable age. Still, I have eyes. These are my eyes: the orange letters that spell ORIENT on the life preserver that hangs by my knees; the cement lifeboat that wears its dirty canvas coat; the faded sign that sits on its shelf saying KEEP OFF. Oh, all right, I say, I’ll save myself. Over my right shoulder I see four nuns who sit like a bridge club, their faces poked out from under their habits, as good as good babies who have sunk into their carriages. Without discrimination the wind pulls the skirts of their arms. Almost undressed, I see what remains: that holy wrist, that ankle, that chain. Oh God, although I am very sad, could you please let these four nuns loosen from their leather boots and their wooden chairs to rise out over this greasy deck, out over this iron rail, nodding their pink heads to one side, flying four abreast in the old-fashioned side stroke; each mouth open and round, breathing together as fish do, singing without sound. Dearest, see how my dark girls sally forth, over the passing lighthouse of Plum Gut, its shell as rusty as a camp dish, as fragile as a pagoda on a stone; out over the little lighthouse that warns me of drowning winds that rub over its blind bottom and its blue cover; winds that will take the toes and the ears of the rider or the lover. There go my dark girls, their dresses puff in the leeward air. Oh, they are lighter than flying dogs or the breath of dolphins; each mouth opens gratefully, wider than a milk cup. My dark girls sing for this. They are going up. See them rise on black wings, drinking the sky, without smiles or hands or shoes. They call back to us from the gauzy edge of paradise, good news, good news. Anne Sexton, “Letter Written on a Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound” from The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981). Copyright © 1981 by Linda Gray Sexton and Loring Conant, Jr. Reprinted with the permission of Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc. Source: The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1981) http://www.allamericanpatriots.com/f...und-sunset.jpg |
Czeslaw Milosz | Bells in Winter (trans. by Leonard Kress 1985)
(The poem below is one of many that I like very much by Czeslaw Milosz)
Bells in Winter ~C. Milosz Riding out of Transylvanian mountains, Through primeval forest and Carpathian ridge, At nightfall, once, halting at the edge Of a fording place (my companions Had sent me to find the way), I dismounted, And setting my horse to graze, unstrapped The Holy Scriptures and read, rapt By the Letters of Paul—at once I was granted Such a gift from the rushing stream And light of the setting sun's fire, That the sight of evening's first star Lulled me into a powerful dream. A young man in ornate Greek attire Touched my hand and said—“Time For mortals runs like water. I've probed Its depth to the very bottom. In Corinth Paul rebuked me, for I robbed My father of his wife; he barred me from The common table of my brethren. Since then I've been exiled from the horde Of Saints, all these years my love of sin Led me, poor plaything, floored By temptation—to satisfy demands Of eternal Damnation. But from the slime My Lord and God, unknown that time, Tore me with a lightning flash. Your truths amount to nothing in his hands; His mercy saves all living flesh.” Awakened under the great starry skies, Surprised by this help unexpected, My former cares now trifles rejected, I wiped with a kerchief my moist eyes. I've never journeyed to Transylvania. I didn't bring back messages to my church. But I could have. This is an exercise in stylistics. The pluperfect tense Of imperfective countries. Instead I will tell you something that hasn't been fabricated. The tiny street almost opposite the university Is really called Literary Lane. On the corner, a bookstore but no books, just drafts and sheets Heaped to the ceiling. Unbound, tied with string, Printed and handwritten—Latin, Cyrillic, Hebrew letters. More than a hundred, three hundred years. They must have been worth a fortune. From this bookshop another could be seen, Similar, almost facing it, Identical proprietors: faded bears, Long gabardine caftans, reddened eyelids. Unchanged since the year Napoleon passed through. Nothing has changed here. The privilege of stones? They are that way and like it. Beyond the second shop The lane curves along a wall, passes a house In which a poet, famous in our city, Wrote a tale about a Princess named Grazyna. Right by a wooden gate with studs Huge as fists. Under the vault, on the right, Stairs smelling of paint, where I live. Not that I would have picked Literary Lane, It just happened, there was a room for rent, With a low ceiling and a bay window, a wide oak bed, And a stove that heated the raw winter, Consuming logs brought from the hall By the old servant, Alzbieta. There doesn't seem to be any reason— For I soon went farther way than any road Through woods or mountains could reach— To think about that room over here. Yet I am one of those who believe in Apokatastasis, A word that promises returning movement, Not what is fixed in Katastasis, And appears in Acts 3,21. It means: Restoration. This was believed by Gregory of Nyssa, Johannes Scotus Erigena, Ruysbroeck, and William Blake. Thus each thing, for me, has a dual existence, Both in time and when time shall no longer be. And so one morning, in biting frost And cold drizzle, in a dreamlike gray mist, The air suffused with crimson light Turning snow banks rosy, and streets made slick by runners, Smoke and puffy steam, sledges clanging, jingling, Horses coated with hoarfrost, each hair distance. Then bells—from Saint John's, The Berardines', Saint Casimir's, The Cathedral's, The Missionaries', Saint George's, The Dominicans', Saint Nicholas', Saint Jacob's. So many bells. As if all hands pulling ropes Were erecting a solemn edifice above the city. So Alzbieta, wrapped in her kerchief, would go to morning mass. For a long time I've thought about the life of Alzbieta, I could count the years but I prefer not to. What are years, if I see the snow and her tiny shoes, Funny, pointed, fastened on the side. And I'm the same, though the conceit of the body Begins and ends. Once again chubby angels blast heir golden trumpets. And the stoop-shouldered priest in his chasuble, Today I'd compare him to a scarab From the Egyptian wing of the Louvre. Or sister Alzbieta communing with the Saints— Witches dunked and broken on the wheel, Under the image of the could-kissing Trinity, Until they confessed that at night they transformed to magpies, Serving girls taken for their masters' amusement, Wives delivered divorce decrees, Mothers with a package below the wall, Leads with grimy fingernails along the letters, When the choirmaster, a sacrificer, a Levite, Climbing the steps, sings: Introibo ad altare Dei. Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam. Prie Dievo kurs linksmina mano jaunyste. Mano jaunyste. My youth. As long as in the ritual Of my own words I swing the censer and the smoke rises. As long as I raise my voice to implore: Momento etiam, Domine, famulorum, famularumque, tuarum Qui nos praecesserunt. Kurie prima masu nuejo. What kind of year this day? Easy to remember. A year when the Eucalyptus forests froze in our hills, Free wood for every fireplace, enough to stock For the rainy season and storms from the sea. In the morning we cut logs with a chainsaw, A strong, predatory dwarf, bursting in the roar and stench of burning. And the bay, low, beneath us, the reveling sun, And the towers of San Francisco, beyond the rust-colored fog. Behind me, the same consciousness unwilling to forgive. Perhaps only wonder will save me. If not for that, I wouldn't dare to pronounce the prophets' words: “Whatever can be Created can be Annihilated; Forms cannot; The Oak is cut down by the Ax, the Lamb falls by the Knife, But their Forms Eternal Exist forever. Amen. Hallelujah!” “For God himself enters Death's Door and always with those that enter and lies down in the Grave with them, in Visions of Eternity till they awake and see Jesus in the Linen Clothes lying that the females had woven form them and Gates of their Father's House.” And if the city below was consumed by fire, As well as the cities of all continents, I would not say with my mouth of ashes it was unjust. Judgment, which began in the year seventeen hundred and fifty-seven, Though not for certain, perhaps in some other year. It might come to pass in the sixth millennium or next Tuesday. Suddenly the demiurge's workshop will silence in unimaginable stillness. And the form of every single grain will return in glory. I was judged in my despair, for I couldn't comprehend this. |
I crave…
Your melody: crashing against the still waters of my being; Your crescendo: placing your fingers on the keys of my instrument, gracefully blurring every sound my keys will make. Your delicately placed strokes on me: until my soul bursts aflame in the fire of your all-consuming hunger; Your need to pull my hips toward your being: your provocative skill, plying me gently as I plead for release. Your hand exploring my chasms: causing my soul to weep with the Lilies of the Valley; Your mouth: partaking of my milk and honey; drinking every morsel, my body willingly delivers to you. Your tongue: lapping, tasting, savoring, probing and willing my pearl to bare its luster. Your mind: enveloping my mind; unwrapping all the gifts stored within. Your desire to make me yours: your all-consuming kiss that pierces through me, body and soul. Your appetite: for what I have will feed you; the depths of my being and my untouched reserves have yet to be tapped. What is my desire? You … © LDS :moonstars: |
"The Thief of Sleep"
Your love lifts my soul from the body to the sky And you lift me up out of the two worlds. I want your sun to reach my raindrops, |
*Because today is very special*
Blue Bird Theory in Three Tings
*Ting, Ting, Ting*From waterfalls to paddling to night-swimming in a pool To ‘funny you should ask:’ That night, while sitting on a bar stoolWell – ‘little did you know’ – back when we first met I took a sip of your whiskey and I made a simple bet. *Ting, Ting*‘Knock, Knock,’ you came a calling Whispering these beautiful words: I’ll fall asleep tonightCounting down – 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 – in light years Buzzing like a bee, you were, in my ears! *Ting*“Thy words have I hidden in my heart That I might not sin against thee:” I may not know where I’m going (baby)And, thirteen moons later like the heavens in a storybook night I rehearse your words that cause the strings of my heart to take flight. |
I'm Dancing in the Wind
All these years, spent looking for you, nothing could stop me not even time anew. For even now, in this very moment, not much seems to be different, even if it's left unspoken. Unspoken or not, sent screaming to the heavens or downward below the seas, the one thing that mattered was the deftness of your reverie: the magical presence of your wit, the boding essence of your anger, the reverent way your smile dented my heart, I thought for sure, we'd never be apart. But all those years spent looking for you, didn't tear down any wall or uproot any painful premise, for all the times you dared me to go on without you, I stood here: Dancing in the wind, Dancing in the wind, Dancing in the wind, yes, my darling, I'm dancing in the wind. -LDS- (c) June 30th, 2012 http://www.advancedphotoshop.co.uk/u...r_oloferla.jpg |
Czeslaw Milosz
Today is Sunday September 16th of 2012 and I spent the day in reflection. Recounting events of my life's journey and how I felt during times where I felt like I lost a piece of my heart or a piece of my identity; somehow thinking, during past space of time, the possibility of how I would recover parts of me that felt like I would never get them back, periods of time in which I experienced deep grief, the type of grief that shuts you down, making it near impossible to function or even rationally think about what you do to survive on a daily basis.
During those periods of my life, I was in college. College was a good place for me to heal, one could say. Not only did I have tremendous obligation to my studies but even with the formidable schedule of study, handling day to day life which was spent working too and little slices of social time, here and there, I found myself drawn to the works of Czeslaw Milosz. I found him, in author form, one day, in the stacks of literature at my college campus library. I was wandering in the literature section and came across his name and thought to myself, "What a name this person has! They are not from the western hemisphere, I must find out what they write about, what they think upon and maybe there, in their works of literature, I may discover something about me." Well, I did. I found out about the deep suffering Milosz endured in his home country - on the outskirts of Russia, having lived in Poland and Lithuania and during tumultuous eras of political and social strife, his family sought safety near the Carpathian Mountains - which lasted for not too long. Eventually, during the years of exile that he and his family endured, Milosz wrote about life in terms of his own worldview that was shaped by the years of exile and post-exile safety of having taught literature and linguistic studies at University of California - Berkeley. Miloszian philosophy acts like a healing balm to me and I go through periods even today where I have to have my fill of writings authored by Milosz. I've featured two of his poems here before: How It Was & Bells In Winter. In other poetry forum threads, I've left one or two other poems of his, but cannot recall them tonight. Tonight, I leave the poem below as an offering to anyone who might find a strand of thought or glimmer of light as the read this particular Mioszian strand of thought. Esse I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of metro stations flew by; I didn't notice them. What can be done, if our sight lacks absolute power to devour objects ecstatically, in an instant, leaving nothing more than the void of an ideal form, a sign like a hieroglyph simplified from the drawing of an animal or bird? A slightly snub nose, a high brow with sleekly brushed back hair, the line of the chin - but why isn't the power of sight absolute? - and, in whiteness tinged with pink two sculpted holes, containing a dark, lustrous lava. To absorb that face but to have it simultaneously against the background of all spring boughs, walls, waves, in its weepinng, its laughter, moving back fifteen years, or ahead thirty. To have. It is not even a desire. Like a butterfly, a fish, the stem of a plant, only more mysterious. And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is! She got out at Raspail. I left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself, a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees. Czeslaw Milosz (1954): The Collected Poems 1931 - 1987 Translated by: Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Pinsky Copyright (c) Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Pinsky (1988). http://s19.radikal.ru/i192/1105/be/dea1d9e96eea.jpg |
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So many truly lovely lines: "willing my pearl to bare its luster" Nice! |
I wanted to share another poem tonight by a poet I came across recently. It's called Blue Flower by Mihai Eminescu (translated by Corneliu M. Popescu). A Romanian poet too, like Nichita Stãnescu, Eminescu was heavily influenced by German philospher, Arthur Schopenhauer.
, BLUE FLOWER "You ride the clouds and range the sky Your net about the stars cast; But do remember dear at last My soul can never soar so high. You build tall palaces in Spain Of fancy's fragile masonry; You search in vain the sullen sea And roam Assyria's plains in vain. The pyramids their summits press Against the clouded heavens high, Dear heart, it is not wise to fly Too far afield for happiness!" T'was thus she spoke in whispers low, Her hand laid softly on my head, But l just laughed and nothing said, Yet what she told was truth, l know. "Come where cool crystal brooks complain Their fleeting fate midst forest greens, And where the hanging cliff out leans As though to thunder on the plain. And somewhere, up some little glade, To gather raspberries we will climb, Or sit and watch the sky sublime From near the rushes' tasselled shade. While many a story you will tell, And many a lie you'll whisper too; But l will read on petals true You love me not, you love me well. As rosy as an apple's rind Will be my cheeks burnt by the sun, And my long golden hair undone Around your neck in coils you'll wind. While if your lips on mine should burn No one in all the world will know, My hat is broad...and even so, T'were only your and my concern. And whet moon comes shining through The gap where tangled branches part, You'll hold me very close, dear heart, And l will clasp my arms round you. And when we walk the twilight gloom Of forest paths that homeward run, We'll gather many a kiss, each one As fragrant as the violets' bloom. And long amid the starlight glow We'll stand to talk outside my gate, For no one comes that way so late, And who should care l love you so?" Another kiss and she was gone; Like post l stood in the moan's stream! O beautiful beyond a dream, O small blue flower all my own! Alas our love that grew so fair Has flown and faded from that hour, O my blue flower, my blue flower! The world is sorrow everywhere. |
AThousand Fathoms Deep
In a world where seeking the best in life Is sometimes confused with being a saintly wife, I thought it would be wise to strip myself bare So I could hear the unspoken and see what’s not there. What I found out, as I removed parts of my self, Was that I saw great confliction and how it affects my health. As I removed each mask with deliberate stealth, I came to see clearly, my lack in terms of wealth. Just like a clever, well-written haiku, I could see how my very existence ached for you. But the reason I am even remotely aware Is because it’s no coincidence that I can feel how you care. How do I know this, you might begin to ask, I know without a doubt that life is no easy task. Living with less amplified my need to the core, Living with less has also proved what my soul needs more. “It is only when you are empty That a soul is ready for life anew…” I swear I read that, somewhere before, As I spent hours, upon hours, longing for you. So, one day a few weeks ago, naturally by intuition, I decided to improve my naked ambition. I undressed from my life of cluttered desire, And simplified my excess baggage and made a roaring fire. Now as my life bursts aflame and is seen upon this altar, I hope it gives you strength, in case your faith should falter; Living a life that is worth more is not a price that is too steep; It’s a selfless act of love and devotion: AThousand Fathoms Deep. L. D. S. © February 11, 2013 |
Who wrote this? I love it (the most recent poem you posted).
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Quote:
There are even a few other poems in my thread, and also in Arwen's 9-word Poetry thread, that are penned by me (as well). Thank you nycfembbw: for the compliment, that you enjoyed (loved) the latest poem I penned. :bouquet: |
Balance and Reflection
I tiptoed carefully as I walked across a body of water on a log with moss, wary of slipping while deep in thought wandering carefully no fear of being distraught, letting myself be filled by scent ladened air of magical ponderings that I want to share, tempered by the memory to deeply care: balance and reflection. -LDS- (May 11th, 2013) http://candletales.lt/wp-content/upl...tiverija-1.jpg |
Melody in See Minor Like strings plucked by time, I hear your enchanted melody And marvel, “Are you mine?” If I focus long enough, I see: I see your shadow, I see your formidable essence, I see your soul dancing, And it mesmerizes me: Luring me into a trance like state, I breathe you in and exhale smoothly, Eclipsing the moon and twinkling stars, of late. I lift my face up to the sky -- Feeling incredibly high -- And, intoxicated by the very existence of you, I feel you nearby and sigh. © LDS 17th of May, 2013 |
August 7th, 2013 (Wednesday)
In light of what appears to be incessant miscarriages of justice (in the US and elsewhere around the globe), I find myself thinking about the much beloved and well respected poet, Czeslaw Milosz: Born in Poland, having survived two Totalitarian government regimes and other atrocities of his era in life, poetry by Milosz provides a way for me to make sense of a world filled with corruption and in dire need of redemption.
A Magic Mountain by: Czeslaw Milosz (1911-2004) translated by: Czeslaw Milosz & Lillian Vallee I don't remember exactly when Budberg died, it was either two years ago or three. The same with Chen. Whether last year or the one before. Soon after our arrival, Budberg, gently pensive, Said that in the beginning it is hard to get accustomed, For here there is no spring or summer, no winter or fall. "I kept dreaming of snow and birch forests. Where so little changes you hardly notice how time goes by. This is, you will see, a magic mountain." Budberg: a familiar name in my childhood. They were prominent in our region, This Russian family, decendants of German Balts. I read none of his works, too specialized. And Chen, I have heard, was an exquisite poet, Which I must take on faith, for he wrote in Chinese. Sultry Octobers, cool July's, trees blossom in February. Here nuptial flight of hummingbirds does not forecast spring. Only the faithful maple sheds its leaves every year. For no reason, its ancestors simply learned it that way. I sensed Budberg was right and I rebelled. So I won't have power, won't save the world? Fame will pass me by, no tiara, no crown? Did I then train myself, myself the Unique, To compose stanzas for gulls and sea haze, To listen to the foghorns blaring down below? Until it passed. What passed? Life. Now I am not ashamed of my defeat. One murky island with its barking seals Or a parched desert is enough To make us say: yes, oui, si. "Even asleep we partake in the becoming of the world." Endurance comes only from enduring. With a flick of the wrist I fashioned an invisible rope, And climbed it and it held me. What a procession! Quelles délices! What caps and hooded gowns! Most respected Professor Budberg, Most distinguished Professor Chen, Wrong Honorable Professor Milosz Who wrote poems in some un-heard of tongue. Who will count them anyway. And here sunlight. So that the flames of their tall candles fade. And how many generations of hummingbirds keep them company As they walk on. Across magic mountain. And the fog from the ocean is cool, for once again it is July. Berkeley, 1975 "A Magic Mountain" from The Collected Poems: 1931-1987 (The Echo Press, 1988). Poem found online ~>> HERE Biography of Milosz found ~>> HERE www.poetryfoundation.org |
The Peace of Wild Things
~ Wendell Berry When despair for the world grows in me And I wake in the night at the least sound In fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake, And great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things Who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the peace of still water, And I feel above me the day-long stars, Waiting with their light. For a time, I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. http://imgc.allpostersimages.com/ima...nnsylvania.jpg |
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January 11th (2017).
I have written lots of poems, the past few years, but lately, while having so much time on my hands, I found myself rearranging books I've kept, over the years. I came across a much loved literature studies book, found myself rereading portions of literature; then turned a page to find the poem written by Adrienne Rich. It's one of few poems that I absolutely love: Love, because it's rich with timeless wisdom, and an certain depth of agony, that I've known one or two times in life. Not something I think anyone should experience, but life often is the subtle teacher .... especially as seen and felt through the lens of Adrienne Rich.
Diving into the Wreck First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife blade, I put on (5) The body armor of black rubber, the absurd flippers, the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this, Not like Cousteau with his (10) Assiduous team, aboard the sun flooded schooner, but here alone. There is a ladder, the ladder is always there (15) hanging innocently Close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise (20) it's a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment. I go down Rung after rung and still The oxygen immerses me (25) The blue light The clear atoms Of our human air. I go down my flippers cripple me (30) I crawl like an insect down the ladder And there is no one To tell me when the ocean will begin. First the air is blue and then (35) it is bluer and then green and then Black. I am blacking out and yet My mask is powerful It pumps my blood with power The sea is another story. (40) The sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone To turn my body without force In the deep element. And now: it is not easy to forget (45) What I came for Among so many who have always Lived here Swaying their crenellated fans Between the reefs (50) and besides you breathe differently down here. I came to explore the wreck. the words are purposes, the words are maps. (55) I came to see the damage that was done And the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp Slowly along the flank of something more permanent, (60) than fish or weed. The thing I came for The wreck and not the story of the wreck. the thing itself and not the myth. The drowned face always staring (65) Toward the sun. the evidence of damage, Worn by salt and sway into threadbare beauty. the ribs of the disaster Curving their assertion, (70) Among the tentative haunters. This is the place And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair Streams black, the merman in his armored body, We circle silently, (75) about the wreck, we dive into the hold. I am She: I am He. whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes, whose beasts still bear the stress, (80) whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies Obscure inside barrels Half wedged and left to rot we are the half destroyed instruments That once held to a course, (85) the water eaten log The fouled compass. We are, I am, you are By cowardice or courage The one who find our way (90) back to the scene Carrying a knife, a camera, a book of myths In which our names do not appear. ~~~ Adrienne Rich (1972). |
Today seems like as perfect as a time to post about another favorite poem. I have always liked the poem The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost. In fact, thanks to a graduate level course I took a few years ago, we studied perplexing literature, literature that most always people think they understand, but actually don't.
Robert Frost's poem is, as articulately described in a blog post link that I'll leave below the poem, an poem that "...isn't a salute to can-do individualism: it's a commentary on the self-deception we practice when constructing the story of our own lives" and "the best example in all of American poetry of an wolf in sheep's clothing" and, as David Orr goes on to emphasize with profundity, that "It may be the best example in all of American culture of an wolf in sheep's clothing: -- David Orr (poetry columnist for the New York Times Book Review). https://i2.wp.com/www.historybyzim.c...8286150236.png Here's the link to the blog post by The Paris Review, which speaks to the poem authored by Robert Frost and the book authored by David Orr, The Road Not Taken: Finding America in the Poem Everybody Loves and Almost Everyone Gets Wrong (Penguin Press, 2015). https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/...em-in-america/ |
A Song On The End Of The World
On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover a fishermen mends a glimmering net Happy porpoises jump in the sea By the rain spout young sparrows are playing And the snake is gold skinned as it should always be. On the day the world ends Women walk through fields under umbrellas A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of the lawn Vegetable peddlers shout in the street And a yellow sailed boat comes nearer the island The voice of a violin lasts in the air And leads into a starry night. And those who expected lightening and thunder Are disappointed. And those who expected signs and archangel's trumps Do not believe it is happening now. As long as the sun and moon are above As long as a bumblebee visits a rose As long as rosy infants are born No one believes it is happening now. Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: No other end to the world will there be, No other end to the world will there be. -- Czeslaw Milösz -- |
An favorite poem by Mary Oliver .....
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for an hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you about mine. Meanwhile, the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clear blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like wild geese, harsh and exciting, over and over, announcing your place in things. --- Mary Oliver In Dreamwork (Atlanta Monthly Press, 1986). http://www.thesimplestencil.com/imag...s-Stencils.png |
The Peace of Wild Things
(Wendell Berry) When despair for the world grows in me And I wake in the night at the least sound, In gear of what my life and children's lives might be, I go and lie down where the wood drake Rests in his beauty on the water, and where the Great Heron feeds, I come into the peace of wild things, Who do not tax their lives with forethought, Of grief. I come into the presence of still of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars, Waiting with their light. For a time, I rest in the grace of the world, and I am free. https://i.pinimg.com/736x/d6/54/d1/d...f5bcdf32c0.jpg |
Touched By An Angel
Maya Angelou We, accustomed to courage Exiles from delight Live coiled in shells of loneliness Until live leaves its high holy temple And comes into our sight To liberate us into life. Love arrives And in its train come ecstacies Old memories of pleasure Ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, Love strikes away the chains of fear From our souls. We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light We dare be brave And suddenly we see That love costs all we are And will ever be. Yet it is only love Which sets us free. Angelou, M. The Complete Collected Poems Of Maya Angelou. Random House, 1994. |
Diving Into The Wreck
-- Adrienne Rich (1972) First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Costeau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone. There is a ladder, The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise, it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment. I go down, Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down, My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me where the ocean will begin. First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not the question of power I have to learn alone to trust my body without force in the deep element. And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here. I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed. The thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned faced staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters. This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermei cargo lies obscurely inside the barrels half-wedged and let to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-beaten log the fouled compass We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our name do not appear. |
Oriah Mountain Dreamer (Favorite Poetry)
It's an wistful, warm and sunny afternoon here at home. And all afternoon, in-between texts with my mother and coming across literature I've kept on my cloud drive, I came across the poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer (The Invitation).
I saved that poem years ago, when I first came across it. It's an very favorite poem; it's strand of thoughts conveying an particular reality that's often something I struggle with - concerning ideas of relationship ideals, ideas interconnected with an culture of perfection, and the often misunderstood ideas surrounding grief, heart ache, betrayal, and 'cardinal sins' which shape your life in unexpected ways. Especially the italicized part of Oriah's poem, below. Truthfulness and honesty carry an lot of weight (Integrity), in my world. I don't really understand this strand of thought, in this particular passage of her poem. But, I often meditate on this poetic portion of verse. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The Invitation It doesn't interest me what you do for a living: I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are: I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon: I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human. It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true: I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day: And if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.' It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have: I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here: I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back. It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied: I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. ~ Oriah Mountain Dreamer |
https://cdn.photographylife.com/wp-c...03/Red-Sky.jpg
“The passionate heart touches the sky. The meditative mind enters it.” ― Yasmine Sherif (The Case for Humanity: An Extraordinary Session) |
Burned Forest
~ Nichita Stãnescu Black snow was falling. The tree line shone when I turned to see - I had wondered long and silent, alone, trailing memory behind me. And it seemed the stars, fixed as they were, ground their teeth, a stiffened nexus, an infernal machine, tolling the halted hours of conciousness. Then, a thick silence descends, and my every gesture leaves a comet tail in the heavens. And I hear every glance I cast as it echoes against some tree. Child, what were you seeking there, with your gangly arms and pointed shoulders on which the wings were barely dry - black snow drifting in the evening sky. A horizon howling, far from view, darting its tongues and anthracite, dragged me forever down the mute row, my body, half naked, sliding from sight. In distances of smoke the town afire, blazing beneath the planes, a frigid pyre. We two, forest, what did we do? Why did they burn you, forest, in a toga of ash - and the moon no longer passes over you? From the book Bas-Relief with Heroes English translation by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru. http://www.hotelsienaborgogrondaie.c...0816752251.jpg |
How It Was
~ Czeslaw Milosz Stalking a deer I wandered deep into the mountains and from there I saw. Or perhaps it was for some other reason that I rose above the setting sun. Above the hills of blackwood and a slab of ocean and the steps of a glacier, carmine-colored in the dusk. I saw absence; the mighty power of counter-fulfillment; the penalty of a promise lost forever. If, in tepees of plywood, tire shreds, and grimy sheet iron, ancient inhabitants of this land shook their rattles, it was all in vain. No eagle-creator circled in the air from which the thunderbolt of its glory had been cast out. Protective spirits hid themselves in subterranean beds of bubbling ore, jolting the surface from time to time so that the fabric of freeways was bursting asunder. God the Father didn’t walk about any longer tending the new shoots of a cedar, no longer did man hear his rushing spirit. His son did not know his sonship and turned his eyes away when passing by a neon cross flat as a movie screen showing a striptease. This time it was really the end of the Old and the New Testament. No one implored, everyone picked up a nodule of agate or diorite to whisper in loneliness: I cannot live any longer. Bearded messengers in bead necklaces founded clandestine communes in imperial cities and in ports overseas. But none of them announced the birth of a child-savior. Soldiers from expeditions sent to punish nations would go disguised and masked to take part in forbidden rites, not looking for any hope. They inhaled smoke soothing all memory and, rocking from side to side, shared with each other a word of nameless union. Carved in black wood the Wheel of Eternal Return stood before the tents of wandering monastic orders. And those who longed for the Kingdom took refuge like me in the mountains to become the last heirs of a dishonored myth. __________________________________________________ ______ __________________________________________________ ______ __________________________________________________ ______ Czeslaw Milosz is an widely respected author of poetry, prose and historical accounts of two totalitarian regimes he survived, during his life time. Milosz is an Polish literature author (Nobel Laureate), who has since passed on, once taught at UC-Berkeley. He's my favorite author of all time (hands down). To learn more about Milosz, click this ~~>>>>>> LINK and this ~~>>>>>> LINK. The first book I ever read of his was The Captive Mind (1953), for which he earned the Nobel Prize in Literature. https://d1w7fb2mkkr3kw.cloudfront.ne...0141186764.jpg |
Anthem (by Leonard Cohen)
Once in a blue moon, I feel inspired to share a poem that has meant a lot to me, even if the poem is authored by someone else other than me. I've shared a few of the poems I've written over the years, but I've also shared poems authored by others whose poetry has helped me to process what I think and feel about things in the world.
Today, I want to share the poem penned by Leonard Cohen: Anthem. It's off his 1992 album, titled The Future. My favorite strand of thought from his poetic verse, is as follows: Quote:
Anthem by Leonard Cohen The birds they sang At the break of day Start again I heard them say Don't dwell on what Has passed away Or what is yet to be Yeah the wars they will Be fought again The holy dove She will be caught again Bought and sold And bought again The dove is never free Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack, a crack in everything That's how the light gets in We asked for signs The signs were sent: The birth betrayed The marriage spent Yeah the widowhood Of every government Signs for all to see I can't run no more With that lawless crowd While the killers in high places Say their prayers out loud But they've summoned, they've summoned up A thundercloud And they're going to hear from me Ring the bells that still ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack, a crack in everything That's how the light gets in You can add up the parts You won't have the sum You can strike up the march There is no drum Every heart, every heart To love will come But like a refugee Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack, a crack in everything That's how the light gets in Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack, a crack in everything That's how the light gets in That's how the light gets in That's how the light gets in http://cdn3.volusion.com/zausr.eprhq...os/6187-2T.jpg Link to story about this particular song by Cohen is found @ Quartz magazine ( HERE). |
Here is a poem I penned and contributed to Arwen's 9 words: a poetry challenge thread:
9 words: perfection, beauty, truth, damaged, trick, proud, demons, pretty, control ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Hiding behind the veneer of damaged beauty, is nothing but sheer love of self interest, in the name of proud demons not worthy of a sinner's reproach. Truth is, control is no Perfection: It's a trick, if you trade Self worth --- In exchange for What's yours, by birth. -Kätzchen- (May 14th, 2013) |
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