01-04-2012, 02:22 PM | #281 |
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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. |
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01-09-2012, 03:20 PM | #282 |
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To Virgins, to Make Much of Time
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And, while ye may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry. Robert Herrick |
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01-10-2012, 12:22 AM | #283 |
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I decided to post this anyway..:)
The Cold Within
Six humans trapped by happenstance In dark and bitter cold Each possessed a stick of wood-- Or so the story's told. Their dying fire in need of logs, But the first one held hers back, For, of the faces around the fire, She noticed one was black. The next one looked cross the way Saw one not of his church, And could not bring himself to give The fire his stick of birch. The third one sat in tattered clothes He gave his coat a hitch, Why should his log be put to use To warm the idle rich? The rich man just sat back and thought Of wealth he had in store, And keeping all that he had earned From the lazy, shiftless poor. The black man's face bespoke revenge As the fire passed from his sight, For he saw in his stick of wood A chance to spite the white. And the last man of this forlorn group Did nought except for gain, Giving just to those who gave Was how he played the game, Their sticks held tight in death's stilled hands Was proof enough of sin; They did not die from cold without-- They died from cold within. -- James Patrick Kinney |
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01-12-2012, 08:00 PM | #284 |
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New Body
There’s a sort of eternity
when we’re in bed together whether silently you awaken me with the flat of your hand or sleep breathing with a small scratch in your throat, or quietly attach a bird to the sky I dream as a way in to my body— Now you have made me excited to accept heaven as an idea inside us, perpetual waters, because you let yourself fall from a sky you invented to a sea I vaulted when it was small rain accumulating—My heart drained there and fills now in time to sketch in the entire desert landscape we remember as an ocean port, that part of me accepting your trust, a deep voluptuous thrust into my hours, that has no earthly power but lives in believing you were made for me to give in to completely, every entry into you the lip of water that is in itself scant hope broken into like sleep by kisses—Policed in the desert by a shooting star, we are the subversive love scratched out of the sky, o my visitor. ~ Jane Miller |
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01-12-2012, 08:05 PM | #285 |
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I will love you.
And you will have no say in the matter. You will be sitting reading. I will step through the wall and take you by the ears. Gold Latin will come out of your mouth. Years will pass. We will be old. I will have loved you, against my nature, no other being worthy, thrown as I am on my own powers, alone there. And as we sit together reading you will say “Did you really love me?” And I will be terrified. -Stan Rice |
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01-12-2012, 09:35 PM | #286 |
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They say that 'Time assuages'
by Emily Dickinson They say that "Time assuages"— Time never did assuage— An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age— Time is a Test of Trouble— But not a Remedy— If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady— |
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01-16-2012, 08:00 PM | #287 |
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Sympathy
by Paul Laurence Dunbar I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals— I know what the caged bird feels! I know why the caged bird beats its wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting— I know why he beats his wing! I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,— When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings— I know why the caged bird sings! |
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01-17-2012, 07:26 PM | #288 |
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New Year's
by Dana Gioia Let other mornings honor the miraculous. Eternity has festivals enough. This is the feast of our mortality, The most mundane and human holiday. On other days we misinterpret time, Pretending that we live the present moment. But can this blur, this smudgy in-between, This tiny fissure where the future drips Into the past, this flyspeck we call now Be our true habitat? The present is The leaky palm of water that we skim From the swift, silent river slipping by. The new year always brings us what we want Simply by bringing us along—to see A calendar with every day uncrossed, A field of snow without a single footprint. |
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01-17-2012, 07:37 PM | #289 |
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Syllables
And somewhere,
inside the usual grammar of morning, between all the shortest syllables of clock ring & water boil egg tap & salt shake you discover you are this body that loves her Even though your finest words are gone leaving only the smallest bones the metatarsals the humble feet of your love to beat out their passions on two rough heels It happens here over tea, sun shoots one flawless arrow across the tip of your spoon and into hers -the way she looks up over the rim of her cup one green eye, then two & suddenly all four corners of your world meet here; in the central moon of your saucer perfect alchemy and it is then that you swap the ordinary floss of morning for a glimpse of what the love of this body will be ~ Chaia Heller |
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01-18-2012, 12:51 AM | #290 |
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A Beautiful Stranger At a mirror, naked, pleasing to herself You really were pretty; let that moment last. The rose-brown shield of your breasts, A belly with a black tuft just recently grown. And they would dress you immediately in languishing Blouses, slips, wispy robes with trains. You wore a corset in a fashionable shade of lilac, On your thighs garters like the straps on armor. They hung on you layers of ridiculous fabrics So that you could take part in their theater of pretended ecstasies, smutty allusions. A slave; and such you remained in the photograph Dimmed by emulsion and the coloring of time. Did you rebel? Yes, it is quite possible. To know for yourself, not to tell anybody And from the nothingness of their words, To protect the wisdom of your mocking body. And I; am I now liberated from those rituals, masks, the floodlights of the ball? Have I escaped the law that draws me into frozen fashions, half-dead manners? I would like to save you, beautiful stranger. Together we depart for eternal meadows. You are naked again, and fifteen years old. I take you by the hand, your promised one. Think that nothing will happen to you That was suppose to happen, That you can be different, That you are your own, And not arrested by the exactness of fate. Czeslaw Milosz
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01-18-2012, 02:00 AM | #291 |
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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. |
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01-18-2012, 02:15 AM | #292 |
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Why do I like horses. I think I must be mad.
My Mother wasn't horsey--and neither was my Dad. But the madness hit me early- and it hit me like a curse. And I've never gotten better. In fact I've gotten worse. I hardly read a paper- but I know whose sold their horse. And I wouldn't watch the news-Unless Mr. Ed was on- of course. One eye's always on the heavens-But my washing waves in vain As I rush to get the horses in-in case it's gonna rain. I spend up every cent I've got - on horsey stuff for sure I buy saddles, bridles, fancy boots- and the I buy some more I can't sew a button- I don't even try But I can back a truck and trailer- in the twinkling of an eye It's jeans and boots that I live in night and day And that smell of sweaty horses just doesn't wash away But late at night when all is still- and I've gone to give them hay I touch their velvet softness and my worries float away They give a gentle nicker and they nuzzle thru my hair And I know it's where my heart is-more here than anywhere author unknown
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01-19-2012, 01:29 PM | #293 |
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Happy 203rd birthday, Mr. Poe.
May the Poe-toaster rise again, and may the Ravens win, win, win.
Alone By Edgar Allan Poe From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view— |
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01-19-2012, 01:34 PM | #294 |
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I was going to thank the Edgar Allen Poe portion of that post, but I couldn't separate it from the "Ravens" portion...I'm just sayin'...
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01-20-2012, 10:30 PM | #295 |
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Poem In Which Words Have Been Left Out
by Charles Jensen —The "Miranda Rights," established 1966 You have the right to remain anything you can and will be. An attorney you cannot afford will be provided to you. You have silent will. You can be against law. You cannot afford one. You remain silent. Anything you say will be provided to you. The right can and will be against you. The right provided you. Have anything you say be right. Anything you say can be right. Say you have the right attorney. The right remain silent. Be held. Court the one. Be provided. You cannot be you. |
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01-21-2012, 05:02 AM | #296 |
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DUST OF SNOW
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued. ~Robert Frost |
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01-22-2012, 10:21 PM | #297 |
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Loving In The War Years
Loving you is like living
in the war years. I do think of Bogart & Bergman not clear who’s who but still singin’ a long smoky mood into the piano bar drinks straight up the last bottle in the house while bombs split outside, a broken world. A world war going on but you and I still insisting in each our own heads still thinking how if I could only make some contact with that woman across the keyboard we size each other up yes … Loving you has this kind of desperation to it, like do or die, I having eyed you from the first time you made the decision to move from your stool to live dangerously. All on the hunch that in our exchange of photos of old girlfriends, names of cities and memories back in the states the fronts we’ve manned out here on the continent all this on the hunch that this time there’ll be no need for resistance. Loving in the war years calls for this kind of risking without a home to call our own I’ve got to take you as you come to me, each time like a stranger all over again. Not knowing what deaths you saw today I’ve got to take you as you come, battle bruised refusing our enemy, fear We’re all we’ve got. You and I maintaining this war time morality where being queer and female is as rude as we can get. ~ Cherrie Moraga |
01-23-2012, 04:16 PM | #298 |
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"Before I understood how to open with you, I tried giving you orgasms so I knew I was a good lover.
But now, all I want is your surrender. I want your heart's pleasure to ripple through your open body and saturate my life with your love. ... Your body's openness to love's flow draws me into you, and through your heart's surrender I am opened to the love that lives as the universe. Whether you have an orgasm or not while we make love, your body's trust and devotional openness is my secret doorway to love's deepest bliss." -David Deida
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01-23-2012, 04:17 PM | #299 | |
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01-23-2012, 05:26 PM | #300 |
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Gibran
Joy and Sorrow
Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow." And he answered: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater." But I say unto you, they are inseparable. KAHLIL GIBRAN |
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