01-24-2012, 09:57 AM | #301 |
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The Buried Life
by Matthew Arnold Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet! I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, We know, we know that we can smile; But there 's a something in this breast, To which thy light words bring no rest, And thy gay smiles no anodyne; Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, And turn those limpid eyes on mine, And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul. Alas! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak? Are even lovers powerless to reveal To one another what indeed they feel? I knew the mass of men conceal'd Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd They would by other men be met With blank indifference, or with blame reprov'd; I knew they liv'd and mov'd Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet The same heart beats in every human breast. But we, my love—does a like spell benumb Our hearts—our voices?—must we too be dumb? Ah, well for us, if even we, Even for a moment, can get free Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd; For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd! Fate, which foresaw How frivolous a baby man would be, By what distractions he would be possess'd, How he would pour himself in every strife, And well-nigh change his own identity; That it might keep from his capricious play His genuine self, and force him to obey, Even in his own despite his being's law, Bade through the deep recesses of our breast The unregarded River of our Life Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; And that we should not see The buried stream, and seem to be Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, Though driving on with it eternally. But often, in the world's most crowded streets, But often, in the din of strife, There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life, A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course; A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us, to know Whence our lives come and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then delves, But deep enough, alas, none ever mines! And we have been on many thousand lines, And we have shown, on each, spirit and power, But hardly have we, for one little hour, Been on our own line, have we been ourselves; Hardly had skill to utter one of all The nameless feelings that course through our breast, But they course on for ever unexpress'd. And long we try in vain to speak and act Our hidden self, and what we say and do Is eloquent, is well—but 'tis not true! And then we will no more be rack'd With inward striving, and demand Of all the thousand nothings of the hour Their stupefying power; Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call! Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, From the soul's subterranean depth upborne As from an infinitely distant land, Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey A melancholy into all our day. Only—but this is rare— When a belovèd hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafen'd ear Is by the tones of a lov'd voice caress'd— A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again! The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know, A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur, and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein he doth for ever chase The flying and elusive shadow, Rest. An air of coolness plays upon his face, And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose, And the Sea where it goes. |
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01-24-2012, 11:04 PM | #302 |
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SI TÚ ME OLVIDAS
~Pablo Neruda QUIERO que sepas una cosa. Tú sabes cómo es esto: si miro la luna de cristal, la rama roja del lento otoño en mi ventana, si toco junto al fuego la impalpable ceniza o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña, todo me lleva a ti, como si todo lo que existe, aromas, luz, metales, fueran pequeños barcos que navegan hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan. Ahora bien, si poco a poco dejas de quererme dejaré de quererte poco a poco. Si de pronto me olvidas no me busques, que ya te habré olvidado. Si consideras largo y loco el viento de banderas que pasa por mi vida y te decides a dejarme a la orilla del corazón en que tengo raíces, piensa que en ese día, a esa hora levantaré los brazos y saldrán mis raíces a buscar otra tierra. Pero si cada día, cada hora sientes que a mí estás destinada con dulzura implacable. Si cada día sube una flor a tus labios a buscarme, ay amor mío, ay mía, en mí todo ese fuego se repite, en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida, mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada, y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos sin salir de los míos. If You Forget Me ~ Pablo Neruda I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists: aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you. If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine. |
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01-25-2012, 09:30 AM | #303 |
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Your voice resonates through me like a wave of energy.
Our words intertwine with ease. You calm me. You excite me. You energize me. I feel your heat each time we interact. Could this be a reality or is this an illusion? Keep me high....
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01-25-2012, 04:13 PM | #304 |
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My Mother Would Be a Falconress by Robert Duncan
My mother would be a falconress, And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist, would fly to bring back from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize, where I dream in my little hood with many bells jangling when I'd turn my head. My mother would be a falconress, and she sends me as far as her will goes. She lets me ride to the end of her curb where I fall back in anguish. I dread that she will cast me away, for I fall, I mis-take, I fail in her mission. She would bring down the little birds. And I would bring down the little birds. When will she let me bring down the little birds, pierced from their flight with their necks broken, their heads like flowers limp from the stem? I tread my mother's wrist and would draw blood. Behind the little hood my eyes are hooded. I have gone back into my hooded silence, talking to myself and dropping off to sleep. For she has muffled my dreams in the hood she has made me, sewn round with bells, jangling when I move. She rides with her little falcon upon her wrist. She uses a barb that brings me to cower. She sends me abroad to try my wings and I come back to her. I would bring down the little birds to her I may not tear into, I must bring back perfectly. I tear at her wrist with my beak to draw blood, and her eye holds me, anguisht, terrifying. She draws a limit to my flight. Never beyond my sight, she says. She trains me to fetch and to limit myself in fetching. She rewards me with meat for my dinner. But I must never eat what she sends me to bring her. Yet it would have been beautiful, if she would have carried me, always, in a little hood with the bells ringing, at her wrist, and her riding to the great falcon hunt, and me flying up to the curb of my heart from her heart to bring down the skylark from the blue to her feet, straining, and then released for the flight. My mother would be a falconress, and I her gerfalcon raised at her will, from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own pride, as if her pride knew no limits, as if her mind sought in me flight beyond the horizon. Ah, but high, high in the air I flew. And far, far beyond the curb of her will, were the blue hills where the falcons nest. And then I saw west to the dying sun-- it seemd my human soul went down in flames. I tore at her wrist, at the hold she had for me, until the blood ran hot and I heard her cry out, far, far beyond the curb of her will to horizons of stars beyond the ringing hills of the world where the falcons nest I saw, and I tore at her wrist with my savage beak. I flew, as if sight flew from the anguish in her eye beyond her sight, sent from my striking loose, from the cruel strike at her wrist, striking out from the blood to be free of her. My mother would be a falconress, and even now, years after this, when the wounds I left her had surely heald, and the woman is dead, her fierce eyes closed, and if her heart were broken, it is stilld I would be a falcon and go free. I tread her wrist and wear the hood, talking to myself, and would draw blood.
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01-25-2012, 10:50 PM | #305 |
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Drench
by Anne Stevenson You sleep with a dream of summer weather, wake to the thrum of rain—roped down by rain. Nothing out there but drop-heavy feathers of grass and rainy air. The plastic table on the terrace has shed three legs on its way to the garden fence. The mountains have had the sense to disappear. It's the Celtic temperament—wind, then torrents, then remorse. Glory rising like a curtain over distant water. Old stonehouse, having steered us through the dark, docks in a pool of shadow all its own. That widening crack in the gloom is like good luck. Luck, which neither you nor tomorrow can depend on. |
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01-25-2012, 11:53 PM | #306 |
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I <3 Kipling.
Sestina Of The Tramp
a Royal poem by Rudyard Kipling Speakin' in general, I'ave tried 'em all The 'appy roads that take you o'er the world. Speakin' in general, I'ave found them good For such as cannot use one bed too long, But must get 'ence, the same as I'ave done, An' go observin' matters till they die. What do it matter where or 'ow we die, So long as we've our 'ealth to watch it all The different ways that different things are done, An' men an' women lovin' in this world; Takin' our chances as they come along, An' when they ain't, pretendin' they are good? In cash or credit no, it aren't no good; You've to 'ave the 'abit or you'd die, Unless you lived your life but one day long, Nor didn't prophesy nor fret at all, But drew your tucker some'ow from the world, An' never bothered what you might ha' done. But, Gawd, what things are they I'aven't done? I've turned my 'and to most, an' turned it good, In various situations round the world For 'im that doth not work must surely die; But that's no reason man should labour all 'Is life on one same shift life's none so long. Therefore, from job to job I've moved along. Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done, For something in my 'ead upset it all, Till I'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good, An', out at sea, be'eld the dock-lights die, An' met my mate the wind that tramps the world! It's like a book, I think, this bloomin, world, Which you can read and care for just so long, But presently you feel that you will die Unless you get the page you're readi'n' done, An' turn another likely not so good; But what you're after is to turn'em all. Gawd bless this world! Whatever she'oth done Excep' When awful long I've found it good. So write, before I die, "'E liked it all!" |
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01-26-2012, 09:50 AM | #307 |
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How to Love Bats
By Judith Beveridge Begin in a cave. Listen to the floor boil with rodents, insects. Weep for the pups that have fallen. Later, you’ll fly the narrow passages of those bones, but for now — open your mouth, out will fly names like Pipistrelle, Desmodus, Tadarida. Then, listen for a frequency lower than the seep of water, higher than an ice planet hibernating beyond a glacier of Time. Visit op shops. Hide in their closets. Breathe in the scales and dust of clothes left hanging. To the underwear and to the crumbled black silks — well, give them your imagination and plenty of line, also a night of gentle wind. By now your fingers should have touched petals open. You should have been dreaming each night of anthers and of giving to their furred beauty your nectar-loving tongue. But also, your tongue should have been practising the cold of a slippery, frog-filled pond. Go down on your elbows and knees. You’ll need a spieliologist’s desire for rebirth and a miner’s paranoia of gases — but try to find within yourself the scent of a bat-loving flower. Read books on pogroms. Never trust an owl. Its face is the biography of propaganda. Never trust a hawk. See its solutions in the fur and bones of regurgitated pellets. And have you considered the smoke yet from a moving train? You can start half an hour before sunset, but make sure the journey is long, uninterrupted and that you never discover the faces of those Trans-Siberian exiles. Spend time in the folds of curtains. Seek out boarding-school cloakrooms. Practise the gymnastics of web umbrellas. Are you floating yet, thought-light, without a keel on your breastbone? Then, meditate on your bones as piccolos, on mastering the thermals beyond the tremolo; reverberations beyond the lexical. Become adept at describing the spectacles of the echo — but don’t watch dark clouds passing across the moon. This may lead you to fetishes and cults that worship false gods by lapping up bowls of blood from a tomb. Practise echo-locating aerodromes, stamens. Send out rippling octaves into the fossils of dank caves — then edit these soundtracks with a metronome of dripping rocks, heartbeats and with a continuous, high-scaled wondering about the evolution of your own mind. But look, I must tell you — these instructions are no manual. Months of practice may still only win you appreciation of the acoustical moth, hatred of the hawk and owl. You may need to observe further the floating black host through the hills. |
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01-27-2012, 12:40 AM | #308 |
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SONNET 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. |
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01-27-2012, 01:48 AM | #309 |
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Gertrude Stein - A Plate
An occasion for a plate, an occasional resource is in buying and how soon does washing enable a selection of the same thing neater. If the party is small a clever song is in order.
Plates and a dinner set of colored china. Pack together a string and enough with it to protect the centre, cause a considerable haste and gather more as it is cooling, collect more trembling and not any even trembling, cause a whole thing to be a church. A sad size a size that is not sad is blue as every bit of blue is precocious. A kind of green a game in green and nothing flat nothing quite flat and more round, nothing a particular color strangely, nothing breaking the losing of no little piece. A splendid address a really splendid address is not shown by giving a flower freely, it is not shown by a mark or by wetting. Cut cut in white, cut in white so lately. Cut more than any other and show it. Show it in the stem and in starting and in evening coming complication. A lamp is not the only sign of glass. The lamp and the cake are not the only sign of stone. The lamp and the cake and the cover are not the only necessity altogether. A plan a hearty plan, a compressed disease and no coffee, not even a card or a change to incline each way, a plan that has that excess and that break is the one that shows filling. |
01-27-2012, 12:45 PM | #310 |
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Continuing with Chiroptera...
Bats
by Paisley Rekdal unveil themselves in dark. They hang, each a jagged, silken sleeve, from moonlit rafters bright as polished knives. They swim the muddled air and keen like supersonic babies, the sound we imagine empty wombs might make in women who can’t fill them up. A clasp, a scratch, a sigh. They drink fruit dry. And wheel, against feverish light flung hard upon their faces, in circles that nauseate. Imagine one at breast or neck, Patterning a name in driblets of iodine that spatter your skin stars. They flutter, shake like mystics. They materialize. Revelatory as a stranger’s underthings found tossed upon the marital bed, you tremble even at the thought. Asleep, you tear your fingers and search the sheets all night. |
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01-27-2012, 03:18 PM | #311 |
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Dive
i often repeat myself
and the second time's a lie i love you i love you see what i mean i don't ...and i do and i'm not talking about a girl i might be kissing on i'm talking about this world i'm blissing on and hating at the exact same time see life---doesn't rhyme it's bullets...and wind chimes it's lynchings...and birthday parties it's the rope that ties the noose and the rope that hangs the backyard swing it's a boy about to take his life and with the knife to his wrist he's thinking of only two things his father's fist and his mother's kiss and he can't stop crying it's wanting tonight to speak the most honest poem i've ever spoken in my life not knowing if that poem should bring you closer to living or dying drowning or flying cause life doesn't rhyme last night i prayed myself to sleep woke this morning to find god's obituary scrolled in tears on my sheets then walked outside to hear my neighbor erasing ten thousand years of hard labor with a single note of his violin and the sound of the traffic rang like a hymn as the holiest leaf of autumn fell from a plastic tree limb beautiful ---and ugly like right now i'm needing nothing more than for you to hug me and if you do i'm gonna scream like a caged bird see...life doesn't rhyme sometimes love is a vulgar word sometimes hate calls itself peace on the nightly news i've heard saints preaching truths that would have burned me at the stake i've heard poets tellin lies that made me believe in heaven sometimes i imagine hitler at seven years old a paint brush in his hand at school thinkin what color should i paint my soul sometimes i remember myself with track marks on my tongue from shooting up convictions that would have hung innocent men from trees have you ever seen a mother falling to her knees the day her son dies in a war she voted for can you imagine how many gay teen-age lives were saved the day matthew shepherd died could there have been anything louder than the noise inside his father's head when he begged the jury please don't take the lives of the men who turned my son's skull to powder and i know nothing would make my family prouder than giving up everything i believe in still nothing keeps me believing like the sound of my mother breathing life doesn't rhyme it's tasting your rapist's breath on the neck of a woman who loves you more than anyone has loved you before then feeling holy as jesus beneath the hands of a one night stand who's calling somebody else's name it's you never feelin more greedy than when you're handing out dollars to the needy it's my not eating meat for the last seven years then seeing the kindest eyes i've ever seen in my life on the face of a man with a branding iron in his hand and a beat down baby calf wailing at his feet it's choking on your beliefs it's your worst sin saving your fucking life it's the devil's knife carving holes into you soul so angels will have a place to make their way inside life doesn't rhyme still life is poetry --- not math all the world's a stage but the stage is a meditation mat you tilt your head back you breathe when your heart is broken you plant seeds in the cracks and you pray for rain and you teach your sons and daughters there are sharks in the water but the only way to survive is to breathe deep and dive ~ Andrea Gibson |
01-28-2012, 11:15 AM | #312 |
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Some Kiss We Want
There is some kiss we want with our whole lives, the touch of spirit on the body. Seawater begs the pearl to break its shell. And the lily, how passionately it needs some wild darling! At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come and press its face against mine. Breathe into me. Close the language- door and open the love window. The moon won't use the door, only the window. ~Rumi |
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01-28-2012, 12:57 PM | #313 |
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In Love, His Grammar Grew
By Stephen Dunn In love, his grammar grew rich with intensifiers, and adverbs fell madly from the sky like pheasants for the peasantry, and he, as sated as they were, lolled under shade trees until roused by moonlight and the beautiful fraternal twins and and but. Oh that was when he knew he couldn’t resist a conjunction of any kind. One said accumulate, the other was a doubter who loved the wind and the mind that cleans up after it. For love he wanted to break all the rules, light a candle behind a sentence named Sheila, always running on and wishing to be stopped by the hard button of a period. Sometimes, in desperation, he’d look toward a mannequin or a window dresser with a penchant for parsing. But mostly he wanted you, Sheila, and the adjectives that could precede and change you: bluesy, fly-by-night, queen of all that is and might be. |
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01-28-2012, 07:13 PM | #314 |
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The House with Nobody in it
by Joyce Kilmer Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black. I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside. If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store. But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known. But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart. |
01-28-2012, 08:16 PM | #315 |
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I want to go to lunch with this guy.
Nostalgia
By Billy Collins Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult. You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade, and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular, the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework. Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon, and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow." Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today. Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone. Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room. We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang. These days language seems transparent a badly broken code. The 1790's will never come again. Childhood was big. People would take walks to the very tops of hills and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking. Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft. We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs. It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead. I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821. Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits. And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment, time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps, or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me recapture the serenity of last month when we picked berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe. Even this morning would be an improvement over the present. I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks. As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past, letting my memory rush over them like water rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream. I was even thinking a little about the future, that place where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine, a dance whose name we can only guess. |
01-28-2012, 09:02 PM | #316 |
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"Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn,
Unseen, this colourless sky of folded showers, And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers; A poet's face asleep in this grey morn. Now in the midst of the old world forlorn A mystic child is set in these still hours. I keep this time, even before the flowers, Sacred to all the young and the unborn."
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01-29-2012, 01:55 AM | #317 |
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Liebeslied
By Rainer Maria Rilke Translated by A.Z. Foreman Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, daß sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie hinheben über dich zu andern Dingen? Ach gerne möcht ich sie bei irgendwas Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen. Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich, nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich, der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht. Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt? Und welcher Spieler hat uns in der Hand? O süßes Lied! Love Song How shall I hold my soul and yet not touch It with your own? How shall I ever place It clear of you on anything beyond? Oh gladly I would stow it next to such Things in the darkness as are never found Down in an alien and silent space That does not resonate when you resound. But everything that touches me and you Takes us together like a bow on two Taut strings to stroke them to the voice of one. What instrument have we been lain along? Whose are the hands that play our unison? Oh sweet song! |
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01-31-2012, 08:09 PM | #318 |
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you being in love e.e. cummings
you being in love
will tell who softly asks in love, am i separated from your body smile brain hands merely to become the jumping puppets of a dream? oh i mean: entirely having in my careful how careful arms created this at length inexcusable, this inexplicable pleasure-you go from several persons: believe me that strangers arrive when i have kissed you into a memory slowly, oh seriously -that since and if you disappear solemnly myselves ask "life, the question how do i drink dream smile and how do i prefer this face to another and why do i weep eat sleep-what does the whole intend" they wonder. oh and they cry "to be, being, that i am alive this absurd fraction in its lowest terms with everything cancelled but shadows -what does it all come down to? love? Love if you like and i like,for the reason that i hate people and lean out of this window is love,love and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason that i do not fall into this street is love." |
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01-31-2012, 08:32 PM | #319 |
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two birds
When you ran for Canada
I spent three and a half months screaming your name Til I saw your feet cross the border And I hunkered down in your cheerleader pajamas To stare at the photograph of the two birds. Two birds. Give me one stone. Or a rifle. I’ll collect the feather pens from the ground And pretend to write poems about Obama. Remember how we fucked in the bathroom stall during his inauguration at Invesco Field? Later in the bleachers you held my hand and said. “Look at Michelle. She is so in love.” There were so many snipers in the stands When the fireworks started I was convinced we were being bombed. For five minutes we sprinted through The tunnel of the stairwell. I kept saying, I love you, I love you , I love you, I love…. I thought for sure I would die in your arms. Dear Love- I hope Canada is beautiful. I hope you rise to your feet every time she sings her anthem. I hope your hand is forever on your heart. I hope your heart is forever safe. Here at home they are saying Obama is not the saint we had hoped he’d be. I wonder if you’d notice that Michelle is still in love. ~ Andrea Gibson |
02-01-2012, 08:32 PM | #320 |
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syntax
by Maureen N. McLane and if I were to say I love you and I do love you and I say it now and again and again would you say parataxis would you see the world revolves anew its axis you |
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