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08-18-2012, 07:54 AM | #1 |
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To Be Reborn
By Teresa Williams What if rebirth is like stepping into a room, something ordinary, then ...............Surprise! Giant crimson tree, temple of hexagons, a magic cup of moon-tea. ..........................Rebirth. Incited by luminescence, light chaser, Isis. Through layers of ancient skin you came from black to red to breathing center. Now here, you are the shimmering one the one who ripples and shines glittering the air, gold and bright. You shooting star of a songbird light. Once again, feel your freshly found face flooding the room with new freedom, star nectar, white queen, gleaming. And again, savor this renewal this taste of dawn as you swallow death's end, from bitter and night, bitter then sweet .............holy crescent, oracle of brilliance you stepping into .......a new room. |
08-18-2012, 10:06 AM | #2 |
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Sometimes
by David Whyte Sometimes if you move carefully through the forest breathing like the ones in the old stories who could cross a shimmering bed of dry leaves without a sound, you come to a place whose only task is to trouble you with tiny but frightening requests conceived out of nowhere but in this place beginning to lead everywhere. Requests to stop what you are doing right now, and to stop what you are becoming while you do it, questions that can make or unmake a life, questions that have patiently waited for you, questions that have no right to go away. ~ David Whyte ~ |
08-24-2012, 11:28 AM | #3 |
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Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ” ― Pablo Neruda |
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08-24-2012, 01:23 PM | #4 |
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I Remember You As You Were
I remember you as you were last autumn.You were the grey beret and the still heart. In your eyes the flames of twilight fought on. And the leaves fell on the water of your soul. Clasping my arms like a climbing plant the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace. Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning. Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul. I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off: grey beret, voice of bird, heart like a house, towards which my deep longings migrated and my kisses fell, happy as embers. Sky from a ship, Field from the hills:Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond! Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing. Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
--Pablo Neruda |
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08-25-2012, 06:14 AM | #5 |
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Phantasia for Elvira Shatayev
(Leader of a woman’s climbing team, all of whom died in a storm on Lenin Peak, August 1974. Later, Shatayev’s husband found and buried the bodies.)
The cold felt cold until our blood grew colder then the wind died down and we slept If in this sleep I speak it’s with a voice no longer personal (I want to say with voices) When the wind tore our breath from us at last we had no need of words For months for years each one of us had felt her own yes growing in her slowly forming as she stood at windows waited for trains mended her rucksack combed her hair What we were to learn was simply what we had up here as out of all words that yes gathered its forces fused itself and only just in time to meet a No of no degrees the black hole sucking the world in I feel you climbing toward me your cleated bootsoles leaving their geometric bite colossally embossed on microscopic crystals as when I trailed you in the Caucasus Now I am further ahead than either of us dreamed anyone would be I have become the white snow packed like asphalt by the wind the women I love lightly flung against the mountain that blue sky our frozen eyes unribboned through the storm we could have stitched that blueness together like a quilt You come (I know this) with your love your loss strapped to your body with your tape-recorder camera ice-pick against advisement to give us burial in the snow and in your mind While my body lies out here flashing like a prism into your eyes how could you sleep You climbed here for yourself we climbed for ourselves When you have buried us told your story Ours does not end we stream into the unfinished the unbegun the possible Every cell’s core of heat pulsed out of us into the thin air of the universe the armature of rock beneath these snows this mountain which has taken the imprint of our minds through changes elemental and minute as those we underwent to bring each other here choosing ourselves each other and this life whose every breath and grasp and further foothold is somewhere still enacted and continuing In the diary I wrote: Now we are ready and each of us knows it I have never loved like this I have never seen my own forces so taken up and shared and given back After the long training the early sieges we are moving almost effortlessly in our love In the diary as the wind began to tear at the tents over us I wrote: We know now we have always been in danger down in our separateness and now up here together but till now we had not touched our strength In the diary torn from my fingers I had written: What does love mean what does it mean “to survive” A cable of blue fire ropes our bodies burning together in the snow We will not live to settle for less We have dreamed of this all of our lives Adrienne Rich (1974) Last edited by Fancy; 08-25-2012 at 06:16 AM. Reason: Added author |
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08-29-2012, 12:12 AM | #6 |
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No Other Kind of Light
Find that flame That existence That can burn beneath the water No other kind of light Will cook the food you need. -Hafiz |
08-29-2012, 08:29 PM | #7 |
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Alcestis on the Poetry Circuit
The best slave
does not need to be beaten. She beats herself. Not with a leather whip, or with stick or twigs, not with a blackjack or a billyclub, but with the fine whip of her own tongue & the subtle beating of her mind against her mind. For who can hate her half so well as she hates herself? & who can match the finesse of her self-abuse? Years of training are required for this. Twenty years of subtle self-indulgence, self-denial; until the subject thinks herself a queen & yet a beggar – both at the same time. She must doubt herself in everything but love. She must choose passionately & badly. She must feel lost as a dog without her master. She must refer all moral questions to her mirror. She must fall in love with a cossack or a poet. She must never go out of the house unless veiled in paint. She must wear tight shoes so she always remembers her bondage. She must never forget she is rooted in the ground. Though she is quick to learn & admittedly clever, her natural doubt of herself should make her so weak that she dabbles brilliantly in half a dozen talents & thus embellishes but does not change our life. If she’s an artist & comes close to genius, the very fact of her gift should cause her such pain that she will take her own life rather than best us. & after she dies, we will cry & make her a saint. ~Erica Jong
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08-31-2012, 11:55 PM | #8 |
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Water Picture by May Swenson In the pond in the park all things are doubled: Long buildings hang and wriggle gently. Chimneys are bent legs bouncing on clouds below. A flag wags like a fishhook down there in the sky. The arched stone bridge is an eye, with underlid in the water. In its lens dip crinkled heads with hats that don't fall off. Dogs go by, barking on their backs. A baby, taken to feed the ducks, dangles upside-down, a pink balloon for a buoy. Treetops deploy a haze of cherry bloom for roots, where birds coast belly-up in the glass bowl of a hill; from its bottom a bunch of peanut-munching children is suspended by their sneakers, waveringly. A swan, with twin necks forming the figure 3, steers between two dimpled towers doubled. Fondly hissing, she kisses herself, and all the scene is troubled: water-windows splinter, tree-limbs tangle, the bridge folds like a fan. |
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09-01-2012, 12:26 AM | #9 |
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Remember Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
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09-01-2012, 02:44 AM | #10 |
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kate o'brien...
in the beginning (ii)
between the moment and the moment lives the meaning between the moment and the moment love bursts into being in the beginning (i) is quite good too
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04-18-2013, 02:58 PM | #11 |
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She Walks in Beauty (George Gordon, Lord Byron)
SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that 's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
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04-20-2013, 06:35 AM | #12 |
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PICTURE IT NOW Frogs by Louis Simpson The storm broke, and it rained, And water rose in the pool, And frogs hopped into the gutter, With their skins of yellow and green, And just their eyes shining above the surface Of the warm solution of slime. At night, when fire flies trace Light-lines between the trees and flowers Exhaling perfume, The frogs speak to each other In rhythm. The sound is monstrous, But their voices are filled with satisfaction. In the city I pine for the country; In the country I long for conversation— Our happy croaking. |
04-23-2013, 07:57 AM | #13 |
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Rising by Eve Ensler
RISING
Written in Kerala for the women of India who lead the way This could have been anywhere And was Mexico City Manila Mumbai Manhattan Nighttime men waiting like wolves Drooling for prey behind that single dimly painted door paying nothing a couple of dollars or euros rupees or pesos to have her Enter her Eat her Devour her and throw away her bones. This could have been anywhere And was A Buddhist nun on a bus Trying to stay dry for the night A woman leader speaking out against The repressive government A young woman traveling with her boyfriend One lost her voice The other her following The last one her life This could have been anywhere and was Pink wooden crosses A stack of stones Red wilting carnations Empty chairs in a square Ribbons flying in a sultry wind I ask Anna Nighat Kamla Monique Tanisha Emily Why Why Porque Eran Mujeres Parce qu'elles étaient des femmes Because they were women Because they were women This could have been anywhere And was Where she got fired for being too beautiful Fined for drinking after she was raped A serious offer to marry her rapist Got told it was legitimate but not forcible This could have been anywhere They do such a thing When the girls go for fire wood Step into the lonely man’s car Drink a little too much at the college party Wake up with her uncle’s fingers inside Run from the screaming machete and guns Be taken at sunrise Get a bullet in the brain for learning the alphabet Be stoned for falling in love Be burned for seeing the future I am done Cataloguing these horrors Data Porn 2 million women raped and tortured 1 out of 3 women a woman raped every minute every second one out of 2 one out of 5 the same one one one I am done counting And recounting Its time to tell a new story It needs to be our story It needs to be outrageous and unexpected It needs to lose control in the middle It needs to be sexy and in our hips And our feet It needs to be angry and a little scary the way storms can be scary It needs to not ask permission Or get permits or set up offices Or make salaries It wont be recorded or bought or sold Or counted It needs to just happen It is not a question of inventing But remembering Buried under the leaves of trauma and sorrow Beneath the river of semen and squalor vaginas and labias shredded and extracted stolen body mines mined bodies It is not about asking now Or waiting It is about rising Raise your arm my sister my brother Raise your one Billion Your one heart Your one of us I used to be afraid of love It hurt too much What never happened What got ripped away The rape The wound And love I thought was salt But I was wrong I was wrong Step into the fire Raise your arm Raise your one Billion One One One Rising. Rising. Rising. Eve Ensler for One Billion Rising |
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06-12-2013, 10:07 AM | #14 |
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Romantics by Lisel Mueller Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann The modern biographers worry "how far it went," their tender friendship. They wonder just what it means when he writes he thinks of her constantly, his guardian angel, beloved friend. The modern biographers ask the rude, irrelevant question of our age, as if the event of two bodies meshing together establishes the degree of love, forgetting how softly Eros walked in the nineteenth century, how a hand held overlong or a gaze anchored in someone's eyes could unseat a heart, and nuances of address, not known in our egalitarian language could make the redolent air tremble and shimmer with the heat of possibility. Each time I hear the Intermezzi, sad and lavish in their tenderness, I imagine the two of them sitting in a garden among late-blooming roses and dark cascades of leaves, letting the landscape speak for them, leaving nothing to overhear. |
06-12-2013, 11:58 AM | #15 |
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This is unfinished... the last thing Shelley ever wrote. He is one of my favorite poets, who dared to tackle political issues of his day and also describe the softer things in life. Music when Soft Voices Die (To --) BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory— Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
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08-01-2013, 12:04 PM | #16 |
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How Falling in Love is like Owning a Dog
by Taylor Mali First of all, it’s a big responsibility, especially in a city like New York. So think long and hard before deciding on love. On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security: when you’re walking down the street late at night and you have a leash on love ain’t no one going to mess with you. Because crooks and muggers think love is unpredictable. Who knows what love could do in its own defense? On cold winter nights, love is warm. It lies between you and lives and breathes and makes funny noises. Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs. It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy. Love doesn’t like being left alone for long. But come home and love is always happy to see you. It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life, but you can never be mad at love for long. Is love good all the time? No! No! Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love. Love makes messes. Love leaves you little surprises here and there. Love needs lots of cleaning up after. Somethimes you just want to get love fixed. Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper and swat love on the nose, not so much to cause pain, just to let love know Don’t you ever do that again! Sometimes love just wants to go out for a nice long walk. Because love loves exercise. It will run you around the block and leave you panting, breathless. Pull you in different directions at once, or wind itself around and around you until you’re all wound up and you cannot move. But love makes you meet people wherever you go. People who have nothing in common but love stop and talk to each other on the street. Throw things away and love will bring them back, again, and again, and again. But most of all, love needs love, lots of it. And in return, love loves you and never stops. Taylor Mali |
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07-28-2015, 11:22 AM | #17 |
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The Monster Within written by ME
The Monster Within
There lurks within the pages of this history a monster, the Monster within This Monster has been consumed with societal norms, dying to fit in Sitting in the right row, speaking the correct language, all wearing thin This Monster worked real hard at hiding and putting on a good face Taking care of responsibilities because that is how it hid its base The only thing that holds this Monster in check is denial Denial of what it is and what it likes The song of this Monster is adaptability The spirit of this Monster is creativity The soul of this Monster is longevity The name of this Monster is Me |
08-01-2015, 11:39 PM | #18 |
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A Certain Kind of Eden - Kay Ryan
It seems like you could, but
you can’t go back and pull the roots and runners and replant. It’s all too deep for that. You’ve overprized intention, have mistaken any bent you’re given for control. You thought you chose the bean and chose the soil. You even thought you abandoned one or two gardens. But those things keep growing where we put them— if we put them at all. A certain kind of Eden holds us thrall. Even the one vine that tendrils out alone in time turns on its own impulse, twisting back down its upward course a strong and then a stronger rope, the greenest saddest strongest kind of hope.
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08-04-2015, 02:13 PM | #19 |
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As You Go Through Life
Don’t look for the flaws as you go through life; And even when you find them, It is wise and kind to be somewhat blind And look for the virtue behind them. For the cloudiest night has a hint of light Somewhere in its shadows hiding; It is better by far to hunt for a star, Than the spots on the sun abiding. The current of life runs ever away To the bosom of God’s great ocean. Don’t set your force ‘gainst the river’s course And think to alter its motion. Don’t waste a curse on the universe – Remember it lived before you. Don’t butt at the storm with your puny form, But bend and let it go o’er you. The world will never adjust itself To suit your whims to the letter. Some things must go wrong your whole life long, And the sooner you know it the better. It is folly to fight with the Infinite, And go under at last in the wrestle; The wiser man shapes into God’s plan As water shapes into a vessel. - Ella Wheeler Wilcox |
08-04-2015, 02:52 PM | #20 |
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I like Rumi set to music cause I'm a hopeless sensualist.
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