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12-18-2015, 12:36 PM | #701 |
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Bukowski
there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled a space and even during the best moments and the greatest times times we will know it we will know it more than ever there is a place in the heart that will never be filled and we will wait and wait in that space.”
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12-29-2015, 09:27 AM | #702 |
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Emily Jane Brontë
"A Little While, A Little While..." - Poem by Emily Jane Brontë
A little while, a little while, The weary task is put away, And I can sing and I can smile, Alike, while I have holiday. Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart, What thought, what scene invites thee now? What spot, or near or far, Has rest for thee, my weary brow? There is a spot, mid barren hills, Where winter howls, and driving rain; But if the dreary tempest chills, There is a light that warms again. The house is old, the trees are bare, Moonless above bends twilight's dome; But what on earth is half so dear, So longed for, as the hearth of home? The mute bird sitting on the stone, The dank moss dripping from the wall, The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, I love them, how I love them all! Still, as I mused, the naked room, The alien firelight died away, And from the midst of cheerless gloom I passed to bright unclouded day. A little and a lone green lane That opened on a common wide; A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain Of mountains circling every side; A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air; And, deepening still the dream-like charm, Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere. That was the scene, I knew it well; I knew the turfy pathway's sweep That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep. Could I have lingered but an hour, It well had paid a week of toil; But Truth has banished Fancy's power: Restraint and heavy task recoil. Even as I stood with raptured eye, Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear, My hour of rest had fleeted by, And back came labour, bondage, care. Emily Jane Brontë |
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12-29-2015, 10:58 PM | #703 |
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I have to
I have to BUMP these beautiful words on and on and on.
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01-05-2016, 07:20 AM | #704 |
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Ella Mason And Her Eleven Cats
Old Ella Mason keeps cats, eleven at last count, In her ramshackle house off Somerset Terrace; People make queries On seeing our neighbor's cat-haunt, Saying: ‘Something's addled in a woman who accommodates That many cats.’ Rum and red-faced as a water-melon, her voice Long gone to wheeze and seed, Ella Mason For no good reason Plays hostess to Tabby, Tom and increase, With cream and chicken-gut feasting the palates Of finical cats. Village stories go that in olden days Ella flounced about, minx-thin and haughty, A fashionable beauty, Slaying the dandies with her emerald eyes; Now, run to fat, she's a spinster whose door shuts On all but cats. Once we children sneaked over to spy Miss Mason Napping in her kitchen paved with saucers. On antimacassars Table-top, cupboard shelf, cats lounged brazen, One gruff-timbred purr rolling from furred throats: Such stentorian cats! With poke and giggle, ready to skedaddle, We peered agog through the cobwebbed door Straight into yellow glare Of guardian cats crouched round their idol, While Ella drowsed whiskered with sleek face, sly wits: Sphinx-queen of cats. ‘Look! there she goes, Cat-Lady Mason!’ We snickered as she shambled down Somerset Terrace To market for her dearies, More mammoth and blowsy with every season; ‘Miss Ella's got loony from keeping in cahoots With eleven cats.’ But now turned kinder with time, we mark Miss Mason Blinking green-eyed and solitary At girls who marry— Demure ones, lithe ones, needing no lesson That vain jades sulk single down bridal nights, Accurst as wild-cats. Sylvia Plath |
01-12-2016, 09:18 AM | #705 |
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The Cry
Paisley Rekdal A man can cry, all night, your back shaking against me as your mother sleeps, hooked to the drip to clear her kidneys from their muck of sleeping pills. Each one white as the snapper’s belly I once watched a man gut by the ice bins in his truck, its last bubbling grunt cleaved in two with a knife. The way my uncle’s rabbit growled in its cage, screamed so like a child that when I woke the night a fox chewed through the wires to reach it, I thought it was my own voice frozen in the yard. And then the fox, trapped later by a neighbor, who thrashed and barked, as did the crows that came for its eyes: the sound of one animal’s pain setting off a chain in so many others, until each cry dissolves into the next grown louder. Even if I were blind I would know night by the noise it made: our groaning bed, the mewling staircase, drapes that scrape against glass panes behind which stars rise, blue and silent. But not even the stars are silent: their pale waves echo through space, the way my father’s disappointment sags at my cheek, and his brother’s anger whitens his temple. And these are your mother’s shoulders shaking in my arms tonight, her thin breath that drags at our window where coyotes cry: one calling to the next calling to the next, their tender throats tipped back to the sky. |
02-15-2016, 01:58 PM | #706 |
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For Abe Lincoln
O Captain! My Captain!
BY WALT WHITMAN O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. |
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02-18-2016, 02:58 PM | #707 |
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Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware. Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. Sylvia Plath, "Lady Lazarus," 1965 |
03-01-2016, 07:17 AM | #708 |
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On this day in 1862, Emily Dickinson's "Safe in Their Alabaster Chambers" was published. This was the second of only a handful of poems published in Dickinson's lifetime, all of them anonymously and, most think, without her knowledge. Six weeks later she sent her famous letter to the critic Thomas Wentworth Higginson: "Are you too deeply occupied to say if my Verse is alive?"
"Safe in their Alabaster Chambers" (124) by Emily Dickinson Safe in their Alabaster Chambers - Untouched by Morning - and untouched by noon - Sleep the meek members of the Resurrection, Rafter of Satin and Roof of Stone - Grand go the Years, In the Crescent above them - Worlds scoop their Arcs - and Firmaments - row - Diadems - drop - And Doges surrender - Soundless as Dots, On a Disk of Snow. |
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03-24-2016, 11:56 AM | #709 |
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[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]
BY E. E. CUMMINGS
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) |
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03-24-2016, 12:47 PM | #710 |
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By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming,
The Invitation by Oriah 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 centre of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled 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 to be realistic to 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 centre 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. |
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03-24-2016, 02:01 PM | #711 |
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The Monkey
The Monkey
By Nancy Campbell I SAW you hunched and shivering on the stones, The bleak wind piercing to your fragile bones, Your shabby scarlet all inadequate: A little ape that had such human eyes They seemed to hide behind their miseries— 5 Their dumb and hopeless bowing down to fate— Some puzzled wonder. Was your monkey soul Sickening with memories of gorgeous days, Of tropic playfellows and forest ways, Where, agile, you could swing from bole to bole 10 In an enchanted twilight with great flowers For stars; or on a bough the long night hours Sit out in rows, and chatter at the moon? Shuffling you went, your tiny chilly hand Outstretched for what you did not understand; 15 Your puckered mournful face begging a boon That but enslaved you more. They who passed by Saw nothing sorrowful; gave laugh or stare, Unheeding that the little antic there Played in the gutter such a tragedy. 20 |
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03-24-2016, 02:08 PM | #712 |
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The Donkey
The Donkey
By G. K. Chesterton When fishes flew and forests walked And figs grew upon thorn, Some moment when the moon was blood Then surely I was born. With monstrous head and sickening cry And ears like errant wings, The devil’s walking parody On all four-footed things. The tattered outlaw of the earth, Of ancient crooked will; Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, I keep my secret still. Fools! For I also had my hour; One far fierce hour and sweet: There was a shout about my ears, And palms before my feet. |
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04-10-2016, 05:32 PM | #713 |
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The Secret of the Sea
The Secret of the Sea Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me As I gaze upon the sea! All the old romantic legends, All my dreams, come back to me. Sails of silk and ropes of sandal, Such as gleam in ancient lore; And the singing of the sailors, And the answer from the shore! Most of all, the Spanish ballad Haunts me oft, and tarries long, Of the noble Count Arnaldos And the sailor's mystic song. Like the long waves on a sea-beach, Where the sand as silver shines, With a soft, monotonous cadence, Flow its unrhymed lyric lines;-- Telling how the Count Arnaldos, With his hawk upon his hand, Saw a fair and stately galley, Steering onward to the land;-- How he heard the ancient helmsman Chant a song so wild and clear, That the sailing sea-bird slowly Poised upon the mast to hear, Till his soul was full of longing, And he cried, with impulse strong,-- "Helmsman! for the love of heaven, Teach me, too, that wondrous song!" "Wouldst thou,"--so the helmsman answered, "Learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery!" In each sail that skims the horizon, In each landward-blowing breeze, I behold that stately galley, Hear those mournful melodies; Till my soul is full of longing For the secret of the sea, And the heart of the great ocean Sends a thrilling pulse through me.
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04-11-2016, 02:52 PM | #714 |
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THE LITTLE GHOST
Edna St Vincent Millay I KNEW her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high—higher than most And the green gate was locked. And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone— I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on. By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among. I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do—and oh! She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow! She bent above my favourite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled—there was no hint Of sadness in her face. She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go. And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused—then opened and passed through A gate that once was there.
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04-12-2016, 08:45 AM | #715 |
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The Darkling Thrush
BY THOMAS HARDY I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.
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I'm a fountain of blood. In the shape of a girl. - Bjork What is to give light must endure burning. -Viktor Frankl
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04-12-2016, 09:33 AM | #716 |
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Pledge to the Wind
by Everett Ruess, age 16 Onward from vast uncharted spaces, Forward through timeless voids, Into all of us surges and races The measureless might of the wind. Strongly sweeping from open plains, Keen and pure from mountain heights, Freshly blowing after rains, It welds itself into our souls. In the steep silence of thin blue air, High on the lonely cliff-ledge, Where the air has a clear, clean rarity, I give to the wind my pledge: "By the strength of my arm, by the sight of my eye, By the skill of my fingers, I swear, As long as life dwells in roe, never will I Follow any way, but the sweeping way of the wind. I will feel the wind's buoyancy until I die; I will work with the wind's exhilaration; I will search for its purity; and never will I Follow any way but the sweeping way of the wind." Here in the utter stillness, High on the lonely cliff-ledge, Where the air is trembling with lightning, I have given the wind my pledge.
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I'm a fountain of blood. In the shape of a girl. - Bjork What is to give light must endure burning. -Viktor Frankl
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05-17-2016, 10:44 AM | #717 |
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I wrote this little poem myself when I was a kid-
Love is playful as a kitten tender when it's touched, but the more you play the rougher it gets, so don't you play too much! You'll love the way it purrs and mews as it cuddles close to you, you'll love the way it cheers you, whenever you feel blue. But the more you play the rougher it gets, there have claws that pick and tear, their always hidden from your eyes, and they strike you unaware. |
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07-22-2016, 01:38 AM | #718 |
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How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
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07-25-2016, 12:04 AM | #719 |
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Unending Love by Rabindranath Tagore
I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times...
In life after life, in age after age, forever. My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs, That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms, In life after life, in age after age, forever. Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it's age old pain, It's ancient tale of being apart or together. As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge, Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time. You become an image of what is remembered forever. You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount. At the heart of time, love of one for another. We have played along side millions of lovers, Shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting, the distressful tears of farewell, Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever. Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you The love of all man's days both past and forever: Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life. The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours - And the songs of every poet past and forever.
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03-31-2017, 01:48 PM | #720 |
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Two Lovers And A Beachcomber By The Real Sea
Two Lovers And A Beachcomber By The Real Sea
by Sylvia Plath Cold and final, the imagination Shuts down its fabled summer house; Blue views are boarded up; our sweet vacation Dwindles in the hour-glass. Thoughts that found a maze of mermaid hair Tangling in the tide's green fall Now fold their wings like bats and disappear Into the attic of the skull. We are not what we might be; what we are Outlaws all extrapolation Beyond the interval of now and here: White whales are gone with the white ocean. A lone beachcomber squats among the wrack Of kaleidoscope shells Probing fractured Venus with a stick Under a tent of taunting gulls. No sea-change decks the sunken shank of bone That chucks in backtrack of the wave; Though the mind like an oyster labors on and on, A grain of sand is all we have. Water will run by; the actual sun Will scrupulously rise and set; No little man lives in the exacting moon And that is that, is that, is that.
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