The Sound
Marc says the suffering that we don't see
still makes a sort of sound -- a subtle, soft
noise, nothing like the cries of screams that we
might think of -- more the slight scrape of a hat doffed
by a quiet man, ignored as he stands back
to let a lovely woman pass, her dress
just brushing his coat. Or else it's like a crack
in an old foundation, slowly widening, the stress
and slippage going on unnoticed by
the family upstairs, the daughter leaving
for a date, her mother's resigned sigh
when she sees her. It's like the heaving
of a stone into a lake, before it drops.
It's shy, it's barely there. It never stops.
Kim Addonizio
- from The Philosopher's Club (BOA Editions, 1994)
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This Be the Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Philip Larkin
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The soul, secure in her existence,
smiles at the drawn dagger and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away,
the sun himself grow dim with age
and nature sink in years,
but thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
unhurt amid the wars of elements,
the wreck of matter,
and the crush of worlds.
Joseph Addison
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Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Pablo Neruda
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i loved my friend.
he went away from me.
there's nothing more to say.
the poem ends,
soft as it began -
i loved my friend.
langston hughes
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To define is to kill. To suggest is to create.
Stéphane Mallarmé
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Living like weasels - Annie Dillard
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It's not just about who you're with.
It's about who you get to be when you're with them.
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Whatever doesn't kill you makes you bitter.
Chuck Lorre
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- How Much Happens in a Day -
In the course of a day we shall meet one another.
But, in one day, things spring to life -
they sell grapes in the street,
tomatoes change their skin,
the young girl you wanted
never came back to the office.
They changed the postman suddenly.
The letters now are not the same.
A few golden leaves and it's different;
this tree is now well off.
Who would have said that the earth
with its ancient skin would change so much?
It has more volcanoes than yesterday,
the sky has brand-new clouds,
the rivers are flowing differently.
Besides, so much has come into being!
I have inaugurated hundreds
of highways and buildings,
delicate, clean bridges
like ships or violins.
And so, when I greet you
and kiss your flowering mouth,
our kisses are other kisses,
our mouths are other mouths.
Joy, my love, joy in all things,
in what falls and what flourishes.
Joy in today and yesterday,
the day before and tomorrow.
Joy in bread and stone,
joy in fire and rain.
In what changes, is born, grows,
consumes itself, and becomes a kiss again.
Pablo Neruda
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Daydream, delusion, limousine, eyelash
Oh baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet-cakes and milkshakes
I'm delusion angel
I'm fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don't want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we're going
Latched in life
Like branches in a river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I'll carry you
You'll carry me
That's how it could be
Don't you know me?
Don't you know me by now?
Street Poet
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look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
now is the time that face should form another;
whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
for where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
or who is he so fond will be the tomb
of his self-love, to stop posterity?
thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
calls back the lovely April of her prime;
so thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
but if thou live, remember'd not to be,
die single and thine image dies with thee.
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vjeruj da ljubav ne umire kad najdraze odlaze jer sunce ne nestane,
samo se skrije, nema te sile ni sudbina da srca razdvoje
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I was nothin' but angry, lost and on the run,
'til I stumbled and hit my knees, under the
California sun. Found love on Haight Street,
where an angel shared with me,
the secret of happiness... one and one is three.
Now my angel was made from, pure Wisconsin light,
she said we would have a son,
I said no, that can't be right.
She laughed and showed me, the deepest mystery,
the numbers of heaven. One and one is three.
One and one is three. One and one is three.
One thing about angels, they ain't always right,
we had a little baby girl, made from San Francisco light.
We called her Dharma, 'cause the truth was plain to see,
the miracle of life, one and one is three.
One and one is three. One and one is three.
Chuck Lorre
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Once upon a time there was a wave. The name of the wave was, no surprise, Dave.
Dave the wave. Dave was a big, powerful wave.
His massive blue body surged across the surface of the ocean with great majesty and deceptive speed.
Oh yes, Dave was quite a wave. From the moment he rose up from the ocean he felt special.
He felt invincible. Ferocious storms battered him with wind and rain,
great ships sliced through his very heart, and yet he rolled on.
It was not for him to stop and consider the other waves. To stop was to die.
Waves have to keep moving... or else. But then one day Dave saw a strange
darkness on the horizon and, for the first time in his life, felt fear.
What could it be? Was it connected to the laughing creature sliding across
his face on a piece of wood? But before he could make sense of it all, he crashed
down into the darkness. For a brief moment he felt a weird, splashing feeling, then
oblivion. Dave was no more. He was now a part of the sea. And as we all know,
the sea loves to make waves.
Chuck Lorre
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T. S. Eliot (1925)
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
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The secret to creativity is in hiding your sources.
- Einstein
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Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.
- Dr. Seuss
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Jai Bhagwan/Namaste
Definition: A hindi version of the an ancient Sanskrit greeting "Namaste"
which is still in everyday use in India and Nepal Himalaya. Translated
roughly, it means "I bow to the God within you", or "The Spirit within
me salutes the Spirit in you" - a knowing that we are all made from the
same One Divine Consciousness.///An ancient Sanskrit greeting still in
everyday use in India and especially on the trail in the Nepal Himalaya.
Translated roughly, it means "I bow to the God within you", or "The Spirit
within me salutes the Spirit in you" - a knowing that we are all made from
the same One Divine Consciousness.
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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-- Dylan Thomas
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This Was the Vision
Katherine Kennedy
Suddenly there was music:
I listened; I heard
Beneath the cadence something blurred,
Something desperate and far and fierce and sweet
Calling...
Something close to the core of Life:
I saw Life in mosaic, in motif like roses
Thrown note by note into a Face...
Under the chords,
Thrusting at me through the notes
Was something pulsing, something relevant
to wings and spaces,
Something sweeping and light,
And sure of pattern.
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When I was young and free and my imagination had no limits,
I dreamed of changing the world.
As I grew older and wiser I discovered the world would not change -
So I shortened my sights somewhat and decided to change only my country,
But it too seemed immovable.
As I grew into my twilight years,
In one last desperate attempt,
I settled for changing only my family,
Those closest to me,
But alas, they would have none of it.
And now I realize as I lie on my deathbed,
If I had only changed myself first,
Then by example I might have changed my family,
From their inspiration and encouragement
I would then have been able to better my country,
And who knows, I might have even changed the world.
From the tombstone of an Anglican bishop in Westminster Abbey
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abcdefg ijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
Things are good, nothing much for me to say
Feeling happier everyday
Things are good, I've got a simple mind
It seems like everything is going fine
Fine and good
Everything is fine and good
Everything is running smooth this week
I don't even really feel the need to speak
But things are good, didn't mean to make you mad
People seem to like when things are bad
Things are good
Everything is fine and good
Is that too much to ask to be this way?
I don't think I'm asking to much
Is that too much to ask to be this way?
I really can't stress it enough
There you are, everything is fine and good
There you are, everything is fine and good
It's fine and good
Everything is fine and good
Is that too much to ask to be this way?
I don't think I'm asking too much
Is that too much to ask to be this way?
Or do you think I'm asking too much?
Is that too much to ask to be this way?
I don't think I'm asking too much
Don't confuse the issue
Or take contention when you are
I really can't stress it enough
There you are, everything is fine and good
Its fine and good
- local h
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the handshake at mass is the only good part
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lullabies to be sung
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ode to me
savannah riddle
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do you know my poetry?
every night & every morn
some to misery are born
every morn & every night
some are born to sweet delight
some are born to sweet delight
some are born to endless night
william blake
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.
sun, sun, sun, sun, sun, sun
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rose, rose, will i ever see thee wed? i will marry at thy will, sire, at thy will
i realized the moment i fell into the fissure that the book would not be destroyed as i had planned. it continued falling into that starry expanse, of which i had only a fleeting glimpse. i have tried to speculate where it might have landed, but i must admit that such conjecture is futile. still, questions about whose hands might one day hold my myst book are unsettling to me. i know my apprehensions might never be allayed, and so i close, realizing that, perhaps, the ending is not yet written
now i understand. endings and beginings are within the fissure, that riven cleft of stars . . .
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not like this
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It's a vicious circle.
Yep. Just keeps going around and around.
Never stops.
That's what makes it vicious.
And a circle.
honesty for pixley
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when the sunshine don't work,
the good lord bring the rain in
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"Let the Snow Fall Softly"
Of what use are you to me, Time,
With your ticks, tocks, bells, and chimes?
You incessantly taunt me with my mortality,
Endlessly consuming my fleeting longevity.
Racing against no one, yet going so fast,
Never were one to look back on the past.
Flying by with uttermost indifference,
Forever rapt in the present time hence.
Your cloak of infinity deceives many a heart,
That will have to bid adieu and eternally depart,
But might you, when this illusion comes for me,
Be so gentle as to let the snow fall softly?
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good questions to ask yourself:
what were you doing at age 11? (i was taking apart things)
what words would you want other people to describe you as? (as bright and curious)
what was your favorite concert? (sleater-kinney, august 12th 2006, the final show
- the Eels is a close tie, during the Souljacker tour - the opening act was a mime and they had 4 encores! literally!)
They say that the world rests on the backs of 36 living saints - 36 unselfish men and women.
Because of them the world continues to exist. They are the secret kings and queens of this world. -Neil Gaiman
