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) ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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 ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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 ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Pablo Neruda ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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 ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ To define is to kill. To suggest is to create. Stephane Mallarme ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ It's not just about who you're with. It's about who you get to be when you're with them. ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ - 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 ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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 ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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. ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ vjeruj da ljubav ne umire kad najdraze odlaze jer sunce ne nestane, samo se skrije, nema te sile ni sudbina da srca razdvoje ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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. ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ The secret to creativity is in hiding your sources. - Einstein Good Artists Borrow, Great Artists Steal - Picasso ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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 ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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. ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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 ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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. ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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 ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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 ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ the handshake at mass is the only good part ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ lullabies to be sung ══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ ode to me savannah riddle
══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══
Even though the world goes on for eons and eons,
you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second.
Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born.
But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years,
for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right.
And it never comes or it seems to but doesn’t really.
And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along.
Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved.
And the truth is I’m so angry and the truth is I’m so fucking sad,
and the truth is I’ve been so fucking hurt for so fucking long
and for just as long have been pretending I’m OK,
just to get along, just for, I don’t know why,
maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery,
because they have their own,
and their own is too overwhelming to allow them to listen to or care about mine.
Well, fuck everybody. Amen.
- Synecdoche, New York
══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══
I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch,
to wrap my arms around her and sleep.
Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex.
Just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase.
But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend
and I was gawky and she was gorgeous
and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating.
So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk,
thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.
- John Green
══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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
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 . . .
not like this
not like this
It's a vicious circle.
Yep. Just keeps going around and around.
That's what makes it vicious.
And a circle.
honesty for pixley
when the sunshine don't work,
the good lord bring the rain in
══ ◦ oã€‚◊â˜†. .â˜†◊ã€‚o ◦ ══ 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