03-27-2014, 06:42 PM | #581 |
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I Like For You To Be Still by Pablo Neruda
I like for you to be still
it is as though you are absent and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you It seems as though your eyes had flown away And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth As all things are filled with my soul You emerge from the things Filled with my soul You are like my soul A butterfly of dream And you are like the word... Melancholy I like for you to be still and you seem far away It sounds as though you are lamenting A butterfly cooing like a dove and you hear me from far away and my voice does not reach you Let me come to be still in your silence And let me talk to you with your silence That is bright as a lamp Simple, as a ring You are like the night With its stillness and constellations Your silence is that of a star As remote and candid I like for you to be still it is as though you are absent Distant and full of sorrow So you would've died One word then, One smile is enough And I'm happy; Happy that it's not true |
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04-28-2014, 01:45 AM | #582 |
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For Women Who Are Difficult To Love by Warsan Shire you are a horse running alone and he tries to tame you compares you to an impossible highway to a burning house says you are blinding him that he could never leave you forget you want anything but you you dizzy him, you are unbearable every woman before or after you is doused in your name you fill his mouth his teeth ache with memory of taste his body just a long shadow seeking yours but you are always too intense frightening in the way you want him unashamed and sacrificial he tells you that no man can live up to the one who lives in your head and you tried to change didn’t you? closed your mouth more tried to be softer prettier less volatile, less awake but even when sleeping you could feel him travelling away from you in his dreams so what did you want to do love split his head open? you can’t make homes out of human beings someone should have already told you that and if he wants to leave then let him leave you are terrifying and strange and beautiful something not everyone knows how to love.
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05-01-2014, 12:35 PM | #583 |
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Nine Below--Joy Harjo
Across the frozen Bering Sea is the invisible border of two warring countries. I am loyal to neither, only to the birds who fly over, laugh at the ridiculous ways of humans, know wars destroy dreams, divide the country, inside us. Last night there was a breaking wave, in the center of a dream war. You were there, but I couldn't see you. Woke up cold in a hot house. Didn't sleep but fought the distances I had imagined, and went back to find you. I called my heart's dogs, gave them the sound of your blue saxophone to know you by, and let them smell the shirt you wore when we last made love. I walked with them south along the white sea, and crossed to the fiery plane of my dreaming. We circled the place, you were not there. I found nothing that I could see. No trace of war, of you, but the dogs barked, rolled in your smell, ears pricked at what they could hear that I couldn't. They ran to me, licked the smell of the wet tracks of your mouth on my neck, my shoulder. They smelled you on my fingers, my face. They felt the quivering nerve of emotion that forced me to live. It made them nervous, excited. I loosened my mind's rein; let them find you. I watched them follow the invisible connection. They traveled a spiral arc through an Asiatic burst of time. There were no false boundaries between countries, between us. They climbed the polar ice, saw it melt. They flew through the shimmering houses of the gods, crossed over into your childhood, and then south. When they arrived in your heart's atmosphere it was an easy sixty degrees. The war was over, it had never begun. And you were alive and laughing, standing beneath a fat sun, calling me home. |
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05-02-2014, 02:02 PM | #584 |
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A Satirical Romance...Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz
I can't hold you and I can't leave you, and in sorting the reasons to leave you or hold you, I find an intangible one to love you, and many tangible ones to forgo you. As you won't change, nor let me forgo you, I shall give my heart defense against you, so that half shall always be armed to abhor you, though the other half be ready to adore you. |
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05-03-2014, 11:55 AM | #585 |
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ECHO
Christina Rossetti Come to me in the silence of the night, Come in the speaking silence of a dream, Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright as sunlight on a stream, Come back in tears, O memory, hope and love of finished years. O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter-sweet, Whose wakening should have been in paradise, Where souls brim full of love abide and meet, Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more. |
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05-07-2014, 10:00 AM | #586 |
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Where Does This Tenderness Come From?
by Marina Tsvetaeva Where does this tenderness come from? These are not the first curls I have stroked slowly and lips I have known are darker than yours as stars rise often and go out again where does this tenderness come from? so many eyes have risen and died out in front of these eyes of mine. And yet no such song have I heard in the darkness of night before, where does this tenderness come from? here, on the ribs of the singer. Where does this tenderness come from? And what shall I do with it, sly singer just passing by? Your lashes are...longer than anyone's. |
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05-07-2014, 07:39 PM | #587 |
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by Carol Ann Duffy
Words Wide Night
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night and the distance between us, I am thinking of you. The room is turning slowly away from the moon. This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear. La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross to reach you. For I am in love with you and this is what it is like or what it is like in words. |
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05-07-2014, 10:16 PM | #588 |
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Evening Solace
THE human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed. And days may pass in gay confusion, And nights in rosy riot fly, While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion, The memory of the Past may die. But, there are hours of lonely musing, Such as in evening silence come, When, soft as birds their pinions closing, The heart's best feelings gather home. Then in our souls there seems to languish A tender grief that is not woe; And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish, Now cause but some mild tears to flow. And feelings, once as strong as passions, Float softly backa faded dream; Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations, The tale of others' sufferings seem. Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding, How longs it for that time to be, When, through the mist of years receding, Its woes but live in reverie ! And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer, On evening shade and loneliness; And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer, Feel no untold and strange distress Only a deeper impulse given By lonely hour and darkened room, To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven, Seeking a life and world to come. Charlotte Brontë
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05-08-2014, 03:26 PM | #589 |
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I See, I See The Crescent Moon~Anna Akhmatova
I see, I see the crescent moon through the willow's thick foliage. I hear, I hear the regular heartbeat of unshod hooves. You don't want to sleep either? In a year you weren't able to forget me, you're not used to finding your bed empty? Don't I talk with you in the sharp cries of falcons? Don't I look into your eyes from the matt white pages? why do you circle round, my silent house like a thief? Or do you remember the agreement and wait for me alive? I am falling asleep. The moon's blade cuts through the stilling dark. Again hoofbeats. It is my own warm heart that beats so. |
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05-15-2014, 11:33 AM | #590 |
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Rain~
Diana Der Hovanessian Rain undoes the stone unfastens grass. Nothing is permanently attached to bone. Neither epoxy nor promises last. But I keep those inflections you telephoned to wear with your frown on rainy days. There is another you I have invented from your name and cemented to my bones forever. let the rain say nothing stays. |
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05-15-2014, 01:26 PM | #591 |
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CORAZÓN CORAZA
by: Mario Benedetti Porque te tengo y no porque te pienso porque la noche está de ojos abiertos porque la noche pasa y digo amor porque has venido a recoger tu imagen y eres mejor que todas tus imágenes porque eres linda desde el pie hasta el alma porque eres buena desde el alma a mí porque te escondes dulce en el orgullo pequeña y dulce corazón coraza porque eres mía porque no eres mía porque te miro y muero y peor que muero si no te miro amor si no te miro porque tú siempre existes dondequiera pero existes mejor donde te quiero porque tu boca es sangre y tienes frío tengo que amarte amor tengo que amarte aunque esta herida duela como dos aunque te busque y no te encuentre y aunque la noche pase y yo te tenga y no. |
05-15-2014, 01:33 PM | #592 |
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Dear Billie-by Christine Cassidy
Dear Billie, I'd offer apologies for flirting at the party but I know what you'd say-it's not all that necessary- and besides, I'm enticed, your cool minx eyes assessing me the way I've come to enjoy. Why didn't you, at the end, kiss me? I'd have given you skirt, not to flirt. Then I saw you, whispered in your nappy hair, smiled a lot, and had to touch. Why is it you're the one butch -my new lover won't say much- who feeds me information from the hand, and won't begrudge my hunger for knowing somewhat better whom I've been lusting after -granted I'm a little late, a shy date-these last few years? Fourteen now, since I've been comfortably out. Longer, if you count Girl Scouts, the woman whose flint-lit fires kindled mine. I stayed closemouthed about sex, watched the playground mavericks pick out sides while I grew breasts, lip-synched to Janis Joplin, and fantasized what came next. That same thrill, chasing after boyish girls -rough girls with flaccid pigtails- who swaggered off fields and courts, has gotten me in trouble more than once. When I wore a cocktail dress (another time, only lace) to seduce the dykes in suits at Seven Sisters dances, I wish you had been there with your etudes of history, tales accrued not from books. Sea Colony stories circa '62 my favourite: at twenty you learned the gait and gaze that femmes would covet. You stroked my knee, reminisced. I thought, does femme etiquette permit one bite into your neck, or none? You laugh at my abstention and my burn to know just what you butches want, how and when. You say I couldn't take what's on your mind. What's on mine might terrify you more. Or is this coax you expect, or will you try to please me when I visit? If you feed me raisin scones and stories, I'll reply in kind-naive but willing, my dear Billie. |
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06-07-2014, 01:05 AM | #593 |
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Phenomenal Woman
By Maya Angelou Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size But when I start to tell them, They think I’m telling lies. I say, It’s in the reach of my arms, The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It’s the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can’t touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them, They say they still can’t see. I say, It’s in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me. Now you understand Just why my head’s not bowed. I don’t shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing, It ought to make you proud. I say, It’s in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need for my care. ’Cause I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me. |
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06-09-2014, 10:18 AM | #594 |
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Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. |
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06-19-2014, 04:35 PM | #595 |
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Under The Harvest Moon
by Carl Sandberg Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions. |
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06-21-2014, 11:07 AM | #596 |
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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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06-21-2014, 11:10 AM | #597 |
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somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
E. E. Cummings, 1894 - 1962 somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands |
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06-24-2014, 06:59 AM | #598 |
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Let America Be America Again
Langston Hughes, 1902 - 1967 Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free. (America never was America to me.) Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed— Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above. (It never was America to me.) O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe. (There’s never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”) Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars? I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak. I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one’s own greed! I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean— Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years. Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That’s made America the land it has become. O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home— For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore, And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came To build a “homeland of the free.” The free? Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we’ve dreamed And all the songs we’ve sung And all the hopes we’ve held And all the flags we’ve hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay— Except the dream that’s almost dead today. O, let America be America again— The land that never has been yet— And yet must be—the land where every man is free. The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME— Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again. Sure, call me any ugly name you choose— The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives, We must take back our land again, America! O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath— America will be! Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain— All, all the stretch of these great green states— And make America again! |
06-24-2014, 07:32 AM | #599 |
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this was my era and could have been all of us protesting the war during that time
Flowers & Bullets, by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
(English translation by Anthony Kahn) Of course: Bullets don't like people who love flowers, They're jealous ladies, bullets, short on kindness. Allison Krause, nineteen years old, you're dead for loving flowers. When, thin and open as the pulse of conscience, you put a flower in a rifle's mouth and said, "Flowers are better than bullets," that was pure hope speaking. Give no flowers to a state that outlaws truth; such states reciprocate with cynical, cruel gifts, and your gift, Allison Krause, was the bullet that blasted the flower. Let every apple orchard blossom black, black in mourning. Ah, how the lilac smells! You're without feeling. Nothing, Nixon said it: "You're a bum." All the dead are bums. It's not their crime. You lie in the grass, a melting candy in your mouth, done with dressing in new clothes, done with books. You used to be a student. You studied fine arts. But other arts exist, of blood and terror, and headsmen with a genuius for the axe. Who was Hitler? A cubist of gas chambers. In the name of all flowers I curse your works, you architect of lies, maestros of murder! Mothers of the world whisper "O God, God!" and seers are afraid to look ahead. Death dances rock-and-roll upon the bones of Vietnam, Cambodia - On what stage is it booked to dance tomorrow? Rise up, Tokyo girls, Roman boys, take up your flowers against the common foe. Blow the world's dandelions up into a blizzard! Flowers, to war! Punish the punishers! Tulip after tulip, carnation after carnation rip out of your tidy beds in anger, choke every lying throat with earth and root! You, jasmine, clog the spinning blades of mine-layers. Boldy, block the cross-hair sights, drive your sting into the lenses, nettles! Rise up, lily of the Ganges, lotus of the Nile, stop the roaring props of planes pregnant with the death of chidren! Roses, don't be proud to find yourselves sold at higher prices. Nice as it is to touch a tender cheek, thrust a sharper thorn a little deeper into the fuel tanks of bombers. Of course: Bullets are stronger than flowers. Flowers aren't enough to overwhelm them. Stems are too fragile, petals are poor armor. But a Vietnam girl of Allison's age, taking a gun in her hands is the armed flower of the people's wrath! If even flowers rise, then we've had enough of playing games with history. Young America, tie up the killer's hands. Let there be an escalation of truth to overwhelm the escalating lie crushing people's lives! Flowers, make war! Defend what's beautiful! Drown the city streets and country roads like the flood of an army advancing and in the ranks of people and flowers arise, murdered Allison Krause, Immortal of the age, Thorn-Flower of protest! |
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06-25-2014, 04:38 PM | #600 |
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Choices by Nikki Giovanni
CHOICES
If i can't do what i want to do then my job is to not do what i don't want to do It's not the same thing but it's the best i can do If i can't have what i want . . . then my job is to want what i've got and be satisfied that at least there is something more to want Since i can't go where i need to go . . . then i must . . . go where the signs point through always understanding parallel movement isn't lateral When i can't express what i really feel i practice feeling what i can express and none of it is equal I know but that's why mankind alone among the animals learns to cry Written by Nikki Giovanni |
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