10-31-2011, 10:22 AM | #221 |
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Autumn afternoon:
a sycamore leaf falls softly and rests on its own shadow ~Abbas Kiarostami |
10-31-2011, 12:15 PM | #222 |
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Take This Waltz (1980-1993)
Leonard Cohen - Lyrics based on the Federico Garcia Lorca's poem "Little Viennese Waltz" - (Pequeno Vals Vienes) Leonard Cohen’s explanation: "With the Lorca poem, the translation took 150 hours, just to get it into English that resembled - I would never presume to say duplicated - the greatness of Lorca's poem. It was a long, drawn-out affair, and the only reason I would even attempt it is my love for Lorca. I loved him as a kid; I named my daughter Lorca, so you can see this is not a casual figure in my life." Take This Waltz Words L. Cohen, after Lorca. Now in Vienna there's ten pretty women There's a shoulder where Death comes to cry There's a lobby with nine hundred windows There's a tree where the doves go to die There's a piece that was torn from the morning And it hangs in the Gallery of Frost Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay Take this waltz, take this waltz Take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws Oh I want you, I want you, I want you On a chair with a dead magazine In the cave at the tip of the lily In some hallways where love's never been On a bed where the moon has been sweating In a cry filled with footsteps and sand Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay Take this waltz, take this waltz Take its broken waist in your hand This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz With its very own breath of brandy and Death Dragging its tail in the sea There's a concert hall in Vienna Where your mouth had a thousand reviews There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking They've been sentenced to death by the blues Ah, but who is it climbs to your picture With a garland of freshly cut tears? Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay Take this waltz, take this waltz Take this waltz it's been dying for years There's an attic where children are playing Where I've got to lie down with you soon In a dream of Hungarian lanterns In the midst of some sweet afternoon And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow All your sheep and your lilies of snow Pequeno Vals Vienes by Federico Garcia Lorca En Viena hay diez muchachas, un hombro donde solloza la muerte y un bosque de palomas disecadas. Hay un fragmento de la manana en el mueso de la escarcha Hay un salon con mil ventanas Ay, ay, ay, ay, Toma este vals con la boca cerrada Este vals, este vals, este vals, de si, de muerte y de conac que moja su cola en el mar Te quiero, te quiero, te quiero, con la butaca y el libro muerto, por el melancolico pasillo en el oscuro desvan del lirio, en nuestra cama de la luna y en la danza que suena la tortuga. Ay, ay, ay, ay, Toma este vals con la boca cerrada En Viena hay cuatro espejos donde juegan tu boca y los ecos, Hay una muerte para piano, que pinta de azul a los muchachos. Hay mendigos por los tejados Hay frescas guirnaldas de llanto Ay, ay, ay, ay, Toma este vals con la boca cerrada Porque te quiero, te quiero, amor mio, en el desvan donde juegan los ninos, sonando viejas luces de Hungria por los rumores de la tarde tibia, viendo ovejas y lirios de nieve por el silencio oscuro de tu frente. Ay, ay, ay, ay, Toma este vals con la boca cerrada En viena bailare contigo con un disfraz que tenga cabeza de rio. Mira que orillas tengo de jacintos Dejare mi boca entre tus piernas, mi alma en fotografias y azucenas, y en las ondas oscuras de tu andar quiero, amor mio, amor mio, dejar, violin y sepulcro, las cintas del vals.
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10-31-2011, 12:48 PM | #223 |
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If You Forget Me
Pablo Neruda I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you. If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine.
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10-31-2011, 12:50 PM | #224 |
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Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labour, and my leisure too, For his civility. We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then 'tis centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity. Emily Dickenson My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away - And now We roam in Sovereign Woods - And now We hunt the Doe - And every time I speak for Him - The Mountains straight reply - And do I smile, such cordial light Upon the Valley glow - It is as a Vesuvian face Had let its pleasure through - And when at Night - Our good Day done - I guard My Master's Head - 'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's Deep Pillow - to have shared - To foe of His - I'm deadly foe - None stir the second time - On whom I lay a Yellow Eye - Or an emphatic Thumb - Though I than He - may longer live He longer must - than I - For I have but the power to kill, Without--the power to die--
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10-31-2011, 12:52 PM | #225 |
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Last one - it's like eating M&Ms, just can't stop...
A Work of Artifice
By Marge Piercy The bonsai tree in the attractive pot could have grown eighty feet tall on the side of a mountain till split by lightning. But a gardener carefully pruned it. It is nine inches high. Every day as he whittles back the branches the gardener croons, It is your nature to be small and cozy, domestic and weak; how lucky, little tree, to have a pot to grow in. With living creatures one must begin very early to dwarf their growth: the bound feet, the crippled brain, the hair in curlers, the hands you love to touch.
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The reason facts don’t change most people’s opinions is because most people don’t use facts to form their opinions. They use their opinions to form their “facts.” Neil Strauss |
11-14-2011, 05:37 PM | #226 |
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just taught an amazing lesson on this poem and i really like it--
(love song, with two goldfish)
(He's a drifter, always floating around her, has nowhere else to go. He wishes she would sing, not much, just the scales; or take some notice, give him the fish eye.) (Bounded by round walls she makes fish eyes and kissy lips at him, darts behind pebbles, swallows his charms hook, line and sinker) (He's bowled over. He would take her to the ocean, they could count the waves. There, in the submarine silence, they would share their deepest secrets. Dive for pearls like stars.) (But her love's since gone belly-up. His heart sinks like a fish. He drinks like a stone. Drowns those sorrows, stares emptily through glass.) (the reason, she said she wanted) (and he could not give) a life beyond the (bowl) By Grace Chua |
11-15-2011, 01:33 PM | #227 |
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Continuing the fish theme with one of my favorites
The Fish
I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn't fight. He hadn't fought at all. He hung a grunting weight, battered and venerable and homely. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper, and its pattern of darker brown was like wallpaper: shapes like full-blown roses stained and lost through age. He was speckled and barnacles, fine rosettes of lime, and infested with tiny white sea-lice, and underneath two or three rags of green weed hung down. While his gills were breathing in the terrible oxygen --the frightening gills, fresh and crisp with blood, that can cut so badly-- I thought of the coarse white flesh packed in like feathers, the big bones and the little bones, the dramatic reds and blacks of his shiny entrails, and the pink swim-bladder like a big peony. I looked into his eyes which were far larger than mine but shallower, and yellowed, the irises backed and packed with tarnished tinfoil seen through the lenses of old scratched isinglass. They shifted a little, but not to return my stare. --It was more like the tipping of an object toward the light. I admired his sullen face, the mechanism of his jaw, and then I saw that from his lower lip --if you could call it a lip grim, wet, and weaponlike, hung five old pieces of fish-line, or four and a wire leader with the swivel still attached, with all their five big hooks grown firmly in his mouth. A green line, frayed at the end where he broke it, two heavier lines, and a fine black thread still crimped from the strain and snap when it broke and he got away. Like medals with their ribbons frayed and wavering, a five-haired beard of wisdom trailing from his aching jaw. I stared and stared and victory filled up the little rented boat, from the pool of bilge where oil had spread a rainbow around the rusted engine to the bailer rusted orange, the sun-cracked thwarts, the oarlocks on their strings, the gunnels--until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. Elizabeth Bishop |
11-15-2011, 10:30 PM | #228 |
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Sylvia Plath - Lady Lazarus
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11-16-2011, 09:12 AM | #229 |
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By Machine~
Rapewagon
________________________________________ You decided to tell me, in a '93 Ford wagon, blue, after two years together, two, now we're through. You decided to tell me, going 70, on the interstate, flying a million-miles faster, than minds anticipate... after two years together, it's you who escaped. fuck you, I love you You decided to tell me, inside your car, trapped, while you rape me... might as well rape me... I wish you would rape me... you brought me this far. |
11-16-2011, 10:30 AM | #230 |
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Sonnet XXIX
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. William Shakespeare |
11-16-2011, 04:17 PM | #231 |
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A Good Thing...
She tells me
she's leaving-- says it's "a good thing" and in those words I understand the reason burrowed beneath the bravery. To many it seems a death for mourning... (this parting of ways) truth is-- the dying is done, only deepened by the staying. It takes far less courage to stir the ashes; it takes much more wisdom to stand and cast them away... once the ashtray of love is full. codajae |
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11-16-2011, 04:24 PM | #232 |
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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 of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. |
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11-18-2011, 12:07 AM | #233 |
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Acquainted with the Night
by Robert Frost I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain – and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, A luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night. |
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11-18-2011, 02:47 AM | #234 |
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Out of the night that covers me
Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever Gods may be For my unconquerable Soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced or cried aloud, Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloodied but unbowed. Beyond the place of wrath and tears Looms but the horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years, Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my Soul. -Ernest Hensley |
11-18-2011, 09:53 PM | #235 |
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The White by Patricia Hampl These are the moments before snow, whole weeks before. The rehearsals of milky November, cloud constructions when a warm day lowers a drift of light through the leafless angles of the trees lining the streets. Green is gone, gold is gone. The blue sky is the clairvoyance of snow. There is night and a moon but these facts force the hand of the season: from that black sky the real and cold white will begin to emerge. |
11-18-2011, 10:23 PM | #236 |
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Bluebeard
I am sending back the key that let me into Bluebeard's study; because he would make love to me I am sending back the key; in his eye's darkroom I can see my X-rayed heart, dissected body : I am sending back the key that let me into Bluebeard's study. Sylvia Plath |
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11-18-2011, 10:44 PM | #237 |
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"Whatever lost ghosts flare/Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor/Rave on the leash of the starving mind"
November Graveyard The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees Hoard last year's leaves, won't mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn To elegiac dryads, and dour grass Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness However the grandiloquent mind may scorn Such poverty. So no dead men's cries Flower forget-me-nots between the stones Paving this grave ground. Here's honest rot To unpick the elaborate heart, pare bone Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton Bulks real, all saint's tongues fall quiet: Flies watch no resurrections in the sun. At the essential landscape stare, stare Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind: Whatever lost ghosts flare Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor Rave on the leash of the starving mind Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air. |
11-18-2011, 11:07 PM | #238 |
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November Rain How separate we are under our black umbrellas—dark planets in our own small orbits, hiding from this wet assault of weather as if water would violate the skin, as if these raised silk canopies could protect us from whatever is coming next— December with its white enamel surfaces; the numbing silences of winter. From above we must look like a family of bats— ribbed wings spread against the rain, swooping towards any makeshift shelter. Linda Pastan |
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11-19-2011, 03:28 PM | #239 |
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Love Sonnet XI
Soneto XI by Pablo Neruda Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado, no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia, busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día. Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada, de tus manos color de furioso granero, tengo hambre de la pálida piedra de tus uñas, quiero comer tu piel como una intacta almendra. Quiero comer el rayo quemado en tu hermosura, la nariz soberana del arrogante rostro, quiero comer la sombra fugaz de tus pestañas y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Love Sonnet XI by Pablo Neruda I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue. |
11-20-2011, 08:53 PM | #240 |
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The Alchemist
I burned my life, that I might find A passion wholly of the mind, Thought divorced from eye and bone, Ecstasy come to breath alone. I broke my life, to seek relief From the flawed light of love and grief. With mounting beat the utter fire Charred existence and desire. It died low, ceased its sudden thresh. I had found unmysterious flesh -- Not the mind's avid substance -- still Passionate beyond the will. Louise Bogan |
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