Ea. 8993 Raportează post Postat Iulie 28, 2012 Your poems are like a dark city centre. Your novel, your stories, your journals, your letters, are suburbs Of this big city. The hotels are lit like office blocks all night With scholars, priests, pilgrims. It's at night Sometimes I drive through. I just find Myself driving through, going slow, simply Roaming in my own darkness, pondering What you did. Nearly always I glimpse you - at some crossing, Staring upwards, lost, sixty year old. ... by Ted Hughes Partajează acest post Link spre post Distribuie pe alte site-uri
Ea. 8993 Raportează post Postat August 30, 2012 (editat) Mossy and thumping, bare of logic, red: why do they say your other head and not your other heart? The snack cakes of Smut Wonderland turn Alice smaller than her dress. She stirs, nude in the folds of so much baby blue. To think, they called this lesser art. I ate mostly orders then, and you— you were thinking with your other heart. I took in a dog the way some might take in a dress (I had become just skin). It coughed. I cried for it to stop, I fed it meat, its malady recurrent and untreatable. I had to give it up, like some bum body part whose incidental benefit the human form has out-evolved. Don’t start. That dog: I called it Help, and I cried for it. Your Other Heart BY NATALIE SHAPERO Sweetheart, for such a day One mustn’t grudge the score; Here, then, it’s all to pay, It’s Good-night at the door. Good-night and good dreams to you,— Do you remember the picture-book thieves Who left two children sleeping in a wood the long night through, And how the birds came down and covered them with leaves? So you and I should have slept,—But now, Oh, what a lonely head! With just the shadow of a waving bough In the moonlight over your bed. Fin de Fête BY CHARLOTTE MEW Editat August 30, 2012 de Ea. Partajează acest post Link spre post Distribuie pe alte site-uri
Ea. 8993 Raportează post Postat August 30, 2012 A poem I keep forgetting to write Is about the stars, How I see them in their order Even without the chair and bear and the sisters, In their astronomic presence of great space, And how beyond and behind my eyes they are moving, Exploding to spirals under extremest pressure. Having not mathematics, my head Bursts with anguish of not understanding. The poem I forget to write is bursting fragments Of a tortured victim, far from me In his galaxy of minds bent upon him, In the oblivion of his headline status Crumpled and exploding as incomparable As a star, yet present in its light. I forget to write. Josephine Miles, Partajează acest post Link spre post Distribuie pe alte site-uri
Ea. 8993 Raportează post Postat August 30, 2012 (editat) Tales I could tell you stories from the edge of understanding there are worlds you haven't seen and words you've never spoken not to me at least and when the shutters draw with the end of day remember this moment for something that has never happened before arrived with the thunder we light another cigarette finish the wine and write the tale in smoke ~ K. Rolly ~ This present tragedy will eventually turn into myth, and in the mist of that later telling the bell tolling now will be a symbol, or, at least, a sign of something long since lost. This will be another one of those loose changes, the rearrangement of hearts, just parts of old lives patched together, gathered into a dim constellation, small consolation. Look, we will say, you can almost see the outline there: her fingertips touching his, the faint fusion of two bodies breaking into light. “Naming the Stars” from Naming the Stars by Joyce Sutphen Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font. The firefly wakens; waken thou with me. Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me. Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake. So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me. The Princess: Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON Editat August 30, 2012 de Ea. Partajează acest post Link spre post Distribuie pe alte site-uri
Ea. 8993 Raportează post Postat Septembrie 5, 2012 If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating. Sylvia Plath Partajează acest post Link spre post Distribuie pe alte site-uri
Ea. 8993 Raportează post Postat Septembrie 6, 2012 No one can see the pain that we hide,alone Theyre happy for us to keep it inside, Our fear is our own; they dont want to know, Why sould we involve them; why should it show. You live your whole life in confusion and fear, The need to feel something unbearably near, Half of you living, Half of you gone, And inside you know what your doing is wrong. The things that can help, the things that may heal, Are the flame or the blade and the sting of the steel, The destruction of skin means the death of your soul, But theres nowhere to run when your living alone. by Mushi-No-Iki To A Butterfly I 1 Partajează acest post Link spre post Distribuie pe alte site-uri
Ea. 8993 Raportează post Postat Septembrie 7, 2012 When Summer's End Is Nighing by A. E. Housman (1859-1936) When summer's end is nighing And skies at evening cloud, I muse on change and fortune And all the feats I vowed When I was young and proud. The weathercock at sunset Would lose the slanted ray, And I would climb the beacon That looked to Wales away And saw the last of day. From hill and cloud and heaven The hues of evening died; Night welled through lane and hollow And hushed the countryside, But I had youth and pride. And I with earth and nightfall In converse high would stand, Late, till the west was ashen And darkness hard at hand, And the eye lost the land. The year might age, and cloudy The lessening day might close, But air of other summers Breathed from beyond the snows, And I had hope of those. They came and were and are not And come no more anew; And all the years and seasons That ever can ensue Must now be worse and few. So here's an end of roaming On eves when autumn nighs: The ear too fondly listens For summer's parting sighs, And then the heart replies. Partajează acest post Link spre post Distribuie pe alte site-uri
Ea. 8993 Raportează post Postat Septembrie 20, 2012 (editat) LEAVING Dead from the neck up, Not so bad a place to be. Living in my heart. LITTLE COSMIC DUST POEM (1983) John Haines Out of the debris of dying stars, this rain of particles that waters the waste with brightness... The sea-wave of atoms hurrying home, collapse of the giant, unstable guest who cannot stay... The sun's heart reddens and expands, his mighty aspiration is lasting, as the shell of his substanace one day will be white with frost. In the radiant field of Orion great hordes of stars are forming, just as we see every night, fiery and faithful to the end. Out of the cold and fleeing dust that is never and always, the silence and waste to come... This arm, this hand, my voice, your face, this love. Naming The Stars by Joyce Sutphen This present tragedy will eventually turn into myth, and in the mist of that later telling the bell tolling now will be a symbol, or, at least, a sign of something long since lost. This will be another one of those loose changes, the rearrangement of hearts, just parts of old lives patched together, gathered into a dim constellation, small consolation. Look, we will say, you can almost see the outline there: her fingertips touching his, the faint fusion of two bodies breaking into light. I Have Dreamed of You so Much by Robert Desnos I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real. Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make your dear voice come alive again? I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being crossed on my chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape of your body. For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me for so many days and years, I would surely become a shadow. O scales of feeling. I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for me to wake up. I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you, the only one who counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than touch the lips and face of some passerby. I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow the moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life. Editat Septembrie 20, 2012 de Ea. Partajează acest post Link spre post Distribuie pe alte site-uri
Ea. 8993 Raportează post Postat Septembrie 23, 2012 Between what I see and what I say, between what I say and what I keep silent, between what I keep silent and what I dream, between what I dream and what I forget: poetry. Octavio Paz Partajează acest post Link spre post Distribuie pe alte site-uri
Ea. 8993 Raportează post Postat Septembrie 27, 2012 You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you. ~Anna Akhmatova 1 Partajează acest post Link spre post Distribuie pe alte site-uri