The Nature of Daylight

A jewellery box ballerina twirled to Love Story.

... This Alchemy of Awe, every meaning of the rook,
that sweetest sap, those sunless innards, oh my, a favourite book;
that runs from roots within my chest,
and seeps to branch and leaves of Wonder,
to where it is that I still ponder ... Is let
to this pen, and writes with words of Love
on wings of letters to your eyes reflecting all the world ...

In a thousand letters graceful cranes, bow in majesty
fettered looking to ends to travesty oh feudal man.
If your eyes reflected this world would they bleed?
Would they not drown in a neediness toward blindness?
Would they stare into wishing pools gently rippling;
trembling at coins tossed,
yearning for a creek pebbled bottom less crippled?

Would they alight in a billion colourful loves
Birthing the phoenix from within instant combustion?
Would they sizzle in the twilights mists
At-tempting a moistness to blink a tear for beauty?
Falling upon the dews softening sweetness, gravity;
brevity.
Sparkling sugar, sating dusty earths aromas
into green mosses,
tender shoots clothing bare feet.

That wordless cry settles foamy upon the shore;
afterstorm, it muffles gentle waves as they curl like lapping kittens beneath a tired quiet rhythm... Softly

and from that silent foam, a breath of life and light, pleasing to sight, born of the half-shell, from seed spilled to sea, like steed born of sea; she is Venus, alike to thee ...

She the morning, evening star, blowing kisses from east and west, from cockle shell heart pink bathed in brine.
For she grasps the world she grasps the world,
but holds the empty skies,
distant eyes and mine.

So glistens the silent storm stirred foam,
calm;
a quieting surface of tea lights or tears,
home, balm.

About 18 months ago this kid said "mum, dad I want to play piano". They said "well you better start saving cause we cant afford a piano". He said "fine!"... He settled on an electric keyboard afer he found out how much a piano cost.

He asked his parents for lessons and they said sure at highschool which is still six months away... So he thought he would compose his own stuff, that way he didnt have to know how to play, he only needs to know what he plays, not all the sheets and sheets that are out there.

He's just turned 12 and I want to buy him a piano and keep it at my house so he can play for me at Christmas.
He's special.

pretty


Connie Dover

Cantus

Personent hodie
Voces puerulae
Laudates jucunde
Qui nobis est natus
Personent hodie
Voces puerulae
Laudates jucunde
Qui nobis est natus
Summo Deo datus

Ideo, ideo, ideo gloria in excelsis Deo

His the doom, ours the mirth
When he came down to earth
Flower of Jesse's tree
Born on earth to save us
Him the Father gave us

Ideo, ideo, ideo gloria in excelsis Deo

Is airiu agus a leanbh cad a dhéanfaidh mé
Tá tú ar shiúl uaim agus airiú

Jesukin
Lives my quiet cell within
Thou in me dwelling
All is lie but Jesukin

Jesu of the skies
My little one, Thou my delight
I with Thee, Thou with me
Next my heart through every night

'S airiú
Who hangs from yonder passion tree?
Your son, dear Mother
Do you not know me?

Judas, James and John
Have you seen my only son?
Ochon! My eyes are blind
Ochon! My heart is wrung


Stella Maris, Semper Clara
Rosa Munde, Res Miranda
Misterium Mirabile

'S airiú agus ochon!
Sad I am till you return
To have you at the break of dawn!
Ochon airiú
Without you!

Translation from Latin and Irish Gaelic into English
Latin Verse:
Today let youthful voices
Sound forth joyous praises
Of Him who is born for us,
The gift of the most high God
Therefore, "Glory to God in the highest."

Gaelic Verse:
Is airiúi! (a keen or exclamation of lament -- no literal translation)
And what shall I do, my child!
You've been gone from me for a long time
Is airiúi!

Latin Canticle/Countermelody:
Star of the Sea, ever bright
Spotless Rose, most admirable
Wondrous Mystery

Praise, honor
Strength and glory
Are fitting for you, Oh Mary

Morning Has Broken
(A Traditional Song, Lyrics by Eleanor Farjeon*)

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the world


Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass


Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day


*According to Wikipedia, "The tune to which it is normally sung is called 'Bunessan,' based upon a Gaelic melody. Before Farjeon's words, it was used as a Christmas carol with lyrics which began 'Child in the manger, Infant of Mary.' The English-language Roman Catholic hymnal also uses the tune for the hymn 'This Day God Gives Me.'"



SIDEBAR: Cat Stevens aka Yusuf Islam has frequently been erroneously credited with writing "Morning Has Broken." He did record and release arguably the definitive version of the song on his album Tea For The Tillerman.

Very nice FreeJazz, thank you.

Intuitively, it’s beautiful
of softness of love, yep.

It's Weekend!!!!

SPRING!

HAAAAAA yeah

Epic DCD


The Song of the Sibyl

( English translation of original Catalan version )

An eternal king will come
Dressed in our mortal flesh:
He will come from heaven certainly
To pass judgement on the century.

Before judgement is passed
A great sign will show itself:
The sun will lose its shine
The earth will tremble with fear.

After will come mighty thunder
A sign of great wrath:
In an infernal confusion
Lightning and cries will resound.

A great fire will come down from heaven
In a stink of sulphur
And the earth will burn furiously
And great terror will afflict people.

After will come the terrible signal
Of a great earthquake
As rocks shatter
And mountains collapse.

Then no-one will have pieces of gold
Silver or riches,
And everyone will await
The sentence.

Death will leave them without a penny,
And will crush them all:
There will remain only men in tears,
And sadness will cover the world.

The plains and peaks will be all the same,
Good and evil will reach them both,
Kings, dukes, counts and barons
Will have to account for their actions.

And then will come impressively
The Son of God omnipotent,
He will judge the dead and the living,
The good will go to Heaven.

Children not yet born
Will cry from their mother's wombs,
And with the crying say:
"Help us, God, omnipotent".

Mother of God, pray for us,
You, the Mother of sinners,
May the sentence be merciful,
May Paradise be open to us.

You, who listen to everything,
Pray God with all devotion,
With all your heart and fervour,
That we should be saved.

19-23 September
For the South

For the North

equinox occurs twice a year, when the tilt of the Earth's axis is inclined neither away from nor towards the Sun, the center of the Sun being in the same plane as the Earth's equator. The term equinox can also be used in a broader sense, meaning the date when such a passage happens. The name "equinox" is derived from the Latin aequus (equal) and nox (night), because around the equinox, the night and day are approximately equally long.
[link to en.wikipedia.org]


It is a matter of fact adults forget how to breath properly.

Taunted gently, raise a heavy glass
fold within gilded company
rippling
roiling
rolling off their embossed words,
three dimensional
just for the sake of the blind.
See how they spread feathering
wetting parchments.
See them interlock before drying up
every ink blurring til it slurs
before writing its self sober while we dream.
Shaking fingers out that have been
talking so fast we find little spittle's
peppering air with embarrassing talk tinsel
in scales people shed by the litre
the scales used to measure how far you pitch
your heart against the wilderness.

"When I was just as far as I could walk
From here today,
There was an hour
All still
When leaning with my head against a flower
I heard you talk.
Don't say I didn't, for I heard you say--
You spoke from that flower on the windowsill--
Do you remember what it was you said?"

"First tell me what it was you thought you heard."

"Having found the flower and driven a bee away,
I leaned my head,
And holding by the stalk,
I listened and I thought I caught the word--
What was it? Did you call me by my name?
Or did you say--
Someone said 'Come'--I heard it as I bowed."

"I may have thought as much, but not aloud."

"Well, so I came."

Robert Frost

Stay close, my heart, to the one who knows your ways;
Come into the shade of the tree that always has fresh flowers.
Don't stroll idly through the bazaar of the perfume-makers:
Stay in the shop of the sugar-seller.
If you don't find true balance, anyone can deceive you;
Anyone can trick out of a thing of straw,
And make you take it for gold
Don't squat with a bowl before every boiling pot;
In each pot on the fire you find very different things.
Not all sugar-canes have sugar, not all abysses a peak;
Not all eyes possess vision, not every sea is full of pearls.
O nightingale, with your voice of dark honey! Go on lamenting!
Only your drunken ecstasy can pierce the rock's hard heart!
Surrender yourself, and if you cannot be welcomes by the Friend,
Know that you are rebelling inwardly like a thread
That doesn't want to go through the needle's eye!
The awakened heart is a lamp; protect it by the hem of your robe!
Hurry and get out of this wind, for the weather is bad.
And when you've left this storm, you will come to a fountain;
You'll find a Friend there who will always nourish your soul.
And with your soul always green, you'll grow into a tall tree
Flowering always with sweet light-fruit, whose growth is interior.

~Rumi~

How to Fall in Love
by SUSAN ELBE

Start by leaving home. It's not where the heart is,
but where the hard edge is. When ice begins
to ebb from shoreline
freeing mangy marsh grass,
leave.

And as you pick up speed, let your life arc out,
away from you.

Realize you don't know where you're going
and the weather changes often.
Steer between the stars
like songbirds coming back at night.
Listen to the whirring
of a thousand, thousand miles of dark.

Remember you are ancient,
that once you walked out of the sea
and in the trees became another thing.
Know you can again.

Become three kinds of lonely.

Light a torch.
Leave a trail of handprints on the walls.
Or start by staying put.
Be a whisper looking for a mouth: luna, luna, luna.
Sit underneath the porch light.
Eat walnuts and persimmons.
Spread your red-edged wings.
"Calling time" begins near midnight.

Be hungry. Want.

Women are locks. Men open them for doors.

Everything From That Point On
by Rhett Iseman Trull

I.

All day the gulls dove, cries unsynchronized,
throats clinching every note as tightly as their bills

pincered quivering fish. The morning wind, spiked
with salt, stung our eyes as the sun slashed its light

across the numb horizon. I guess this is mine now, you said,
by default, drumming your chewed fingernails

with a hollow ruc-a-tuc, ruc-a-tuc on the bumper
of your father's truck, our reflection skewed in its dents.

And everything from that point on was slow motion:
the rest of the day spreading between us without words,

sunbathers coming and going, building their castles
until the tide slithered in to crush the towers in its grip.

Then the cooler air, clouds wisping thin, the last
of the fishermen reeling in, and the loon on one leg

letting the pink wings of sunset molest her feather by feather.

II.

Alone, under the cold fist of the moon and backed by hazy winks
of distant hotel lights, you slogged in calf-deep, the waves

gutting the ocean floor, sloshing its dregs against
you. From the shore I memorized

each splintered shell, each man-of-war, each muscle
you didn't flinch. Without ceremony, you slung the urn

out past the breakers, its lid tipping, dark tail of ashes
trailing. As you returned, the chill of the night

trembling through you, the smell of the brine in your hair,
I knew this would be the end for us. Your green eyes were pale,

scaled of their usual laughter. You swung from your loss,
gills straining. I loved you most in that moment, knowing

even as I slipped my arm up the back of your shirt, hooking us
together, that you were about to cut me loose to spare me

the tightening of the line, the bruise of sudden air.



The Cry
R.S.Thomas

Don't think it was all hate
that grew there; love grew there, too,
climbing by small tendrils where
The warmth fell from the eyes' blue

flame. Don't even think the dirt
and the brute ugliness reigned
unchallenged. Among the fields
sometimes the spirit, enchained

so long by the gross flesh, raised
suddenly there its wild notes of praise.



Last Edited by siteless on 09/14/2010 07:40 PM

I've before told you how much I love-love this thread. For me, when I most am drawn in such a way, this thread is like a personal sanctuary.

I love the song. I closed my eyes and softly swayed.

Thank you, precious energy, siteless, that you are with me...

thanks Psemeni, yes that ones a beauty.. Nickelbacks pretty good too, this one from Live brought tears to my eyes the very first time I heard it, okay I lie, it still brings tears to my eyes....

"What one writer can make in the solitude of one room is something no power can easily destroy." - Salman Rushdie


indeed

Some Like Poetry

Write it. Write. In ordinary ink
on ordinary paper: they were given no food,
they all died of hunger. "All. How many?
It's a big meadow. How much grass
for each one?" Write: I don't know.
History counts its skeletons in round numbers.
A thousand and one remains a thousand,
as though the one had never existed:
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle,
an ABC never read,
air that laughs, cries, grows,
emptiness running down steps toward the garden,
nobody's place in the line.

We stand in the meadow where it became flesh,
and the meadow is silent as a false witness.
Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest
with wood for chewing and water under the bark-
every day a full ration of the view
until you go blind. Overhead, a bird-
the shadow of its life-giving wings
brushed their lips. Their jaws opened.
Teeth clacked against teeth.
At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky
and reaped wheat for their bread.
Hands came floating from blackened icons,
empty cups in their fingers.
On a spit of barbed wire,
a man was turning.
They sang with their mouths full of earth.
"A lovely song of how war strikes straight
at the heart." Write: how silent.
"Yes."

:Wislawa Szymborska

'Christchurch'


You cannot leave this evening to fixed acquaintances
spent nattering about the latest earthquake, the buried

Cubits of concrete amongst wild daisies poking
their muddied crowns, to be swallowed by late

Winter snow. The ground forbids it, farmers even more
so; the spread of summer awaiting holds new promise

For life to flourish amongst the wreckage and debris of
disconnected families. You cannot bring this world onto

Your shoulders; etiquette confirms what the sages
already know: the evolution of discovery

Beyond atoms, the silent frescoes of Michelangelo
adorning your skin as a tamed inferno.


16/09/10
J. Morales

allow me to explain. the custom of 'sharing gold' in the Netherlands is the expression given to a bizarre sexual practice involving and obergine and a sink-plunger.

is that you Jay?