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The Nature of Daylight

 
siteless
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11/12/2010 12:34 AM
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yeah, why.
siteless
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11/12/2010 04:09 PM
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Re: The Nature of Daylight
worthofwords



A Distrust of Intellect:
The intellectual power, through words and things,
Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way!


:Wordsworth


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"Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing happened. "
~ Winston Churchill

"Behavior is what a man does, not what he thinks, feels, or believes."
~ Emily Dickinson

"A great man is always willing to be little."
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Poets are masters of us ordinary men, in knowledge of the mind, because they drink at streams which we have not yet made accessible to science."
~ Sigmund Freud

"The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of both."
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand"
~ Plato

"No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. For poetry is the blossom and the fragrancy of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions, language."
~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge
siteless
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11/12/2010 05:52 PM
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Reality demands

Reality demands
we also state the following:
life goes on.
It does so near Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.


There is a gas station
in a small plaza in Jericho,
and freshly painted
benches near Bila Hora.
Letters travel
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a furniture truck passes
before the eyes of the lion of Cheronea,
and only an atmospheric front advances
towards the blossoming orchards near Verdun.


There is so much of Everything
that Nothing is quite well concealed.
Music flows
from yachts near Actium
and couples on board dance in the sunlight.


So much keeps happening,
that it must be happening everywhere.
Where stone is heaped on stone,
there is an ice cream truck
besieged by children.
Where Hiroshima had been,
Hiroshima is again
manufacturing products
for everyday use.


Not without its charms is this terrible world,
not without its mornings
worth our waking.


In the fields of Maciejowice
the grass is green
and on the grass is -- you know how grass is --
transparent dew.


Maybe there are no fields other than battlefields,
those still remembered,
and those long forgotten,
birch woods and cedar woods,
snows and sands, iridescent swamps,
and ravines of dark defeat
where today, in sudden need,
you squat behind a bush.


What moral flows from this? Maybe none.
But what really flows is quickly-drying blood,
and as always, some rivers and clouds.


On the tragic mountain passes
the wind blows hats off heads
and we cannot help--
but laugh.

:Wislawa Szymborska


that you


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siteless
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11/13/2010 05:08 AM
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~Invictus~



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 nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this 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.

:William Ernest Henley




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siteless (OP)

User ID: 1161435
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11/13/2010 04:30 PM
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'Of course it is happening inside your head Harry...but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?' :Dumbledore


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'It does not do to dwell on dreams and the past you can not change and forget to live.'



peace
I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books. I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me: Thomas Mann


There were no smooth seas there.
siteless
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11/13/2010 06:05 PM
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Wild free ribbons glitter, talc soft, spinning , twirling ,
enduring luminous scripts, patent streaks of lightning,
shunting luminous nerves in awe toward morning dew.
Diamond waters laying clear til they fill with tannins,
Or mix milky green rivers off of sliding slate.

The embracing sky shines a mirrors gaze return blue to blue to blue to blue.
Where spherical blue orb flames in zero gravity become golden reaching toward the air.
Where the pastures in spring become golden at curing, and the trees stand green without envy,
yellow Water Fringe covers ponds spreading out; a simple organism across a Petri dish reminding
us whatever happens on a grand scale may well begin microbial, that we may well be microbial.

Between the blue and the cool blue and the yellow and the warm yellow and the hermaphroditic
Seductor/ess freezing and boiling like the tempest in our chests temps all to dip a toe, paw,
hoof, seed, spore, take a sip of life. There at the edge of a pool gazing back without wonder,
eyes print and punctuate between all that was and could be, the transient on a current, a
reflexion of beautiful complexity, of curiosity, of hungering thirsts for all that is taken up.
Taken up with our eyes, the deep flutter of wind within our lungs, someone else’s breath; owning
the skies, rivers flowing between our neurons exciting the fingers always known for running
amidst our hair, for bringing oceans to life in recognition of taste. Sated, in awe of being
touched.

Thus we wander the dusts of time throughout time, planting our feet in soft river banks to feel
the earth tickle between our toes, thus we wander the touch of friend and foe, for now touch
is most all we know.


:siteless
siteless
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11/13/2010 06:07 PM
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^^ ^^

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siteless
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11/14/2010 02:33 AM
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Re: The Nature of Daylight
The Colour of Words
:Josef Lesser


Tell me the colour of words,
the rainbow phrases
splashed across the daily canvas,
like when seagulls skate through lilac clouds
and desert crabs hone their calligraphy skills
across the burnt sienna sand.

Tell me the colour of words,
the colour of slavery,
the canvas bondage
stretched across the human frame,
the blue of sleepless veins,raw red skin
the black hole mind
that once roamed free.
The priest wears black,

mourners dress the same
candles burn a yellow flame.

Observe the colours of drought,
the ransacked land
rust-red, grey revolving to white
the aborted seed, bone scraps
in the coffins of the parched streams
faded greens of fading leaves.
But what of thirst,
tell me the colour of thirst,

rainbow lips and tongue
eyes devoid of hues.

Tell me the colour of dreams,
the faceless gathering a picnic

in your own meandering mind,
tints of every kind.

Ripe tomatoes red, blue feathers blue.

But what of truth,
tell me the colour of truth,
the colour of trust
of love
of pain
of hope
of touch
of fear
of prayer
of wrong of right.

Tell me the colour of words,
the pigments of life
in the dark and the light.




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siteless
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11/14/2010 05:49 AM
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Pagemasters.

“The water flows and flows,
trickling down gutters, ponds and streams.
Draining and flowing to imaginary places,
thoughts and dreams.”

Washing over the skin of lands, tugging at the feet
and hands that tilt forward awkwardly at wrists
scarcely able to hold a drop
yet hear I sit upon this prop.

I thought I saw a snowdrops tear
or perhaps a sunbeams hugging ripple near;
Though it was just my mind’s eye
playing tricks- in triple- dear.



"Do you know where the thought of pixy dust comes from?"

“This incessant rain” replied the boy.

"No not the incessant rain... it comes from those night flying moths the ones that beat their hearts relentlessly against little glowing beacons
until their stuffing falls out like tinsel... poor senseless creatures."


"Not a smidgen of warmth is to be had in a night time beacon that won’t take your wings clean off, it’s so unfortunate they don’t play in the sunshine. Perhaps they fear anyone seeing them in the daylight, though I wouldn’t know why, it’s not as if many creatures notice such insignificant creatures as moths... So I beg to ask... Whatever made you pause and offer a moment of your time?

Of course there is no need to answer that; any questions I might ask of you as a matter of fact, it’s not uncommon for me to ask far too many questions of any stranger, without ever waiting on any of the answers, its all quite one way at times.

It's perhaps that I like to formulate my own answers that please me? Yes that could well be a reason, perhaps not, but it’s a reason,
I lack reason but where there is a lack thereof, there is formulation, thus filling in all those things that might be missing, you know, filling the void that is wilderness.

I should warn you I can talk and talk and talk until quite soon you will be so tired of even the thought of me and my thoughts...

Pshh snow melt! its sooo so desolate! Everything burnt to a mushy mess with the cold, burned with cold, who ever heard of such a thing? It seems illogical don’t you think?

Might I ask your name? I always wonder at names, like places or states of mind and dreams. I watched a little girl once, I don’t think she ever noticed me, she made me wonder. You see, she knelt down and she plucked every petal off of a daisy bush once while she sang and she plucked. Until all that was left were little round eyes, bruised blackened ones at that.

She made me wonder, I wondered if she ever considered that little winged creatures might need a landing strip, and then I wondered if she knew each petal is like a finger gesturing... over here, over here! come here! my arms are open for you. But I don’t think she was wondering about insects, it seemed her songs were much bigger than little insects, though I’m sure they were far more pesky.

Bother! I don’t know why I persist in trying to drink here I’m sure it’s far too cold, cold enough to make my wings quiver in a manner that might challenge a humming bird in supersonic superseded suspended animation, not to mention the possibility of runoff pesticides that would spell ahoh; bent legs and uncoiled tongue.

It’s so funny the straight bits curl and the curly bits go straight when creatures like me die... Oh, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to joke about something that’s generally very serious business. I will try to behave a little more toward lightness, light as flightness or the day’s prettiness, besides soppy soppy it is pretty.

Sigh

what I wouldn’t do for blue bells or daisies or peach blossoms or apple tree pink blush fluff; but it matters not what I do, their time is not set by me but rather mine by them."



Criewry settled her chin to her forehands with a silent sigh and a still present soft smile while the air was left to the sounds of trickling water once again. The chirps of sleepy grasshoppers interrupted the punctuations of small green frogs blending all the choir birds songs of spring in hop, step, jump, the pierce of sodden soil, of life in general.

:siteless




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siteless
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11/14/2010 07:11 PM
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Someday, a Crucible.
:Alia Hussain


Someday, a crucible will be the epitome of patience.
Fire will burn the cold metals of reaching that have endured

a vacuous space, the circumference of a moon
hidden behind strands of hair that grew during time spent in prayer:

Someday, a crucible.
I said, crucible, you are Myth and I will speak to you
because Creator abandoned me. So be it, he, the father, the absent ark.
I, with an army of faithful arms and oars, row to Creation itself.
Someday, a crucible.
An open book, the words, the twist of metaphors so free to envision
anything as small as a sliver of moon buried beneath a fingernail
or as big as a smile of tides lapping sidewinder dunes.
Someday, a crucible.

You are snake if I call you so, dear phallus, Man.
You are galaxy if I call you so, dear tigress, Woman.

Someday, a crucible will be the only source of answers.
To throw a mangled stack of scripture in fire and watch demons evaporate.
Watch followers open their mouths in horrifying shrieks,
the only deafening sound I ever want to hear.
You, crucible, my raging deity who crackles:

It’s okay to kill the internal and rise again.
It’s okay to break, melt, bleed, and cry.

Someday, a crucible.

I imagine an hourglass and the sand is grains of fire.
I turn the hourglass over and my eyes become amber.
If you caught my gaze, we would become a pyre.

Then ashes, ashes, we’ll fall down.
Into a crucible, we’ll fall down.
Melting beasts, all around.
Ashes, ashes, we’ll kiss the ground.

Someday, a crucible will withstand truths aflame
and perish the falsehoods of flooding rain.
Sip the fire once again, rowing warriors.

Someday, a crucible.



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siteless
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11/15/2010 04:52 PM
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When did communication become such an urgency of words?
See how communication can be so simple; consummately
steady and consistent; the complications of intonations
stillness and depth, free to fill with your spirits composition.

:siteless


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A beautiful week all round hf
siteless
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11/16/2010 04:42 AM
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If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love


If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.

Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.

Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the loin
Nor the outspoken grave.

If I were tickled by the lovers' rub
That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts' toes.

This world is half the devil's and my own,
Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.

And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his sex
From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.

And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.


Dylan Thomas

-----------------

Eloisa to Abelard
:Alexander Pope (1688–1744).


In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not, my hand — the name appears
Already written — wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love.
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee.

How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies,
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires;
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all:
Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.

Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.

Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why should I on others' pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.

Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.

Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake — no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.

Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;
Ev'n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.

What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!

See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
"Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say)
"Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here."

I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;
And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.

Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
"Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!"

From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.



[link to www.youtube.com]
Anonymous Coward
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11/16/2010 05:21 AM
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 Quoting: siteless
siteless
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11/16/2010 04:29 PM
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Yes it's true we all should lay on our backs and look up at our endless blue sky, look until it becomes blinding, and darkens as we squint at its clarity and bright perspective. Yes we realy should lay there until we feel how alive the ground is under our backs, until we can hear a fragile sprout break the surface unscathed and meet the daylight.


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daylight
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11/16/2010 04:48 PM
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 Quoting: Anonymous Coward 1141648



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The Garden
by Andrew Marvell


How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays ;
And their uncessant labors see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid ;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men :
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow ;
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green ;
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas, they know or heed,
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheresoe'er your barks I wound
No name shall but your own be found........

........How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!



Do read on.
siteless
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11/16/2010 04:51 PM
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EYES AND TEARS.
:Andrew Marvell


HOW wisely Nature did decree,
With the same eyes to weep and see ;
That, having viewed the object vain,
They might be ready to complain !
And, since the self-deluding sight
In a false angle takes each height,
These tears, which better measure all,
Like watery lines and plummets fall.
Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh
Within the scales of either eye,
And then paid out in equal poise,
Are the true price of all my joys.
What in the world most fair appears,
Yea, even laughter, turns to tears ;
And all the jewels which we prize
Melt in these pendants of the eyes.
I have through every garden been,
Amongst the red, the white, the green,
And yet from all the flowers I saw,
No honey, but these tears could draw.
So the all-seeing sun each day
Distils the world with chymic ray ;
But finds the essence only showers,
Which straight in pity back he pours.
Yet happy they whom grief doth bless,
That weep the more, and see the less ;
And, to preserve their sight more true,
Bathe still their eyes in their own dew.
So Magdalen in tears more wise
Dissolved those captivating eyes,
Whose liquid chains could flowing meet
To fetter her Redeemer's feet.
Not full sails hasting loaden home,
Nor the chaste lady's pregnant womb,
Nor Cynthia teeming shows so fair
As two eyes swollen with weeping are.
The sparkling glance that shoots desire,
Drenched in these waves, does lose its fire ;
Yea oft the Thunderer pity takes,
And here the hissing lightning slakes.
The incense was to Heaven dear,
Not as a perfume, but a tear ;
And stars shew lovely in the night,
But as they seem the tears of light.
Ope then, mine eyes, your double sluice,
And practise so your noblest use ;
For others too can see, or sleep,
But only human eyes can weep.
Now, like two clouds dissolving, drop,
And at each tear in distance stop ;
Now, like two fountains, trickle down ;
Now, like two floods, o'erturn and drown :
Thus let your streams o'erflow your springs,
Till eyes and tears be the same things ;
And each the other's difference bears,
These weeping eyes, those seeing tears.
siteless
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Australia
11/17/2010 05:32 PM
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siteless
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11/18/2010 05:06 AM
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Who Made The Law ?

Who made the Law that men should die in shadows ?
Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes ?
Who gave it forth that gardens should be bone-yards ?
Who spread the hills with flesh, and blood, and brains ?
Who made the Law ?

Who made the Law that Death should stalk the village ?
Who spake the word to kill among the sheaves,
Who gave it forth that death should lurk in hedgerows,
Who flung the dead among the fallen leaves ?
Who made the Law ?

But who made the Law ? the Trees shall whisper to him:
'See, see the blood - the splashes on our bark !'
Walking the meadows, he shall hear bones crackle,
And fleshless mouths shall gibber in silent lanes at dark.
Who made the Law ? At noon upon the hillside
His ears shall hear a moan, his cheeks shall feel a breath,
And all along the valleys, past gardens, croft, and homesteads,
HE who made the Law,
He who made the Law,
He who made the Law
shall walk along with Death.
WHO made the Law ?


Leslie Coulson


hf
siteless
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11/20/2010 08:08 AM
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" The grapes of blessings are never placed within your mouth; they are only placed within your reach."
:Stanley Anukege


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"Don't let your imagination be decided for you."
:Greg Sariti
siteless
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11/22/2010 04:18 PM
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..."When poetry misses that dimension of tragic reality, it misses at the same time both its meaning and its relevance. It is that effort toward the totality of being, seen in the embrace of the whole human existential odyssey, that we call liberation poetry. Such effort presumes that poetry and beauty can join together and be authentic only if they join in expressing the total reality, with all its imperfections and its craving for change.

Since the very consciousness of the poet is an on-going process that evolves in a given and changing environment, with all its baggage of despair, disillusionment, frustration, hope and pain, he or she is contaminated by both the practical structure and the ideological mind-frame of that environment. The poet’s desire for authentic expression and self-affirmation can be actualized only through an act of rebellion or, better still, an attitude of rejection, à son corps défendant, of the entire mode of valorization and gratification of the existing regime of oppression. This attitude is, of course, different from Dadaist’s definition of the authentic poet as someone who pulls his gun and randomly shoots at the crowd. The poetry of liberation believes that no rationale for an act of either folly, ignorance or evil can justify horror"...

:Numerus clausus


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siteless
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11/23/2010 11:22 PM
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I looked for a prayer, one blanket prayer, perhaps by James Joyce or C. S. Lewis, but they were all long winded, or dark, at a moment requiring the swiftness of a bird on the wing and the sunshine.

Perhaps one that was dropped like a handkerchief, blown through the air like a leaf, sweet and comforting; but I could not find one beyond a quiet hope, against all logic without a prayer.
siteless
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11/24/2010 10:41 PM
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A Godless moral compass?
:Touché Armada:siteless:


Hues of skyfire,
Silver Tipped,
lay across the afternoon.

Warmth.

Beams raining down like coins,
golden,
singing Solfeggio
saliently serenading flora,
preempting evening mists.

The kissing clouds ranging blankets a
malleable shroud; it's acquiescent touch to all faces.
To drench in paradoxal tears, perhaps waterfalls,
Unceremonial,,, Yet,
One of life’s essences that stirs our blood from congealing.

So detached from ecclesiastical laws thrown around
like falsities against falsities! frighteningly daunting, vermilion like,
designfuly injurious, sharp, accusing and bitter;
blitzkrieg onslaughts, making souls bleed.
Damning individuals at personal discretional will,
slamming down words like a gavel.
Oh what regard for fellow humanity
those pointing like Gods police,


At those,
Born to the
altar of life, sacrificed to breathing;
ship wreaked on the grey skies,
mangled on metallic clouds.

Built, that the grass is soft and green;
so to feel the difference between comforts underfoot;
Or, the chill of cold tombs of entrapped saints and sinners
beneath polished cold stone floors.

From times unappreciated
that the soil is warm in spring
and daffodils dance brightly and free.

I’ve never felt warmth from those stone floors
hiding from the suns honest unblinking glare,
Tucked beneath towering ceilings
in pathetic competition
with vast skies.



[link to www.youtube.com]
echolalia, just quiet echolalia.
siteless
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11/25/2010 05:42 PM
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Much Madness is divinest Sense
by Emily Dickinson

Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye
Much sense the starkest madness.
'T' is the MAJORITY
In this, as all, prevail
Assent and you are sane
Demur, you're straightway dangerous
And handled with a Chain.


[link to www.youtube.com]

A fuzzy fellow, without feet
:by Emily Dickinson

A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!
Of velvet, is his Countenance,
And his Complexion, dun!

Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!
Sometime, upon a bough,
From which he doth descend in plush
Upon the Passer-by!

All this in summer.
But when winds alarm the Forest Folk,
He taketh Damask Residence --
And struts in sewing silk!

Then, finer than a Lady,
Emerges in the spring!
A Feather on each shoulder!
You'd scarce recognize him!

By Men, yclept Caterpillar!
By me! But who am I,
To tell the pretty secret
Of the Butterfly!
siteless
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11/25/2010 08:17 PM
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Song of the Stars
WHEN the radiant morn of creation broke,
And the world in the smile of God awoke,
And the empty realms of darkness and death
Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath,
And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame
From the void abyss by myriads came,--
In the joy of youth as they darted away,
Through the widening wastes of space to play,
Their silver voices in chorus rung,
And this was the song the bright ones sung.
"Away, away, through the wide, wide sky,--
The fair blue fields that before us lie,--
Each sun, with the worlds that round him roll,
Each planet, poised on her turning pole;
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white,
And her waters that lie like fluid light.

"For the source of glory uncovers his face,
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space;
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides:
Lo, yonder the living splendours play;
Away, on our joyous path, away!

"Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar,
In the infinite azure, star after star,
How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass!
How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass!
And the path of the gentle winds is seen,
Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean.

"And see, where the brighter day-beams pour,
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower;
And the morn and eve, with their pomp of hues,
Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews;
And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground,
With her shadowy cone the night goes round!

"Away, away! in our blossoming bowers,
In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours,
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn,
See, Love is brooding, and Life is born,
And breathing myriads are breaking from night,
To rejoice like us, in motion and light.

"Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,
To weave the dance that measures the years;
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent,
To the farthest wall of the firmament,--
The boundless visible smile of Him,
To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim."

:Bryant, William Cullen, 1794-1878


















spiritchaser
siteless
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Australia
11/26/2010 07:50 AM
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Breaking rubies from their bitter skin, burst them between teeth, juice them over vodka and ice.

Cheers.
siteless
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Australia
11/27/2010 05:11 AM
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if you must serve up toast you should add cheese.

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stuffed with floaty fluff

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The Day After


for Joseph Lee Rykiel, who believed the end
was near, and so it came closer, drinking himself
into wild turkey oblivion, until he saw the light,
and it was the hydrogen bomb

------ ------ ------

To what shall I compare the earth the day after nuclear exchange?
Shall I begin by counting the warheads as grains of sand, soon
enough to fill all the beaches of cape cod?
Shall I begin by numbering the days to Armageddon and start
counting backwards until I fall asleep?
Shall I begin by saying that bomb now wears the disguise of
terrorist mailman, has all our addresses in his plutonium
backpocket?
Shall I say that unlike human being bomb has never wanted to be
alone, has gathered unto himself all the resources of
Europe America and the Soviet Union?
Shall I say bomb has no need of human fixtures the waterfaucet
the incandescent bulb the doorlatch, that he comes and
goes as he pleases among the heads of state?
Shall I say that it was bomb thought up the appropriations poured
the cement wired the electric circuits, that it is bomb
repairs the B-52 runways of nuclear oblivion?
Shall I say that bomb has been done without sexual relations, is
fruitful and multiplies upon the face of the earth and
is rising even now into the glory of the sky?
Shall I say then that bomb is god greater than Zeus Caesar Allah
and Jehovah rolled into one, exacts his tribute into
the hundreds of billions of dollars?
Shall I say bomb sits content in judgment at electromagnetic
vanishing point of history, with a wink of his cosmic
eye wishes us all good luck?
Shall I say bomb is eleventh and final plague upon the house of
humankind? Woe! Woe unto them who would step into
his way!
One trident submarine has more explosive power than all armies
in warfare history.
What plebiscite commissioned monstrosity?
What ivy league graduate signed his name to requisition form
of megadeath?
Who broke champagne bottle against hull of apocalypse sea
serpent?
What annapolis crackpot pandered congressional seal of approval?
What will good housekeeping have to say about the mess?
What crime great enough in the making to stir conscience of
nation?
Who woke up in the middle of the night with this bright idea
I want to know!
Shall I go on and say there is intelligent life in the universe
that knows nothing of these plans and lives in peace
O where are you now?
Shall I issue my appeal for help in some as yet unknown
galactic tongue?
Shall I say they might be able to teach an old and dying species
a new trick or two?
What odds, Jimmy the Greek?
Which roulette table, Las Vegas?
How to get from here to there?
Will secret service transport presidential entourage the day
after by rickshaw?
Will soviet politburo have to walk to work?
How many tibetans on their way to marketplace when the big one
rock 'n rolls the himalayas?
Will washington burn down the house to roast its russian bear?
How many flights down fire escape of empire state?
How far into the earth to protect the federal reserve board?
What ventilation system necessary for survival of human race?
O now I can foretell the silence of transatlantic cable.
O now I can foretell the yearning of silverware.
O now I can foretell the desperation of baby stroller.
O now I can hear the lament of whale song rolling over and over
in its oceanic grave.
O now I can hear the death knell of church bell over the
remaining outposts of the human race.
O now I can measure the hope the day after in a teaspoon.
President of USA is compulsive gambler with humanity.
President of USA is thermonuclear junkie.
US economy needs plutonium fix to get itself going in the
morning and out the door.
Secretary of Defense has needle marks from shooting Cesium 137.
White House staff gets its kicks snorting enriched uranium.
Congress speeding its brain on fissionable material.
Fortune 500 military-industrial complex has hopeless bellyache
from guzzling radioactive waste soon will be shitting
phosphorescent bricks!
Shall I now appeal to prurient interests and say that arms race
obscene, worthy of expulsion from granite halls of
senile and stammering Congress?
Shall I say forthright the National Security Council is drunk
with power and demand a sobriety test and mandatory
jail sentence?
Shall I introduce my disarmament idea to the intelligence
agencies as the next great emancipator?
What amber waves of grain?
What purple mountain majesties?
What heavenly tenderness take hold in the American heartland
to stem the tide of such madness?
O tell me how many generations henceforth can dance on the
nosecone of a ballistic missile?
O tell me could the great houdini get out of the straightjacket
of deterrence alive?
Does Europe like immortal Garbo just want to be left alone?
What riddle will sphinx think up the next time around?
How many nuclear wolf alerts before unbelievable happens?
What alice in wonderland dare come back through the looking
glass into this world the day after nuclear exchange?
Where will the spirit of christmas past go?
How far over the rainbow to escape the fallout?
O scarecrow of the impossible ground zero!
O tin man with your heart in your throat!
O cowardly lion! Who will be king now?
O Dorothy! How return home to irradiated Kansas?
O wizard! What wicked magician let this one out of the
trap door in Pandora's box?
I say now that it will take a million gandhis to bring peace
to planet.
I say now it will take a million einstein brains to outwit
diabolical brain of missile launch system.
I say now it will take four score and seven generations
to undo damage already done by bomb.
Hopelessness of the young thy name is bomb.
All the young born under the sign of bomb.
How to cope with premonition of the end of the world?
So long until tomorrow, Lowell Thomas!
One giant leap for mankind, Neil Armstrong!
A penny saved is a penny earned, Ben Franklin!
Some pigs are more equal than others, George Orwell!
Strawberry fields forever, Lennon and McCartney!
I shall return, Douglas MacArthur!
All the news that's fit to print!
Remember the Alamo!
Peace is at hand!
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!
Anchors aweigh, my boys, anchors aweigh!
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!



Provincetown, MA - Venice, CA
August 1983 - July 1984

:Michael Mayo




[link to www.youtube.com]


someday a crucible!
siteless
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Australia
11/27/2010 07:11 AM
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Summer Rain

What could be lovelier than to hear the summer rain
Cutting across the heat, as scythes cutting across grain?
Falling upon the steaming roof with sweet uproar,
Tapping and rapping wildly at the door?
No, do not lift the latch, but through the pane
We'll stand and watch the circus pageant
Of the rain,
And see the lightening, like a tiger, striped and dread,
And hear the thunder cross the shaken sky
With elephant tread.

- Elizabeth Coatsworth (1893-1986)


[link to www.youtube.com]

in a circle
[link to www.bom.gov.au]

hf












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Anonymous Coward
User ID: 1173420
Australia
11/27/2010 07:48 AM
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Pastel red to burgundy and spinifex to gold,
We've just come out of the Mulga where the plains forever roll.
And Albert Namatjira has painted all the scenes,
And a shower has changed the lustre of our land.
[Albert Namatjira
The first Aboriginal artist to put paint to paper and produce landscapes that weren't traditional dot paintings. He made us aware of the outback colours before we saw them with our own eyes.]

And it's raining on the Rock,
In a beautiful country,
And I'm proud to travel this big land,
As an Aborigine.
And it's raining on the Rock
What an almighty sight to see,
And I'm wishing and I'm dreaming that you were here with me.
[The Rock/Uluru
Formerly Ayers Rock - The spiritual centre of Australia.
Possessor of mythic powers.]

Everlasting daisies and a beautiful desert rose
Where does their beauty come from heaven knows.
I could ask the wedge-tail but he's away too high,
I wonder if he understands it's wonderful to fly.

It cannot be described with a picture,
The mesmerising colours of the Olgas.
Or the grandeur of the Rock
Uluru has power!

And it's raining on the Rock,
In a beautiful country,
And I'm proud to travel this big land,
As an Aborigine.
And it's raining on the Rock
What an almighty sight to see,
And I'm wishing and I'm dreaming that you were here with me.

:John Williamson

[link to oi54.tinypic.com]
siteless
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Australia
11/28/2010 12:53 AM
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"For your own good" is a persuasive argument that will eventually make a man agree to his own destruction.

Topic: Argument
Author: Janet Frame


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And metamorphosed Daphne
Now that she feels a laurel wants you to turn into a wind.

:Janet Frame Owls do cry

Oh the wind is lodged forever in the telegraph wire for crying there…
and the cross the crucifix of the leaning poles linked by the everlasting
wire of crying of the wind.

:Janet Frame Owls do cry

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....From the first place of liquid darkness, within the second place of air and light, I set down the following record with its mixture of fact and truths and memories of truths and its direction toward the Third Place, where the starting point is myth....
: Janet Frame


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bathe in the sounds of the waves of a nautilus lapping life.
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siteless
User ID: 1173420
Australia
11/28/2010 04:39 AM
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Re: The Nature of Daylight
...When the mind wanders and accidentally remembers a precious moment here and there, possibly manufactured; the thoughtless grip on lung on stomach on the path inside, it loosens much quicker today, time pays out kindly...


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