ama
Dark Initiate
I live, same as the next person.
Posts: 44
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Post by ama on Nov 22, 2014 17:03:38 GMT -5
"Finding something"-Jack Gilbert
I say moon is horses in the tempered dark, because horse is the closest I can get to it. I sit on the terrace of this worn villa the king's telegrapher built on the mountain that looks down on a blue sea and the small white ferry that crosses slowly to the next island each noon. Michiko is dying in the house behind me, the long windows open so I can hear the faint sound she will make when she wants watermelon to suck or so I can take her to a bucket in the corner of the high-ceilinged room which is the best we can do for a chamber pot. She will lean against my leg as she sits so as not to fall over in her weakness. How strange and fine to get so near to it. The arches of her feet are like voices of children calling in the grove of lemon trees, where my heart is as helpless as crushed birds.
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ama
Dark Initiate
I live, same as the next person.
Posts: 44
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Post by ama on Nov 22, 2014 17:10:34 GMT -5
"Keeping things whole" - Mark Strand
In a field I am the absence of field. This is always the case. Wherever I am I am what is missing.
When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the spaces where my body's been.
We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole.
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Nov 26, 2014 2:37:45 GMT -5
The Ballad Of The Lonely Masturbator
The end of the affair is always death. She's my workshop. Slippery eye, out of the tribe of myself my breath finds you gone. I horrify those who stand by. I am fed. At night, alone, I marry the bed. Finger to finger, now she's mine. She's not too far. She's my encounter. I beat her like a bell. I recline in the bower where you used to mount her. You borrowed me on the flowered spread. At night, alone, I marry the bed. Take for instance this night, my love, that every single couple puts together with a joint overturning, beneath, above, the abundant two on sponge and feather, kneeling and pushing, head to head. At night, alone, I marry the bed. I break out of my body this way, an annoying miracle. Could I put the dream market on display? I am spread out. I crucify. My little plum is what you said. At night, alone, I marry the bed. Then my black-eyed rival came. The lady of water, rising on the beach, a piano at her fingertips, shame on her lips and a flute's speech. And I was the knock-kneed broom instead. At night, alone, I marry the bed. She took you the way a women takes a bargain dress off the rack and I broke the way a stone breaks. I give back your books and fishing tack. Today's paper says that you are wed. At night, alone, I marry the bed. The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
by Anne Sexton
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Dec 2, 2014 2:07:56 GMT -5
You Don't Believe
You don't believe — I won't attempt to make ye: You are asleep — I won't attempt to wake ye. Sleep on! sleep on! while in your pleasant dreams Of Reason you may drink of Life's clear streams. Reason and Newton, they are quite two things; For so the swallow and the sparrow sings.
Reason says `Miracle': Newton says `Doubt.' Aye! that's the way to make all Nature out. `Doubt, doubt, and don't believe without experiment': That is the very thing that Jesus meant, When He said `Only believe! believe and try! Try, try, and never mind the reason why!'
by William Blake
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Dec 5, 2014 3:22:27 GMT -5
There's courage involved if you want to become truth. There is a broken-open place in a lover. Where are those qualities of bravery and sharp compassion in this group? What's the use of old and frozen thought? I want a howling hurt. This is not a treasury where gold is stored; this is for copper. We alchemists look for talent that can heat up and change. Lukewarm won't do. Halfhearted holding back, well-enough getting by? Not here.
~ Rumi
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Dec 5, 2014 3:35:55 GMT -5
Birdsong brings relief to my longing. I'm just as ecstatic as they are, but with nothing to say! Please universal soul, practice some song or something through me!
~ Rumi
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Dec 5, 2014 17:58:42 GMT -5
It is your turn now, you waited, you were patient. The time has come, for us to polish you. We will transform your inner pearl into a house of fire. You're a gold mine. Did you know that, hidden in the dirt of the earth? It is your turn now, to be placed in fire. Let us cremate your impurities.
~ Rumi
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Dec 11, 2014 12:43:32 GMT -5
The Sorrow Of Love
The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves, The brilliant moon and all the milky sky, And all that famous harmony of leaves, Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
A girl arose that had red mournful lips And seemed the greatness of the world in tears, Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;
Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves, A climbing moon upon an empty sky, And all that lamentation of the leaves, Could but compose man's image and his cry.
by William Butler Yeats
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Jan 31, 2015 2:13:23 GMT -5
Tithonus
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man— So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd To his great heart none other than a God! I ask'd thee, 'Give me immortality.' Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men, who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills, And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now, Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?
A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.
Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? 'The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.'
Ay me! ay me! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch—if I be he that watch'd— The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
Yet hold me not for ever in thine East: How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground; Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave: Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels.
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Note - Tennyson is one of my all time favorites but he is very long winded for poetry so I hesitate to post his work here. Most of it found online are excerpts only. I miss my old leather bound books.
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Jan 31, 2015 2:25:37 GMT -5
Ulysses
It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Feb 20, 2015 22:01:39 GMT -5
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That She, dear She, might take some pleasure of my pain, —Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain— I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay; Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows; And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite— "Fool!" said my Muse to me "look in thy heart, and write!"
~Sir Philip Sidney
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Post by Bastet on Feb 21, 2015 23:29:20 GMT -5
The Face of Love
Your face is the face of all the others before you and after you and your eyes calm as a blue dawn breaking time on time herdsman of the clouds sentinel of white iridescent beauty the landscape of your contesses mouth that I have explored keeps the secret of a smile like small white villages beyond the mountains and your heartbeats the measure of their ecstasy There is no question of beginning there is no question of possession there is no question of death face of my beloved the face of love
by Ingrid Jonker
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Jul 27, 2015 14:25:32 GMT -5
Deeper
He poured it in her ear, the idea
of him on top, slowing time down to enter her, convincing her that everything would stay between them, with his back to the air and her bottom on the mattress, their motions surrounded by the smell of love and fabric softener.
She wanted him behind her, a position of trust, tossing aside suspicions of what he might do behind her back and how easily he could hide who else he might be thinking of.
But he did not want to look over her shoulder,
he wanted to be in her eyes, moving his hips in slow clock- wise rotation,
making the cold stone expression on her face crumble. She'd been wearing her countenance that way
since the first day they met, after one lover refused to stay inside her and another was so indecisive, she was forced to mount the problem and dominate.
But no more.
And she cried because he did everything he said he would do to her but when he was finished, he did not leave.
~Quentin Huff
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Apr 6, 2016 15:57:23 GMT -5
Dead my old fine hopes And dry my dreaming but still... Iris, blue each spring ― Shushiki
All Heaven and Earth Flowered white obliterate... Snow...unceasing snow ― Hashin
Over the wintry forest, winds howl in rage with no leaves to blow. - Natsume Soseki
In the twilight rain these brilliant-hued hibiscus - A lovely sunset - Matsuo Bashō
A firefly flitted by: "Look!" I almost said but I was alone. - Tan Taigi
Wake, butterfly it's late- we've miles to go together. - Matsuo Bashō
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Post by vincentaugustemanet on Apr 8, 2016 14:05:16 GMT -5
"I loved you first: but afterwards your love" BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda. – Dante Ogni altra cosa, ogni pensier va fore, E sol ivi con voi rimansi amore. – Petrarca
I loved you first: but afterwards your love Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove. Which owes the other most? my love was long, And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong; I loved and guessed at you, you construed me And loved me for what might or might not be – Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong. For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’ With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done, For one is both and both are one in love: Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’ Both have the strength and both the length thereof, Both of us, of the love which makes us one.
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