Blogger Template by Blogcrowds.

Harmonie du Soir

Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige...
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!
— Charles Baudelaire
Now in English...
Evening Harmony
The season is at hand when swaying on its stem
Every flower exhales perfume like a censer;
Sounds and perfumes turn in the evening air;
Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo!

Every flower exhales perfume like a censer;
The violin quivers like a tormented heart;
Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo!
The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar.
The violin quivers like a tormented heart,
A tender heart, that hates the vast, black void!
The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar;
The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals...
A tender heart that hates the vast, black void
Gathers up every shred of the luminous past!
The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals...
Your memory in me glitters like a monstrance!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare


By Robert Frost

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last long aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

The Lost Mistress

Robert Browning

All's over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
--You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black.
Though I keep with heart's endeavour,--
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!--

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

A Sense of Absence

While this poet is not dead, as all the poets here are, she is talented. From the first line I was captured. Read and I think you'll see what I'm talking about.

A twitter friend, a fellow writer and a coffee obsessive buddy. And they said nothing good would come of Twitter.

A Sense of Absence

by Blue Summer

The moment’s full
of nearly dead deceptions,
and they are slick like glass, sharp
as shame in the morning, busy
lapping up their own intentions,
struggling to sustain
what cannot be salvaged.

Every word spoken
leaves a hole, a vacancy,
a thick absence.
And you stood—
And I stood—
but we were both
in different places, tangled
in that tight wire
neither of us could see—
but it’s the feeling that counts,
isn’t it?

In the end, it doesn’t matter,
not as I once thought. These openings
dissolve too quickly, and feelings
are inflamed, shut out, and shut off,
half their old size, bent
into nothing and beyond it.

Something’s slid shut, convincingly
uprooting things that were never there,
and I’m left
in the cold blue moonlight, eyes full
of deep faults and blooming ice,
stuck in a rift
of apprehensive disappointment,
heartsick with these dwindling promises
and raging indifference.

At last,
I am made of terror, but the red, wincing fear,
clawed and bloody, is as untouchable
as a myth, but as abrupt
as a broken sentence. We have been
stripped out
of ourselves and each other,
and there’s no untangling
the bright monster who killed us both.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

The Haunted Place

The Haunted Place
by Edgar Allan Poe

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch
Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
\(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

My Spaniards hang with eachother, painter Dali and Lorca had a unconventional realationship. Like the stick that holds up the young tree, they held eachother up. Federico García Lorca is possibly the most important Spanish poet and dramatist of his time. Now read this with the famous spaniard lisp.*Grin*

Arbolé, Arbolé . . .
Federico García Lorca

Arbolé, arbolé,
seco y verdí.

La niña del bello rostro
está cogiendo aceituna.
El viento, galán de torres,
la prende por la cintura.
Pasaron cuatro jinetes
sobre jacas andaluzas,
con trajes de azul y verde,
con largas capas oscuras.
"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.
Pasaron tres torerillos
delgaditos de cintura,
con trajes color naranja
y espadas de plata antigua.
"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.
Cuando la tarde se puso
morada, con lux difusa,
pasó un joven que llevaba
rosas y mirtos de luna.
"Vente a Granada, muchacha."
Y la niña no lo escucha.
La niña del bello rostro
sigue cogiendo aceituna,
con el brazo gris del viento
ceñido por la cintura.
Arbolé, arbolé.
Seco y verdé.
Y ahora en inglés para los que no leen español, disfruta de.
Translated by William Logan

Tree, tree
dry and green.

The girl with the pretty face
is out picking olives.
The wind, playboy of towers,
grabs her around the waist.
Four riders passed by
on Andalusian ponies,
with blue and green jackets
and big, dark capes.
"Come to Cordoba, muchacha."
The girl won't listen to them.
Three young bullfighters passed,
slender in the waist,
with jackets the color of oranges
and swords of ancient silver.
"Come to Sevilla, muchacha."
The girl won't listen to them.
When the afternoon had turned
dark brown, with scattered light,
a young man passed by, wearing
roses and myrtle of the moon.
"Come to Granada, inuchacha."
And the girl won't listen to him.
The girl with the pretty face
keeps on picking olives
with the grey arm of the wind
wrapped around her waist.
Tree, tree
dry and green.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)


And, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky east
A white and shapeless mass.


Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

As The Sparrow

by Charles Bukowski

To give life you must take life,
and as our grief falls flat and hollow
upon the billion-blooded sea
I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed
with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creatures
lengthily dead and rioting against surrounding scenes.
Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow
did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be
young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.
I hated you when it would have taken less courage
to love.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

L'Amour et le Crâne
de Charles Baudelaire

Vieux cul-de-lampe

L'Amour est assis sur le crâne
De l'Humanité,
Et sur ce trône le profane,
Au rire effronté,

Souffle gaiement des bulles rondes
Qui montent dans l'air,
Comme pour rejoindre les mondes
Au fond de l'éther.

Le globe lumineux et frêle
Prend un grand essor,
Crève et crache son âme grêle
Comme un songe d'or.

J'entends le crâne à chaque bulle
Prier et gémir:—
«Ce jeu féroce et ridicule,
Quand doit-il finir?

Car ce que ta bouche cruelle

Eparpille en l'air,

Monstre assassin, c'est ma cervelle,

Mon sang et ma chair!»

Et maintenant dans l'anglais pour mes amis qui ne lisent pas Français!

Cupid and the Skull
by Charles Baudelaire and translated by William Aggeler

An Old Lamp Base

Cupid is seated on the skull
Of Humanity;
On this throne the impious one
With the shameless laugh

Is gaily blowing round bubbles
That rise in the air
As if they would rejoin the globes
At the ether's end.

The sphere, fragile and luminous,
Takes flight rapidly,
Bursts and spits out its flimsy soul
Like a golden dream.

I hear the skull groan and entreat
At every bubble:
"When is this fierce, ludicrous game
To come to an end?

Because what your pitiless mouth
Scatters in the air,
Monstrous murderer — is my brain,
My flesh and my blood!"

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) was a french poet--some argue one of the greatest french poets of the 19Th century-- who was given the surnom of 'the father of modern criticism,' shocked the Conservatives with his unveiled view of lust and decay. Baudelaire was the first to assimilate modern, artificial, and decadent--was on the side of artificiality, saying that vices are natural and essentially selfish where virtue are artificial because one put forth an conscious effort and restraint in order to be good. To Baudelaire the snobbishly controlled and the dandy were heroes and the ultimate proof of meaningless existence. He was a gentleman who never became vulgar and remained a cool collected smile.
His life was not an easy one, death, sadness and an estranged relationship with his mother after her third marriage, he was sent to boarding school and was expelled. His true passion since childhood was to live by his pen but still he enrolled in Law school, around this time he became addicted to Opium and later contracted lethal syphilis. His debts piled higher and higher around him and he left his studies and never returned.
From 1852 to 1865 he was occupied in translating Edgar Allan Poe's writings. In Poe, Baudelaire found a kindred spirit (Now you probably know why I like him. Anyone who loves Poe is aces in my book). When his Les Fleurs du Mal(The Flowers of Bad) came out all the people who had a hand in the work- author, printer, and publisher -were prosecuted and found guilty of obscenity and blasphemy. In this controversial book he transfers his guilt, sins and lies on the reader making them feel just as the poet felt. Waving the truth before their eyes and shedding the blinders with words, what powerful words, "If poison, arson, sex, narcotics, knives / have not yet ruined us and stitched their quick, / loud patterns on the canvas of our lives, / it is because our souls are still too sick."

With out further ado...the poem!

Fleurs du mal--La Fontaine de Sang

Charles Baudelaire

Il me semble parfois que mon sang coule à flots,

Ainsi qu'une fontaine aux rythmiques sanglots.

Je l'entends bien qui coule avec un long murmure,

Mais je me tâte en vain pour trouver la blessure.

À travers la cité, comme dans un champ clos,

Il s'en va, transformant les pavés en îlots,

Désaltérant la soif de chaque créature,

Et partout colorant en rouge la nature.

J'ai demandé souvent à des vins captieux

D'endormir pour un jour la terreur qui me mine;

Le vin rend l'oeil plus clair et l'oreille plus fine!

J'ai cherché dans l'amour un sommeil oublieux;

Mais l'amour n'est pour moi qu'un matelas d'aiguilles

Fait pour donner à boire à ces cruelles filles!

and now in english, but I have to say the words loose a bit in translation...

Flowers of Evil--The Fountain of Blood
Charles Baudelaire's words translated by Roy Campbell

My blood in waves seems sometimes to be spouting

As though in rhythmic sobs a fountain swooned.

I hear its long, low, rushing sound till, doubting,

I feel myself all over for the wound.

Across the town, as in the lists of battle,

It flows, transforming paving stones to isles,

Slaking the thirst of creatures, men, and cattle,

And colouring all nature red for miles.

Sometimes I've sought relief in precious wines

To lull in me the fear that undermines,

But found they sharpened every sense the more.

I've also sought forgetfulness in lust,

But love's a bed of needles, and they thrust

To give more drink to each rapacious whore.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

A Dead Rose
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

O Rose! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,---
Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,---
If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,---
If shining now,---with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,---
If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,---
If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee.

The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,---
If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,---
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!---
Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

My one, the sister without peer,
The handsomest of all!
She looks like the rising morning star
At the start of a happy year.
Shining bright, fair of skin,
Lovely the look of her eyes,
Sweet the speech of her lips,
She has not a word too much.
Upright neck, shining breast,
Hair true lapis lazuli;
Arms surpassing gold,
Fingers like lotus buds.
Heavy thighs, narrow waist,
Her legs parade her beauty;
With graceful step she treads the ground,
Captures my heart by her movements.
She causes all men's necks
To turn about to see her;
Joy has he whom she embraces,
He is like the first of men!
When she steps outside she seems
Like that the Sun!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

Oh, the Places You'll Go! (not in its entirety)
Dr. Seuss
Except when you don' t
Because, sometimes, you won't.
I'm sorry to say so but, sadly, it's true and Hang-ups can happen to you.
You can get all hung upin a prickle-ly perch.And your gang will fly on.You'll be left in a Lurch.
You'll come down from the Lurch with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,that you'll be in a Slump.
And when you're in a Slump,you're not in for much fun.Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.
You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked.
A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out?
Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose?
How much can you win?
And IF you go in, should you turn left or right...or right-and-three-quarters?
Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.
You can get so confused that you'll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place...
...for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to goor the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a
Yes or a No or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite or waiting around for
Friday night or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil, or a Better Break or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.
NO!That's not for you!
Somehow you'll escape all that waiting and staying.
You'll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

Sometimes Dr. Seuss just has all the words. From the very first time I learned to read this Doctor was my go to guy. One fish, two fish, blue fish, green fish--pigtails and hot pink converse under the plum tree. Oh, the Places You'll Go!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

I carry your heart with me

I carry your heart with me(I carry it in
my heart)I am never without it(anywhere
I go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
I fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)I want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart(I carry it in my heart)

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

Lucifer in Starlight
George Meredith (1828–1909)

ON a starr’d night Prince Lucifer uprose.
Tir’d of his dark dominion swung the fiend
Above the rolling ball in cloud part screen’d,
Where sinners hugg’d their spectre of repose.
Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.
And now upon his Western wing he lean’d,
Now his huge bulk o’er Africa careen’d,
Now the black planet shadow’d Arctic snows.
Soaring through wider zones that prick’d his scars
With memory of the old revolt from Awe,
He reach’d a middle height, and at the stars,
Which are the brain of heaven, he look’d, and sank.
Around the ancient track march’d, rank on rank,
The army of unalterable law.

We all know of a little disowned Lucifer, once and angle, but banished from Heaven to the deep pits of Hell. This poems refers to the devil as "in starlight", meaning he must raise to the place where stars are visible--earth. He delights in the vast mistakes of his future inhabitant, minions, whispering in their ears tales of evil. We all feel that tug to do wrong, some stronger than others, that is what George Meredith meant by in the starlight. Humans walk the earth and though Satan can't physically step foot on our ground he works through us and our know vices. This poem paints the picture of the devil as a fiend and plotter, you can almost see him salivating over the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve (the first sinner, therefore their children are also born into sin) as they live their lives. Towards the end it states that while peering through the "black planet" at the inhospitable places in the world, the barren desert and frozen tundra, he is reminded of what he can no longer have, life in Heaven. He knows his place is in hell and any attempt to ascend would be pointless, however as he gazes at his old home Lucifer desires it, so close but just out of reach. As he starts to rises he feel the strength of "unalterable law", a force of good blocking him, sending he back to the fiery depths of the underworld.
While this poem is erratic, it shows the Devil has only one home...Hell. Forgive the doom topic of the devil, but my High School Lit book almost killed me today, this was the poem it opened to. I think that Monsignor Carroll would be proud of my grasp of this poem, give me a break-- I went to Catholic school.
Have a lovely Saturday!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

Sonnet 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

Venus and Adonis

I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my dear;
Feed where thou wilt, on the mountians or in dale;
Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

Yes, that Shakespeare class turned me from a girl who kind of got what he was saying to the girl who reads his words and thinks 'If only he were alive today, I'd so make that man mine!'

Happy sunday my friends!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

J.R.R Tolkien

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them?

To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd.

To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action. -Soft you now!

The fair Ophelia!

Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember'd.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

The Sun Rising
by John Donne

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."
She's all states, and all princes I;
Nothing else is;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

by Lord Byron

AND thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov'd, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

The Triple Fool
by John Donne

I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry ;
But where's that wise man, that would not be I,
If she would not deny ?
Then as th' earth's inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea water's fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my pains
Through rhyme's vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain ;
And, by delighting many, frees again
Grief, which verse did restrain.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when 'tis read.
Both are increasèd by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fools, do so grow three.
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

I have been feeling increasingly poetic as of late, as at any moment I'll begin to spout sonnets. So in order to spare my "Killing Moon" I'll settle for posting a bit of poetry. Enjoy the master of the arts, his expert words and his lovely visage to the left hand side.(What a stud!)

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

The Sleeper

Poems have the tendency of stick with me, like melted taffy on your fingers they stay with me till the next one finds me. For some time now this one has been hanging around. Like all of the words written by Mister Poe these paint a picture too hard to classify with words. Enjoy!!!

The Sleeper by Edgar Allen Poe

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin molders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!–and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

O, lady bright! can it be right-
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully–so fearfully-
Above the closed and fringed lid'
Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps!
Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps!
Oh, may her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft has flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back
,Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals-
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone-
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

All morning in the strawberry field

They talked about the Russians.

Squatted down between the rows

We listened.

We heard the head woman say,

'Bomb them off the map.'

Horseflies buzzed,

paused and stung.

And the taste of strawberries

Turned thick and sour.

Mary said slowly,

'I've got a fella Old enough to go.

If anything should happen...'

The sky was high and blue.

Two children laughed at tagIn the tall grass,

Leaping awkward and long-legged

Across the rutted road.

The fields were full of bronzed young men

Hoeing lettuce, weeding celery.

'The draft is passed,' the woman said.

'We ought to have bombed them long ago.'

'Don't,' pleaded the little girl

With blond braids.

Her blue eyes swam with vague terror.

She added petishly, 'I can't see why

You're always talking this way...

''Oh, stop worrying, Nelda,

'Snapped the woman sharply.

She stood up, a thin commanding figure

In faded dungarees.

Businesslike she asked us,

'How many quarts?'

She recorded the total in her notebook,

And we all turned back to picking.

Kneeling over the rows,

We reached among the leaves

With quick practiced hands,

Cupping the berry protectively before

Snapping off the stem

Between thumb and forefinger.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare


So I have been neglecting this blog like a middle child, but I have a poem for you lovely people kind enough to follow. Enjoy!

You think you know; but not a soul does

Hiding in the shadows and under dust

Gliding past you unnoticed

Biding it's time , waiting in silence

Tormenting you with, night after night

To face the lurking beast; your heart's desire

Sliping from your bed at God's knows what hour

Banish the darkness with the filcker of light

but in that corner lies nothing more than the reflection of fire

Yield your search and curiosity retire

No good can come from seeing that not meant for your eyes

The sun is rising and with it goes your chance to catch

That beast, no man was ever meant to catch.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimneypots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That times resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

You tossed a blanket from the bed
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

T.S. Eliot can be difficult to understand and I thank my teacher for breaking it down for us. So, I will be nice as well and share the knowledge,Here we go.
The poem is window's view into the life of a person living in the crumbling impersonal modern city; with its dirty streets and spiritually exhausted people. At the time when it was written the world was in term oil, the first World War and economic depression(sound familiar?) left artist, writers, and people in general with a sense of misdirection and despair. He describes the city as being in a state of winter losing all its direction and vigo, in most cases winter is viewed as a time where things-life if you will- are at a stand still, no growth. The image of burnt out cigarettes suggest a over all lack of energy, fading away in the people and their souls. He goes on to draw a line between modern life and a person hungover, say that they are more or less the same. Life is a little hungover- that image of sickness and splitting head ache and gut churning-paints society and life in the most grim picture. In the last stanza we, the most shocking imagery yet, we are being showed the repetitive nature within society- the mundane things that are being done by everyone- that complacent attitude that has killed the spirit of the people in this modern city.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

An Irish Airman forsees His Death

by William Bulter Yeats

Major Robert Gregory, a young Irish artist who was the son of Yeat's friend Lady Augusta Gregory, was killed during World War I while flying over Italy as a member of England's Royal Flying Corps. Gregory's death inspired Yeats to write this poem.

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of behind,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

This poem is about coming to terms with impending and inevitable death. A pilot in his plane soaring among the clouds reflecting on his fate. He knows what is awaiting him, death, yet he does not hate people who will bring him to his death. He does not love the country he is protecting, no one is forcing him and he knows that his death will have no effect on his country. But amidst the clouds and sky he find peace and comfort in his death. It is pointless to talk about the future that might be and a vast waste if breath to think of the past. He is certain that he is going to die, there is no hope. So he does the only thing he can do-values the present- deals only with the now.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

Fire and Ice

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great And would suffice.

Robert Frost

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

Romance, from the man who knows romance and it's fleeting ways. Enjoy and treasure it whilst it's within reach, for when it's gone at least you'll have the memory

Edgar Allan Poe

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been- a most familiar bird-
Taught me my alphabet to say-
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child- with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings-
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away- forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

On the Beach at Night by Walt Whitman

ON the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.

Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.

Weep not, child,Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.

I have a certain soft spot for Walt Whitman, I don't know why, I just know that I so.
"Weep not my child" brighter days are just beyond the horizon.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

A Cliff Dwelling

There sandy seems the golden sky
And golden seems the sandy plain.
No habitation meets the eye
Unless in the horizon rim,
Some halfway up the limestone wall,
That spot of black is not a stain
Or shadow, but a cavern hole,
Where someone used to climb and crawl
To rest from his besetting fears.
I see the callus on his soul
The disappearing last of him
And of his race starvation slim,
Oh years ago - ten thousand years

Tell me what you think.

"Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper."-Robert Frost

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."
- William Shakespeare

Alfred Tennyson

Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal by Alfred Tennyson

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 milkwhite peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danae 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.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

Fear No More

Fear No More, I chose this poem for a very specific reason, fear is a theme often weaved through out literature, music,art,movies and our lives. Fear is gripping and cementing...holding on like the clutches of a dead man. Fear of being rejected, fear of being alone, fear of dying, fear losing-we face Fear every day. Now I have been having(and am still continuing to have) these really horrible dreams where I am...left alone...see people dying...losing my friends and loved ones...and being rejected by the killer. Last night was particularity bad, my parents died in my subconscious, not something you want to see, but I was overwhelmed this morning by this fear that somehow it came true. I never realized,until now, that fear is the driving emotion behind many of our decisions.
Fear No More.
Besides it's a lovely day for Shakespeare--Yes! I like it Shakespeare Saturday!
Who doesn't love "Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble. "- Macbeth
Fear No More
William Shakespeare

Fear no more the heat o' the sun;
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.

Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

I'm a bit more hyper at the moment---So here is a lame lame poem...straight from me to you
Steelers Love
Melissa Reyes
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm excited for the Super Bowl
How 'bout you?

My Steelers are gonna kick your butt
and make you bleed
A perfect Sunday
what more could you want or need?

Ha ha, I know I promised not "Roses are Red Violets are Blue" but I couldn't help it....I'm sooo excited for the Super Bowl you really have no idea.I almost wish I lived in Pittsburgh-I said almost- simply to be in the Steelers atmosphere.

Brown Penny

Brown Penny
William Butler Yeats

I whispered, ‘I am too young,’
And then, ‘I am old enough’;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
‘Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.’
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

Les Feuilles Mortes

Jacques Prévert

Oh! je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes

Des jours heureux où nous étions amis

En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle,

Et le soleil plus brûlant qu’aujourd’hui

Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle

Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié...

Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,

Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi

Et le vent du nord les emporte

Dans la nuit froide de l’oubli.

Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié

La chanson que tu me chantais.

C’est une chanson qui nous ressemble

Toi, tu m’aimais et je t’aimais

Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble

Toi qui m’aimais, moi qui t’aimais

Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment

Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit

Et la mer efface sur le sable

Les pas des amants désunis.

Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,

Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi

Mais mon amour silencieux et fidèle

Sourit toujours et remercie la vie

Je t’aimais tant, tu étais si jolie,

Comment veux-tu que je t’oublie?

En ce temps-là, la vie était plus belle

Et le soleil plus brûlant qu’aujourd’hui

Tu étais ma plus douce amie

Mais je n’ai que faire des regrets

Et la chanson que tu chantais

Toujours, toujours je l’entendrai!

Dead Leaves

Oh, I would like you so much to remember

Those happy days when we were friends, and how

Life in those times was more lovely and tender,

Even the sun shone more brightly than now.

Dead leaves are gathering as in December

You see how one never forgets...

Dead leaves are gathering as in December,

Just like the memories and the regrets.

And then the north wind comes and sweeps them

Into oblivion’s icy night.

You see how I never forgot

That old song that you sang for me.

A song like us, birds of a feather,

You loving me, me loving you,

And we lived happily together,

You loving me, me loving you.

But life tears apart gentle lovers

Who quietly obey their heart,

And the sea invades the sand and covers

The footsteps of those torn apart.

Dead leaves are gathering, dead leaves are piling

Up just like memories and like regrets.

But still my love goes on quietly smiling

Thankful for life and for all that it gets.

I loved you so, you were ever so lovely,

How can I forget? Tell me how!

Life in those times was more sweet and beguiling,

Even the sun shone more brightly than now.

You were my most sweet friend and lover

,But regret is all that I can do,

And I’ll keep on hearing the song

That I used to hear sung by you.

In my french class we had this section in the middle of the chapter, a section ment to unfold the French culture before our very eyes-naturally we all hated this part because it ment one thing. Reading aloud in a French accent trying desperatley to sound like a native but sounding hoplessly and tragically American. My french teacher Mrs.Bonneville spoke french perfectly so it was pretty imtimidaing when she would turn to me and say in that lovely french accent "Melissa Faire vous a lu pour nous. " Anyway this poem was one of the many many things I had to read and I was surprised that I understood exactly what I was reading as if I knew the words for my heart. The poem was a song and was performed by slew of frenchies and non-frenchies a like , such as Yves Montand and Andrea Bocelli. To me this poem speaks volumes of Love and how things don't really turn out the way you would like them to, and no matterhow hard you try nothing can erase the love that was felt so long. Personally, I think it is very tragic to not be able to forget the pain of living without someone, but then again the memories can be of some confort-I suppose. Everytime I read this poem I think of what is was like to discover my love of the french language - and that after much practice I now sound less like an American visiting and more like an American that has been living in France for year or so.


Avoir un Mercredi merveilleux!!!

I discovered Sylvia Plath quite some time ago (err I think was 12 or had just turned 13). I read the Bell Jar and was convinced of her brilliance. On the outside she was composed, perfect student and daughter but on the inside a war of pain was raging. She kept in hidden under the mask of perfection but soon the pain crushed her and she decided to overdose on sleeping pills(she wasn't successful in suicide--this time.) I felt an instant kinship with her, at the time I was going through something similar. Hiding feelings from people for their and my benefit,we will leave it at that. It sounds a bit odd to say that the Bell Jar helped me heal after such a great lose but it's true.
I will always think of Sylvia as the person who pulled me out of the hell that is losing a loved one....this is one of my favorite Plath poems.

All the Dead Dears

Sylvia Plath

In the Archaeological Museum in Cambridge is a stone

coffin of the fourth century A.D. containing the skeletons

of a woman, a mouse and a shrew. The ankle-bone of the

woman has been slightly gnawed.

Rigged poker -stiff on her back

With a granite grin

This antique museum-cased lady

Lies, companioned by the gimcrack

Relics of a mouse and a shrew

That battened for a day on her ankle-bone.

These three, unmasked now, bear

Dry witness

To the gross eating game

We'd wink at if we didn't hear

Stars grinding, crumb by crumb,

Our own grist down to its bony face.

How they grip us through think and thick,

These barnacle dead!

This lady here's no kin

Of mine, yet kin she is: she'll suck

Blood and whistle my narrow clean

To prove it.

As I think now of her hand,
From the mercury-backed glass

Mother, grandmother, greatgrandmother

Reach hag hands to haul me in,

And an image looms under the fishpond surface

Where the daft father went down

With orange duck-feet winnowing this hair ---

All the long gone darlings: They

Get back, though, soon,

Soon: be it by wakes, weddings,

Childbirths or a family barbecue:

Any touch, taste, tang's

Fit for those outlaws to ride home on,

And to sanctuary: usurping the armchair

Between tick

And tack of the clock, until we go,

Each skulled-and-crossboned Gulliver

Riddled with ghosts, to lie

Deadlocked with them, taking roots as cradles rock.

Have a Poetic Friday

Sky, another Sky!

There is another sky by Emily Dickinson

There is another sky,

Ever serene and fair,

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there;

Never mind faded forests, Austin,

Never mind silent fields -

Here is a little forest,

Whose leaf is ever green;

Here is a brighter garden,

Where not a frost has been;

In its unfading flowers

I hear the bright bee hum:

Prithee, my brother,

Into my garden come!

Ponder this...Come to a place where nothing has been harmed, nothing ruined by sadness or silent questions, come here to my garden where all is well and nothing can hurt us.

Have a poetic day!

Dream with in a Dream
Edgar Allen Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allen Poe is known for his bizarre and somewhat morbid views of the world. Most of his work hints to a greater and darker force- happiness is present but not for long. This is understandable from what we know of his deeply dark depressing and lonely life.
But can you not agree that our lives are passing us by with each passing minute. Powerless are we to stop it-to save it from the waves of uncertainty, happiness and that feeling of having things slip from our grasps? Edgar Allen Poe wasn't crazy, just being honest to his true feelings...what do you thing about this poem? About the fleeting feeling of Life?

This blog was inspired by the 1989's Dead Poets Society, a movie about an English Professor John Keating (Robin Williams) who inspires his students to a love of poetry ,to seize the day and to disrupt the status quot. Keating tells them about the Dead Poets Society when he was a member and his students decide to start the club again...meeting at midnight sitting by a cave near a pond and recite poetry.
This will be like the cave, accept for the fact that it is on the Internet and not in an actual cave! This blog will be a metaphorical cave...recite poetry, write poetry, and learn to love poetry!
SAPPY LOVE DRENCHED..."roses are red violets are blue"...WILL NOT APPEAR ON THIS BLOG!
Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900. 193.
O Captain! My Captain!
1O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

2O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

3My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead

Newer Posts Home