"When Great Trees Fall When great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker down in tall grasses, and even elephants lumber after safety. When great trees fall in forests, small things recoil into silence, their senses eroded beyond fear. When great souls die, the air around us becomes light, rare, sterile. We breathe, briefly. Our eyes, briefly, see with a hurtful clarity. Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind words unsaid, promised walks never taken. Great souls die and our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us. Our souls, dependent upon their nurture, now shrink, wizened. Our minds, formed and informed by their radiance, fall away. We are not so much maddened as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of dark, cold caves. And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed.
"How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone,
I'm making a list I'm making a list of things I must say For politeness, And goodness and kindness and gentleness Sweetness and rightness: Hello Pardon me How are you? Excuse me Bless you May I? Thank you Goodbye If you know some that I've forgot, Please stick them in you eye!
Somewhere along the way we all go a bit mad. So burn, let go and dive into the horror, because maybe it's the chaos which helps us find where we belong.
She was broken from moment to moment, watching her world collide she felt lost inside herself. She fell apart for a passion that flamed beneath her. She waited and died a hundred times, it dripped from her pores. The moment she let go, she soared over the stillness like the star she was born to be.
Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.
"Ourchestra: So you haven't got a drum, just beat your belly. So I haven't got a horn-I'll play my nose. So we haven't any cymbals- We'll just slap our hands together, And though there may be orchestras That sound a little better With their fancy shiny instruments That cost an awful lot-
"Ennui Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe, designing futures where nothing will occur: cross the gypsy's palm and yawning she will still predict no perils left to conquer. Jeopardy is jejune now: naive knight finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard of, while blase princesses indict tilts at terror as downright absurd. The beast in Jamesian grove will never jump, compelling hero's dull career to crisis; and when insouciant angels play God's trump, while bored arena crowds for once look eager,
que ferais-je sans ce monde que ferais-je sans ce monde sans visage sans questions ou etre ne dure qu'un instant ou chaque instant verse dans le vide dans l'oubli d'avoir ete sans cette onde ou a la fin corps et ombre ensemble s'engloutissent que ferais-je sans ce silence gouffre des murmures haletant furieux vers le secours vers l'amour sans ce ciel qui s'eleve sur la poussieere de ses lests que ferais-je je ferais comme hier comme aujourd'hui regardant par mon hublot si je ne suis pas seul a errer et a virer loin de toute vie dans un espace pantin sans voix parmi les voix enfermees avec moi
Twas noontide of summer, And mid-time of night; And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, thro' the light Of the brighter, cold moon, 'Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold-too cold for me- There pass'd, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee, Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar, And dearer thy beam shall be; For joy to my heart Is the proud part Thou bearest in Heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light.
Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux; Retiens les griffes de ta patte, Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux, Meles de metal et d'agate. Lorsque mes doigts caressent a loisir Ta tete et ton dos elastique, Et que ma main s'enivre du plaisir De palper ton corps electrique, Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard, Comme le tien, aimable bete, Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard, Et, des pieds jusques a la tete, Un air subtil, un dangereux parfum, Nagent autour de son corps brun.
Que j'aime voir, chere indolente, De ton corps si beau, Comme une etoffe vacillante, Miroiter la peau! Sur ta chevelure profonde Aux acres parfums, Mer odorante et vagabonde Aux flots bleus et bruns, Comme un navire qui s'eveille Au vent du matin, Mon ame reveuse appareille Pour un ciel lointain. Tes yeux ou rien ne se revele De doux ni d'amer, Sont deux bijoux froids ou se melent L'or avec le fer. A te voir marcher en cadence, Belle d'abandon, On dirait un serpent qui danse Au bout d'un baton. Sous le fardeau de ta paresse Ta tete d'enfant Se balance avec la mollesse D'un jeune elephant, Et ton corps se penche et s'allonge Comme un fin vaisseau Qui roule bord sur bord et plonge Ses vergues dans l'eau. Comme un flot grossi par la fonte Des glaciers grondants, Quand l'eau de ta bouche remonte Au bord de tes dents, Je crois boire un vin de boheme, Amer et vainqueur, Un ciel liquide qui parseme D'etoiles mon coeur!
[L]ife is a phenomenon in need of criticism, for we are, as fallen creatures, in permanent danger of worshipping false gods, of failing to understand ourselves and misinterpreting the behaviour of others, of growing unproductively anxious or desirous, and of losing ourselves to vanity and error. Surreptitiously and beguilingly, then, with humour or gravity, works of art--novels, poems, plays, paintings or films--can function as vehicles to explain our condition to us. They may act as guides to a truer, more judicious, more intelligent understanding of the world.
Poems should be like pins which prick the skin of boredom and leave a glow equal in its pride to the gate of the sadist who stuck the pin and walked away
It is often said that what sets Shakespeare apart is his ability to illuminate the workings of the soul and so on, and he does that superbly, goodness knows, but what really characterizes his work - every bit of it, in poems and plays and even dedications, throughout every portion of his career - is a positive and palpable appreciation of the transfixing power of language. remains an enchanting work after four hundred years, but few could argue that it cuts to the very heart of human behaviour. What it does is take, and give, a positive satisfaction in the joyous possibilities of verbal expression.
When I no longer have your heart I will not request your body your presence or even your polite conversation. I will go away to a far country separated from you by the sea -- on which I cannot walk -- and refrain even from sending letters describing my pain.
"That's a stupid name! Whirly-gig is much better, I think. Who in their right mind would point at this thing and say, 'I'm going to fly in my Model-A1'.
"Robert Frost didn't like to explain his poems--and for good reason: to explain a poem is to suck the air from its lungs. This does not mean, however, that poets shouldn't talk about their poetry, or that one shouldn't ask questions about it. Rather, it suggests that any discussion of poetry should celebrate its ultimate ineffability and in so doing lead one to further inquiry. I think of that wonderful scene from Elie Wiesel's memoir, , where Mosche the Beadle of the local synagogue, in dialogue with the young, precocious author, explains: "Every question possesses a power that does not lie in the answer."
"Ich bin ein Stern am Firmament, der die Welt betrachtet, die Welt verachtet und in der eignen Glut verbrennt. Ich bin das Meer, das nachtens sturmt, das klagende Meer, das opferschwer zu alten Sunden neu turmt. Ich bin von Eurer Welt verbannt, vom Stolz erzogen, vom Stolz belogen, ich bin der Konig ohne Land. Ich bin die stumme Leidenschaft,
I do understand that they fall when I'm least able to pay attention because poems fall not from a tree, really, but from the richly pollinated boughs of an ordinary life, buzzing, as lives do, with clamor and glory. They are easy to miss but everywhere: poetry just is, whether we revere it or try to put it in prison. It is elementary grace, communicated from one soul to another.
Sous les ifs noirs qui les abritent, Les hiboux se tiennent ranges, Ainsi que des dieux etrangers, Dardant leur oeil rouge. Ils meditent. Sans remuer ils se tiendront Jusqu'a l'heure melancolique Ou, poussant le soleil oblique, Les tenebres s'etabliront. Leur attitude au sage enseigne Qu'il faut en ce monde qu'il craigne Le tumulte et le mouvement, L'homme ivre d'une ombre qui passe Porte toujours le chatiment D'avoir voulu changer de place.
We do not admire their president. We know why the White House is white. We do not find their children irresistible; We do not agree they should inherit the earth.
For the novelist or poet, for the scientist or artist, the question is not do ideas come from, the question is how they come. The is the mystery. The how is fragile.
Versifying left her cold. Poems were too close to prayer, rousing regrettable passions. Waiting for God to rescue you when it was up to you. Poetry and prayer put ideas in people's heads that got them killed, distracting them from the ruthless mechanism of the world.
He is wearing an old overcoat from the Salvation Army in Easton, Pennsylvania. It cost five bucks ten years ago, Louise remembers. Henry is not interested so much in the bargain, he wants ghosts in his clothes. He likes wondering what another man kept in those deep pockets. He writes poems about it.