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  1. #191
    Starcrossed Seafarer Aquarelle's Avatar
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    Jun 2010


    ^^Tennyson, "Sir Galahad"?
    Masquerading as a normal person day after day is exhausting.

    My blog:
    TypeC: Adventures of an Introvert

  2. #192
    Pose! Salt n' pepper's Avatar
    Join Date
    Apr 2009


    John Keats - Ode on a Grecian Urn

    it's too long to post in here, but here's my favourite part:

    "When old age shall this generation waste,
    Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
    'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
    Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'"

  3. #193
    Senior Member KDude's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2010


    Quote Originally Posted by Aquarelle99 View Post
    ^^Tennyson, "Sir Galahad"?
    Oops yeah, didn't put the title..

  4. #194
    Join Date
    Jan 2010


    Stephen Crane

    In the Desert

    In the desert
    I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
    Who, squatting upon the ground,
    Held his heart in his hands,
    And ate of it.
    I said, "Is it good, friend?"
    "It is bitter – bitter", he answered,
    "But I like it
    Because it is bitter,
    And because it is my heart.
    Last edited by Within; 08-11-2010 at 06:02 PM. Reason: FUCK YOU.

  5. #195
    now! in shell form INA's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008


    ^ Popular poem. 3 times posted and counting . . .
    hoarding time and space
    A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us. To live is to be slowly born.
    — Antoine de Saint-Exupery

  6. #196
    Senior Member mr.awesome's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2010


    listen :]

    my etsy Morphochroma

    I know you think I'm crazy,
    but most people they can't tell.

  7. #197
    meh Salomé's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2008
    5w4 sx/sp


    "To Earthward"
    by Robert Frost (1874-1963)

    Love at the lips was touch
    As sweet as I could bear;
    And once that seemed too much;
    I lived on air

    That crossed me from sweet things,
    The flow of—was it musk
    From hidden grapevine springs
    Down hill at dusk?

    I had the swirl and ache
    From sprays of honeysuckle
    That when they’re gathered shake
    Dew on the knuckle.

    I craved strong sweets, but those
    Seemed strong when I was young;
    The petal of the rose
    It was that stung.

    Now no joy but lacks salt
    That is not dashed with pain
    And weariness and fault;
    I crave the stain

    Of tears, the aftermark
    Of almost too much love,
    The sweet of bitter bark
    And burning clove.

    When stiff and sore and scarred
    I take away my hand
    From leaning on it hard
    In grass and sand,

    The hurt is not enough:
    I long for weight and strength
    To feel the earth as rough

    To all my length.
    Quote Originally Posted by Ivy View Post
    Gosh, the world looks so small from up here on my high horse of menstruation.

  8. #198
    LL P. Stewie Beorn's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2008


    A Timbered Choir
    by Wendell Berry

    Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling,
    for I saw the last known landscape destroyed for the sake
    of the objective, the soil bludgeoned, the rock blasted.
    Those who had wanted to go home would never get there now.

    I visited the offices where for the sake of the objective the planners planned
    at blank desks set in rows. I visited the loud factories
    where the machines were made that would drive ever forward
    toward the objective. I saw the forest reduced to stumps and gullies; I saw
    the poisoned river, the mountain cast into the valley;
    I came to the city that nobody recognized because it looked like every other city.
    I saw the passages worn by the unnumbered
    footfalls of those whose eyes were fixed upon the objective.

    Their passing had obliterated the graves and the monuments
    of those who had died in pursuit of the objective
    and who had long ago forever been forgotten, according
    to the inevitable rule that those who have forgotten forget
    that they have forgotten. Men, women, and children now pursued the objective
    as if nobody ever had pursued it before.

    The races and the sexes now intermingled perfectly in pursuit of the objective.
    the once-enslaved, the once-oppressed were now free
    to sell themselves to the highest bidder
    and to enter the best paying prisons
    in pursuit of the objective, which was the destruction of all enemies,
    which was the destruction of all obstacles, which was the destruction of all objects,
    which was to clear the way to victory, which was to clear the way to promotion, to salvation, to progress,
    to the completed sale, to the signature
    on the contract, which was to clear the way
    to self-realization, to self-creation, from which nobody who ever wanted to go home
    would ever get there now, for every remembered place
    had been displaced; the signposts had been bent to the ground and covered over.

    Every place had been displaced, every love
    unloved, every vow unsworn, every word unmeant
    to make way for the passage of the crowd
    of the individuated, the autonomous, the self-actuated, the homeless
    with their many eyes opened toward the objective
    which they did not yet perceive in the far distance,
    having never known where they were going,
    having never known where they came from.
    Take the weakest thing in you
    And then beat the bastards with it
    And always hold on when you get love
    So you can let go when you give it

  9. #199
    Sugar Hiccup OrangeAppled's Avatar
    Join Date
    Mar 2009
    4w5 sp/sx
    IEI Ni


    Just in case this thread didn't have enough Neruda already

    Twenty Love Poems & a Song of Despair: XV

    I like for you to be still; it is as though you were absent,
    and you hear from me far away and my voice does not touch you.
    It seems as though your eyes had flown away
    and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.

    All things are filled with my soul
    you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
    You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
    and you are like the word Melancholy.

    I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
    It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
    And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
    Let me come to be still in your silence.

    And let me talk to you with your silence
    that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
    You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
    Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

    I like for you to be still; it is as though you were absent,
    distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
    One word then, one smile is enough.
    And I am happy - happy that it's not true.


    I can't decide which translation I like better though....


    I like you calm, as if you were absent,
    and you hear me far-off, and my voice does not touch you.
    It seems that your eyelids have taken to flying:
    it seems that a kiss has sealed up your mouth.

    Since all these things are filled with my spirit,
    you come from things, filled with my spirit.
    You appear as my soul, as the butterfly’s dreaming,
    and you appear as Sadness’s word.

    I like you calm, as if you were distant,
    you are a moaning, a butterfly’s cooing.
    You hear me far-off, my voice does not reach you.
    Let me be calmed, then, calmed by your silence.

    Let me commune, then, commune with your silence,
    clear as a light, and pure as a ring.
    You are like night, calmed, constellated.
    Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.

    I like you calm, as if you were absent:
    distant and saddened, as if you were dead.
    One word at that moment, a smile, is sufficient.
    And I thrill, then, I thrill - that it cannot be so.

    - Pablo Neruda
    Often a star was waiting for you to notice it. A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past, or as you walked under an open window, a violin yielded itself to your hearing. All this was mission. But could you accomplish it? (Rilke)

    INFP | 4w5 sp/sx | RLUEI - Primary Inquisitive | Tritype is tripe

  10. #200
    Senior Member tkae.'s Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2010
    5w4 sx/sp


    The Horses of Achilles
    By C.P Cavafy
    Translated by Keeley/Sherrard

    When they saw Patroklos dead
    —so brave and strong, so young—
    the horses of Achilles began to weep;
    their immortal nature was upset deeply
    by this work of death they had to look at.
    They reared their heads, tossed their long manes,
    beat the ground with their hooves, and mourned
    Patroklos, seeing him lifeless, destroyed,
    now mere flesh only, his spirit gone,
    defenseless, without breath,
    turned back from life to the great Nothingness.

    Zeus saw the tears of those immortal horses and felt sorry.
    “At the wedding of Peleus,” he said,
    “I should not have acted so thoughtlessly.
    Better if we hadn’t given you as a gift,
    my unhappy horses. What business did you have down there,
    among pathetic human beings, the toys of fate.
    You are free of death, you will not get old,
    yet ephemeral disasters torment you.
    Men have caught you up in their misery.”
    But it was for the eternal disaster of death
    that those two gallant horses shed their tears.

    The Book of Yolek
    Anthony Hecht
    Wir haben ein Gesetz,
    Und nach dem Gesetz soll er sterben.*

    The dowsed coals fume and hiss after your meal
    Of grilled brook trout, and you saunter off for a walk
    Down the fern trail, it doesn’t matter where to,
    Just so you’re weeks and worlds away from home,
    And among midsummer hills have set up camp
    In the deep bronze glories of declining day.

    You remember, peacefully, an earlier day
    In childhood, remember a quite specific meal:
    A corn roast and bonfire in summer camp.
    That summer you got lost on a Nature Walk;
    More than you dared admit, you thought of home;
    No one else knows where the mind wanders to.

    The fifth of August, 1942.
    It was morning and very hot. It was the day
    They came at dawn with rifles to The Home
    For Jewish Children, cutting short the meal
    Of bread and soup, lining them up to walk
    In close formation off to a special camp.

    How often you have thought about that camp,
    As though in some strange way you were driven to,
    And about the children, and how they were made to walk,
    Yolek who had bad lungs, who wasn’t a day
    Over five years old, commanded to leave his meal
    And shamble between armed guards to his long home.

    We’re approaching August again. It will drive home
    The regulation torments of that camp
    Yolek was sent to, his small, unfinished meal,
    The electric fences, the numeral tattoo,
    The quite extraordinary heat of the day
    They all were forced to take that terrible walk.

    Whether on a silent, solitary walk
    Or among crowds, far off or safe at home,
    You will remember, helplessly, that day,
    And the smell of smoke, and the loudspeakers of the camp.
    Wherever you are, Yolek will be there, too.
    His unuttered name will interrupt your meal.

    Prepare to receive him in your home some day.
    Though they killed him in the camp they sent him to,
    He will walk in as you’re sitting down to a meal.

    The Hollow Men

    by T. S. Eliot

    ((Cantos I and V))

    Mistah Kurtz -- he dead.

    A penny for the Old Guy


    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar

    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.



    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.

    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow

    For Thine is the Kingdom

    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow

    Life is very long

    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    And the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow

    For Thine is the Kingdom

    For Thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the

    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.
    "Not knowing how near the truth is, we seek it far away." -Ekaku Hakuin
    5w4 . IEI . Chaotic Good
    Right-Libertarian Minarchist

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