Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? what maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold pastoral!
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.
I started life with child’s eyes,
creating friends out of thin air.
Imagination was so strong
it seemed that they were really there.
I rode my invisible horse
through every parking lot in town,
and when I sat upon a swing
I felt I’d never touch the ground.
When I drew, I loved my work,
as well as when I wrote things down.
Back then, life was a simple joy,
uncomplicated and love-filled.
I used to dream of living toys
and daydreaming my mind was thrilled.
In summer we’d head for the lake,
I’d spend time fishing with my dad,
and I’d read a huge pile of books--
the best summers I’ve ever had.
I used to rise up with the sun
but bond with Smurfs and Gummi Bears.
At school, I’d look forward to
when we’d have parties for holidays,
or otherwise to recess time
when we’d play games so many ways.
At twelve my fantasy came true
and horses then turned visible;
I found a sport I was good at,
I nearly felt invincible.
While my own youth has come and gone,
I now enjoy my child’s aplomb.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Night with the eyes of a horse that trembles in the night,
night with eyes of water in the field asleep
is in your eyes, a horse that trembles,
is in your eyes of secret water.
Eyes of shadow-water,
eyes of well-water,
eyes of dream-water
Silence and solitude,
two little animals moon-led,
drink in your eyes,
drink in those waters.
If you open your eyes,
night opens, doors of musk,
the secret kingdom of the water opens
flowing from the center of the night.
And if you close your eyes,
a river fills you from within,
flows forward, darkens you:
night brings its wetness to beaches in your soul.
Monday, September 14, 2009
[Work in Progress]
When did you go, my littlest one?
I didn’t know to say goodbye.
I thought that you were still with me,
I hadn’t even thought to cry.
We only had a little time
for me to love and hold you close.
Well, I will love you all my life
even though you had to go.
Daddy, hold my dear one near
until I can get back to you.
I know he must be so like one
I have down here with eyes of blue.
Or maybe she is opposite
with dark features striking the eye
a sparkling wit to charm us all
and a heart we can’t deny.
Even though we haven’t met
to see life face to face,
I know I’ll recognize you when
I have finished my race.
I’ll run to you and scoop you up,
my forever-little one,
and you’ll give me back the missing piece
of my broken mother-heart.
Sunday, September 13, 2009