Quote
October 13, 2011
2 notes
"If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man my son!"

— Rudyard Kipling (via - my father)

Tags: you'll be a Man Rudyard Kipling poetry wisdom my dad said

Quote
August 30, 2011
28 notes
"We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamer of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties,
We build up the world’s great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

A breath of our inspiration,
Is the life of each generation.
A wondrous thing of our dreaming,
Unearthly, impossible seeming-
The soldier, the king, and the peasant
Are working together in one,
Till our dream shall become their present,
And their work in the world be done.

They had no vision amazing
Of the goodly house they are raising.
They had no divine foreshowing
Of the land to which they are going:
But on one man’s soul it hath broke,
A light that doth not depart
And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
Wrought flame in another man’s heart.

And therefore today is thrilling,
With a past day’s late fulfilling.
And the multitudes are enlisted
In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of tomorrow,
Are bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for it’s joy or it’s sorrow,
The dream that was scorned yesterday.

But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
The glory about us clinging
Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing;
O men! It must ever be
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
A little apart from ye.

For we are afar with the dawning
And the suns that are not yet high,
And out of the infinite morning
Intrepid you hear us cry-
How, spite of your human scorning,
Once more God’s future draws nigh,
And already goes forth the warning
That ye of the past must die.

Great hail! we cry to the corners
From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring us hither your sun and your summers,
And renew our world as of yore;
You shall teach us your song’s new numbers,
And things that we dreamt not before;
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
And a singer who sings no more."

— Ode by, Arthur William Edgar O’Shaughnessy (1874)

Tags: Ode Arthur O'Shaughnessy Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy We are the music makers movers and shakers 1874 poetry poem

Photo
July 14, 2011
166 notes
O 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. O 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. My 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. booksandwriters: O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman
O 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. O 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. My 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.

booksandwriters:

O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman

Tags: Walt Whitman Poetry O Captain! My Captain!

Photo
July 13, 2011
49,782 notes
“i tried to forget but you grew roots around my ribcage and sprouted flowers just below my collarbones. all day I pluck their petals but I have not yet ascertained whether you love me or not”

“i tried to forget
but you grew roots around my ribcage
and sprouted flowers
just below my collarbones.
all day I pluck their petals
but I have not yet ascertained
whether you love me
or not”

(via topographe)

Tags: poetry nice not mine

Text
May 26, 2011
404 notes

the new word. (apologies for the radio silence…)

I’ve been busy.
see, I was raptured on May 21st.
now, I’m back…to lead you all astray.
I have new word for the masses. new stories, new prose, new verses.
I herald from on high, with an account, of the day of rapture until today.
If I’m sinking don’t save me.
If I’m sinning don’t blame me.
If I’m sighing don’t shush me.
It does not shame me.
shroud me with love. i come back from above.
shower me with gold. truth has costs, i’m told.
shedding old skin. new life is paved with instruction…shall we begin?
and all words shall be marked.
and all verse shall be sung.
and all tales shall be told.
and all knots shall be undone.
this is law. follow, and ye shall be followed.
common threads and theme. hot water begets steam.
we have progressed. let us not digress.
cherish this life. it’s all that’s truly yours.
cling to no strife. hate is the cauldron whence death pours.
this is the word. you have read, thus you have heard.
this prose was for free: a price which will not sustain the truth.
this burden of truth, first-hand account of rapture, weighs heavy on me.
money is a man-made demigod.
let it flow from you free. let it flow, from you to me.
truth will neither fade, nor change. it’s virtues, we shall laud.
(although, as light passes through a prism, distortions may change it’s way.)

I’ve been busy.
all who doubt, be cursed.
truth and light, pour forth, and onward from this day.
…shall we pray?

Tags: composed leave and let be may 21 me mine mumble grumble myself poetry prose ramble bamble raptured sermon speech spoken word the new word unspoken follow

Quote
November 01, 2010
"

Shirt

The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians

Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band

Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze

At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes—

The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out

Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. And then another. As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.

A third before he dropped her put her arms Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once

He stepped up to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers—

Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.” Wonderful how the patern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked

Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans

Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,

Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers to wear among the dusty clattering looms. Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,

The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:

George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit

And feel and its clean smell have satisfied both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone,

The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

"

— Robert Pinsky

Tags: poetry poem Robert Pinsky Shirt

Quote
November 01, 2010
"Ansiedad de piloto, furia de buzo ciego, turbia embriaguez de amor, todo en ti fue naufragio!"

— Pablo Neruda

Tags: poetry español Pablo Neruda excerpt Song of Despair

Quote
June 15, 2010
"I feel like there’s a balloon expanding in my chest.
…and, when it bursts,
my everything is going to pour out of me.
…and, all that I’ve built,
will just run into the storm drain,
…and, into the sea."

— A Friend.
June 15, 2010

Tags: 2010 June friends poetry quotes

Text
April 02, 2010

Turn Away.

She wrangled him in… sliding easily into his sin.
Tentative and Testing… our morals…and, not ourselves…resting.
Singing softly…his songs of defeat… her ears were burning… the noise of the hardwood floor and naked pads of feet – one pair soft, one pair coarse.
Eyelids, which would not close, for fear; the retribution of conscience…or, merely a mirror, in which to decompose.
Flesh against flesh…let rattle those bones.
They wake, from restless sleep…keenly aware,of their defenseless state…
so, clothes find their way back on bodies…so, goes their quick goodbyes.
No point to linger…no point to lies.
They already know the story….another turn…another time.
Sappy sweetness… arms wrap around – lips touch lips.
Satiated and sleepy…she returns to her sheets for rest…
Each step he takes, is one further into his day, one further away…from ephemeral comfort…which kept his thoughts at bay.
A quick look back…then turn away.
Turn away.

Tags: poet poetry crappy Crappy prose narration of thought

Quote
February 19, 2010
"you’ve got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.

and don’t worry about age
and / or freshly-arrived talents.

just drink more beer
more and more beer

and attend the racetrack at least once a
week

and win
if possible.

learning to win is hard—
any slob can be a good loser.

and don’t forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.

don’t overexercise.

sleep until noon.

avoid credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.

remember that there isn’t a piece of ass
in this world worth over $50
(in 1977).

and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
seems right or wrong—

an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.

stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient—
time is everybody’s cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery

all that dross

stay with the beer.

beer is continous blood.

a continuous lover.

get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window

hit that thing
hit it hard

make it a heavyweight fight

make it the bull when he first charges in

and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.

if you think they didn’t go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you’re doing now

without women
without food
without hope

then you’re not ready.

drink more beer.
there’s time.
and if there’s not
that’s all right
too."

—

how to be a great writer - Charles Bukowski (via insightontheoutside)

I may be reading too much Bukowski these days…

Tags: Bukowski How To Be A Great Writer Love Is A Dog From Hell poem poetry

Text
December 24, 2009

You.

[text from the past. Excerpt. late 2007.]


You.

The elusive inner direct object of conversation.
Religious you, prayers. Personal you, thoughts. Verbal you, schizophrenia?

This hell has got to have a resolution.
I can only think, live, and work…until by serendipitous circumstance I happen upon the solution.
It may just be a race, in which I have an unknowing hand.
Does my own personal pollution get the better of me?
Or, do I find my way out of the days of haze, into a hopeful, promised land of a future.
Or, another question, is there even a promise land?
Or, do we journey throughout all our existence- merely for the purpose of the carnal, and ephemeral, pleasures which provide themselves to a human life?
Don’t know. No one can.


On ticks the clock. On pound the waves onto badly beaten shores. On go the days.

Tags: Seeking, texts from the past late 2007 poetry prose You Life Meaning Journaling Journal so it goes

Quote
December 24, 2009
"Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awak’ning till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho’that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
‘T were better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be — that dream eternally
Continuing — as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood — should it thus be giv’n,
‘T were folly still to hope for higher Heav’n.
For I have revell’d, when the sun was bright
I’ the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness, — have left my very heart
In climes of mine imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought — what more I have seen?
‘T was once — and only once — and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass — some pow’r
Or spell had bound me — ‘t was the chilly wind
Came o’er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit — or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldy - or the starts — howe’er it was,
That dream was as that night-wind — let it pass.

I have been happy, tho’ [but] in a dream.
I have been happy — and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting , shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love — and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known."

— “Dreams”
by, Edgar Allen Poe [1827]

Tags: 1827 Dreams Edgar Allen Poe poetry

Quote
December 13, 2009
21 notes
"the Noster was a ship of swank
(as gallant as they come)
until she hit a mine and sank
just off the coast of Sum

precisely where a craft of cost
the Ergo perished later
all hands(you may recall)being lost
including captain Pater"

— (via eecummings)

Tags: ee cummings poetry reblog

Text
December 02, 2009
2 notes

A Moment Alone. A Cigarette’s Glow. Life on Hold.

So quiet…the crackle of my cigarette’s paper, audible, as it burns. Silence…something of note, for this city. Standing in the center of street, breathtaking view in front of me… perspective on all the humanity… My own two feet beneath me. Balance centered, no lean, feet shoulder width apart. Solid. Taking it all in…city’s night lights flooding their way into my eyes.

Strangely striking…new perspective on an old view, a place ive been hundreds of times. Tonight, something is different; a picture worth prose. A moment alone, a fleeting scene in the larger scheme, and a slice of life quite to my liking… The ember of my tobacco glows; and, somehow, it seems as though the cigarette is the only one growing old. The horizon has been put on hold for the moment. (Oddly absent) people, lights, cars, and all life but mine-still, as perfection in a painting. (In the distance a small blanket of clouds, low and lying still, has spread itself over bases of the downtown monoliths.) Seeping slowly into my fingers, toes, and the very tip of my nose…a subtle throb, that slight sting, the tenative tingle, of cold. All serving as reminders concerning the mortality of the moment itself.

First it’s silence. Then, absence of light. (Relative speed,reason in their order of arrival, and the same for their departure. Perhaps, also the reason…) Time only stands still at night.

Tags: poetry thoughts mind's eye moment in time time observarion light speed sound on the street cig cigarette smoke narration of thought eternal youth in a moment life on hold