August 2011
28 posts
Notes On The Art Of Poetry
Notes On The Art Of Poetry by Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on in the world between the covers of books, such sandstorms and ice blasts of words, such staggering peace, such enormous laughter, such and so many blinding bright lights, splashing all over the pages in a million bits and pieces all of which were words, words, words, and each of which...
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“Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be...”
– Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (via bookmania)
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“You are told a lot about your education, but some beautiful, sacred memory,...”
– Fyodor Dostoyevsky (via bookmania)
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“No one will weave dreams for me – it is my turn to weave dreams for others....”
– South of the Border, West of the Sun (via fuckyeahharukimurakami)
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“We all run on two clocks. One is the outside clock, which ticks away our decades...”
– Max Lerner (via graffitiesprit)
I wish I were in love again. I miss the kisses and I miss the fights, the words “I love you till the day I die” the furitive sigh that believes the lie.
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“I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human...”
– James A. Michener (via inwardheartbeats)
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“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses...”
– Oscar Wilde (The Canterville Ghost)
“More people write poetry than read it.”
– George Carlin (via quote-book)
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“I write to give my life a form, a narrative, a chronology; and, for good...”
– André Aciman (via thevanityofattempt-quotes)
I can’t find anyone to show me what to do,
I can’t find anyone whose makin me so blue,
I can’t find anyone that’s visted the past,
I can’t find anyone that’s willing to be last.
I can’t find anyone that isn’t drinkin wine,
I can’t find a teacher who isn’t loaded blind.
“The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the...”
– Noam Chomsky (via amazingatheist)
T.S. Eliot.
“You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, and how, how rare, and strange, it is in a life composed so much, so much, of odds and ends, to find a friend who has these qualities, who has and gives, those qualities upon which friendship lives, without these friendships-life-what a trouble?”
Sarah's sonnet.
Sudden, nibble-legged, dancer of my house
Sister fallen from the summer stars,
bright eyed, butterfly shadow-faced, singer,
meeting with me in our beloved Blue Room,
for a sharing of eyes and dreams, words, and crimes.
Your voice when in song
evaporates as gently as Spring’s fated drizzles,
wrapped in the kind arms of dawn, you brought me through eternities,
and over the rainbow.
...
A beam of light will fill your head, and you’ll remember whats been said, by all the good men the world’s ever seen.
Burning yearning →
My face awaits over the city of their minds,
as patient as the stars,
for their words to rise and request
doubly I sigh but oblige.
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It Never Comes Again
fuckyeahpoetry:
THERE are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain, But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.
We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood’s sterner reign; Still we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again.
Something beautiful is vanished, And we sigh for it...
Love
Just listen to it alone.
And the friends seem to have no faces at all, just flesh
There’s a part of me, which very much wants to be alone for awhile, and another which yearns to be with others. Decision time.
Fruits
…are the real orphans of the world,
torn from that great womb, the branch.
Glistened, shined, and put on the backs of lonely shelves,
to be picked by children, who laughingly swallow,
revealing tiny, pumpkin smiles,
at the sight of the flesh, crying quietly down sweet tears.
Lines written during gathering.
Anyway I’m on the patio now,
and my friends are all beside me,
but really I never miss them more than when,
I can their faces, which are, in the rainy light,
drowsed, distracted, twines of flesh.
No one ever says a word here,
you can hear the wind as it gushes through our naked ribs,
and see the empty flair washed about their eyes.
Then the drizzle,
where I go, the quiet darkness...
Words
Words,
whose blessings only reap, when the sun becomes forlorn,
I wish I had you in me tonight.
On nights of holy clarity,
you slipped there beside me,
and warmed my heart with your secret caresses,
but when the stars had come around the world again,
you were gone, like bridges, fading from sight, at nightfall.
What is the intent to your desire?
What was it, that night, which made you...
I wish I had words tonight
