#650

Dec. 15th, 2009 02:12 am
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
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!
The 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.

~Walt Whitman

#629

Oct. 28th, 2009 10:46 am
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
About the Shark, phlegmatical one,
Pale sot of the Maldive sea
The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim,
How alert in attendance be.
From his saw-pit mouth, from his charnel of maw
The have nothing of harm to dread,
But liquidly glide on his ghastly flank
Or before his Gorgonian head;
Or lurk in the port of serrated teeth
In white triple tiers of glittering gates,
And there find a haven when peril's abroad,
An asylum in jaws of the Fates!
They are friends; and friendly they guide him to prey,
Yet never partake of the treat--
Eyes and brains to the dotard lethargic and dull,
Pale ravener of horrible meat.
~Herman Melville
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
Elan that lifts me above the clouds
into pure space, timeless, yea eternal
Breath transmuted into words
Transmuted back to breath
in one hundred two hundred years
nearly Immortal, Sappho's 26 centuries
of cadenced breathing -- beyond time, clocks, empires, bodies, cars,
chariots, rocket ships skyscrapers, Nation empires
brass walls, polished marble, Inca Artwork
of the mind -- but where's it come from?
Inspiration? The muses drawing breath for you? God?
Nah, don't believe it, you'll get entangled in Heaven or Hell --
Guilt power, that makes the heart beat wake all night
flooding mind with space, echoing through future cities, Megalopolis or
Cretan village, Zeus' birth cave Lassithi Plains -- Otsego County
farmhouse, Kansas front porch?
Buddha's a help, promises ordinary mind no nirvana --
coffee, alcohol, cocaine, mushrooms, marijuana, laughing gas?
Nope, too heavy for this lightness lifts the brain into blue sky
at May dawn when birds start singing on East 12th street --
Where does it come from, where does it go forever?
~Allen Ginsberg

#596

Sep. 18th, 2009 05:28 pm
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
Now Chil the Kite brings home the night
That Mang the Bat sets free.
The herds are shut in byre and hut -
For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power,
Talon and tush and claw.
O hear the call! Good Hunting, All
That keep the Jungle Law!
~Rudyard Kipling

#583

Sep. 1st, 2009 08:53 pm
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
Its a dark night no star bright
Gone veiled by city light
On the tongue a sticky taste
As I plough the human waste

The stench of petrol fills the air
Oil on tarmac, on the clothes, in the hair
Buildings rise and block the skies
Neon signs blind the eyes

Lamposts line instead of trees
Seagulls forage far from seas
Swirl and dance polluted skies
Breathes the smog and slowly dies

These concrete cells breed of hate
Squalor, . filth do degregate
High rise flats just prison cells
Misery, poverty, in mass it sells

What’s the answer, knock down start again
Or cover the cracks and bear the pain
Where’s the colour, where’s the sun
Where’s our conscience, what have we done

All the things mankind’s achieved, yet
still fails to build a better future
~Christopher Savin

#564

Aug. 11th, 2009 04:19 pm
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
The floor before my bed is bright:
Moonlight - like hoarfrost - in my room.
I lift my head and watch the moon.
I drop my head and think of home.
~Li Po

#550

Jul. 27th, 2009 10:05 am
[identity profile] trileaderroses.livejournal.com
I scrub the long floorboards
in the kitchen, repeating
the motions of other women
who have lived in this house.
And when I find a long gray hair
floating in the pail,
I feel my life added to theirs.
~Jane Kenyon

#542

Jul. 19th, 2009 03:55 pm
[identity profile] glitteringloke.livejournal.com
There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked my mother once -- she said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milk-man's door.
(That's why I have not travelled more.)
~Edna St. Vincent Millay

#531

Jul. 8th, 2009 08:32 pm
[identity profile] trileaderroses.livejournal.com
Somewhere in everyone's head something points toward home,
a dashboard's floating compass, turning all the time
to keep from turning. It doesn't matter how we come
to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes
the way it went once, where nothing holds fast
to where it belongs, or what you've risen or fallen to.

What the bubble always points to,
whether we notice it or not, is home.
It may be true that if you move fast
everything fades away, that given time
and noise enough, every memory goes
into the blackness, and if new ones come-

small, mole-like memories that come
to live in the furry dark-they, too,
curl up and die. But Carol goes
to high school now. John works at home
what days he can to spend some time
with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast.

Ellen won't eat her breakfast.
Your sister was going to come
but didn't have the time.
Some mornings at one or two
or three I want you home
a lot, but then it goes.

It all goes.
Hold on fast
to thoughts of home
when they come.
They're going to
less with time.

Time
goes
too
fast.
Come
home.

Forgive me that. One time it wasn't fast.
A myth goes that when the years come
then you will, too. Me, I'll still be home.
~Miller Williams

#526

Jul. 3rd, 2009 04:09 pm
[identity profile] trileaderroses.livejournal.com
Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies
like a snowflake falling on water. Below us,
some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,
snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn
back into the little system of his care.
All night, the cities, like shimmering novas,
tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his.
~Ted Kooser

#508

Jun. 15th, 2009 12:25 pm
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
~Rudyard Kipling

#496

Jun. 3rd, 2009 05:06 pm
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
~John Gillespie Magee

#483

May. 21st, 2009 10:47 am
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
...and guys I knew in the States, young
officers, return from the front crying and
trembling. Gay chaps at the bar in Los
Angeles, Chicago, New York...

~Lt. William Couch

#474

May. 12th, 2009 05:43 pm
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
And the just man trailed God's messenger
His huge, light shape devoured the black hill.
But uneasiness shadowed his wife and spoke to her:
"It's not too late, you can look back still

At the red towers of Sodom, the place that bore you,
The square in which you sang, the spinning-shed,
At the empty windows of that upper storey
Where children blessed your happy marriage-bed.'

Her eyes that were still turning when a bolt
Of pain shot through them, were instantly blind;
Her body turned into transparent salt,
And her swift legs were rooted to the ground.

Who mourns one woman in a holocaust?
Surely her death has no significance?
Yet in my heart she will never be lost
She who gave up her life to steal one glance.
~Anna Akhmatova

#468

May. 6th, 2009 07:17 am
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
'Enivrez-Vous'

Il faut être toujours ivre.
Tout est là:
c'est l'unique question.
Pour ne pas sentir
l'horrible fardeau du Temps
qui brise vos épaules
et vous penche vers la terre,
il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi?
De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise.
Mais enivrez-vous.
Et si quelquefois,
sur les marches d'un palais,
sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé,
dans la solitude morne de votre chambre,
vous vous réveillez,
l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue,
demandez au vent,
à la vague,
à l'étoile,
à l'oiseau,
à l'horloge,
à tout ce qui fuit,
à tout ce qui gémit,
à tout ce qui roule,
à tout ce qui chante,
à tout ce qui parle,
demandez quelle heure il est;
et le vent,
la vague,
l'étoile,
l'oiseau,
l'horloge,
vous répondront:
"Il est l'heure de s'enivrer!
Pour n'être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps,
enivrez-vous;
enivrez-vous sans cesse!
De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise.

Translation:
Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"
~Charles Baudelaire

#463

May. 1st, 2009 01:44 am
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
~W.H. Auden

#459

Apr. 27th, 2009 04:31 pm
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
High-heels struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a glimmering ankle would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.

Sometimes a jealous insect's sting
Bothered the necks of beauties beneath the branches.
White napes revealed in sudden flashes
Were a feast for young eyes wild gazing.

Evening fell, ambiguous autumn evening,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Whispered, in low voices, words that had such charms
That our souls were left quivering and singing.
~Paul Verlaine

#454

Apr. 22nd, 2009 04:43 pm
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
The widest prairies have electric fences,
For though old cattle know they must not stray
Young steers are always scenting purer water
Not here but anywhere. Beyond the wires

Leads them to blunder up against the wires
Whose muscles-shredding violence gives no quarter.
Young steers become old cattle from that day,
Electric limits to their widest senses.
~Philip Larkin

#449

Apr. 17th, 2009 04:05 pm
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
Tall ships and tall kings
Three times three
What brought they from the foundered land
Over the flowing sea?
Seven stars and seven stones
And one white tree.
~J.R.R. Tolkien

#440

Apr. 8th, 2009 11:38 am
[identity profile] frenchroast.livejournal.com
In the village they call her the dark girl
but to me she is the flower Krishnakali
On a cloudy day in a field
I saw the dark girl's dark gazelle-eyes.
She had no covering on her head,
her loose hair had fallen on her back.

Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelleeyes.

Two black cows were lowing,
as it grew dark under the heavy clouds.
So with anxious, hurried steps,
the dark girl came from her hut.
Raising her eyebrows toward the sky,
she listened a moment to the clouds' rumble.

Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.

A gust of the east wind
rippled the rice plants.
I was standing by a ridge,
alone in the field.
Whether or not she looked at me
Is known only to us two.

Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.

This how the Kohldark cloud
rises in the northeast in Jaistha;
the soft dark shadow
descends on the Tamal grove in Asharh;
and sudden delight floods the heart
in the night of Sravan.

Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.

To me she is the flower Krishnakali,
whatever she may be called by others.
In a field in Maynapara village
I saw the dark girl's dark gazelle-eyes.
She did not cover her head,
not having the time to feel embarrassed.

Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.

~Rabindranath Tagore
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