Wednesday, November 23, 2005
SNOW
Right, well we finally have snow and it is great!! All fluffy and white and swirling gently around. I love it! I think I will go and build a snowman after with the roomies! Hehe! We are such little kids, it is great!
Hey, Mad Artist! I learnt in Greek today that Daimon in Greek means lesser god, or unidentified god...I think Pullman learnt Greek because of daemon and because of the alethiometer (truth measure) I cna't remember any other instances, but I think I will reread the Dark Materials.
Ah...I love being near the end of term, I get so unmotivated! I have an essay due otmorrow and I am still not working on it! I have 3 pages, but I stil need more! Hehe, procrastination is such an art! But after this, I am free to catch up on everything, like reading, which is so easy! I am done the hard stuff until exams! Then I get home the 13th!!
Goth Bowling tomorrow night, get to dress Goth, bowl, and get drunk. Me likey!! Hehe! Can't wait, it will be my stress-reliever! Mwahahaha!
Right, I think that is it..oh well if it isn't, I have to get off my duff and finish the essay!
So geographers in Afric maps
With savage pictures fill their gaps;
And o'er unhibatible downs
Place elephants for want of towns.
- Jonathan Swift, "On Poetry"
Hey, Mad Artist! I learnt in Greek today that Daimon in Greek means lesser god, or unidentified god...I think Pullman learnt Greek because of daemon and because of the alethiometer (truth measure) I cna't remember any other instances, but I think I will reread the Dark Materials.
Ah...I love being near the end of term, I get so unmotivated! I have an essay due otmorrow and I am still not working on it! I have 3 pages, but I stil need more! Hehe, procrastination is such an art! But after this, I am free to catch up on everything, like reading, which is so easy! I am done the hard stuff until exams! Then I get home the 13th!!
Goth Bowling tomorrow night, get to dress Goth, bowl, and get drunk. Me likey!! Hehe! Can't wait, it will be my stress-reliever! Mwahahaha!
Right, I think that is it..oh well if it isn't, I have to get off my duff and finish the essay!
So geographers in Afric maps
With savage pictures fill their gaps;
And o'er unhibatible downs
Place elephants for want of towns.
- Jonathan Swift, "On Poetry"
Friday, November 04, 2005
For the broken heart
Here are three poems for those in the stages of a broken heart, the first is rage, the second is resolve, and the third is moving on.
The Message
Send home my long strayd eyes to mee,
Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee,
Yet since there they have learn'd such ill,
Such forc'd fashions,
And false passions,
That they be
Made by thee
Fit for no good site, keep them still.
Send home my harmlesse heart againe,
Which no unworthy thought could staine,
Which if it be taught by thine
To make jestings
Of protestings,
And breake both
Word and oath,
Keepe it, for then 'tis none of mine.
Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
That I may know, and see thy lyes,
and may laugh and joy, when thou
Art in anguish
And dost languish
For some one
That will none,
Or prove as false as thou art now.
- John Donne
Resume
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
-Dorothy Parker
Throw Yourself Like Seed
Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit;
sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate
that brushes your heel as it turns going by,
the man who wantts to ;live is the man in whom
life is abundant.
Now you are only giving food to that final pain
which is slowly winding you in the nets of death,
but to live is to work, and the only thing which
lasts
is the work; start then, turn to the work.
Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into
your own field,
don't turn your face for that would be to turn it
to death,
and do not let the past weigh down your motion.
Leave what's alive in the furrow, what's dead in
yourself,
for life does not move in the same way as a
group of clouds;
from your work you will be able one day to
gather yourself.
- Miguel de Unamuno
And now onto fun ones that seem to be just there for enjoyment!!
Tiara
Peter died in a paper tiara
cut from a book of princess paper dolls;
he loved royalty, sashes
and jewels. I don't know,
he said, when he woke in hospice,
I was watching the Bette Davis film
festival
on Channel 57 and then -
At the wake, the tension broke
when someone guessed
the casket was closed because
he was in there in a big wig
and heels, and someone said,
You know he's always late,
he probably isn't here yet -
he's still fixing his make-up.
And someone said he asked for it.
Asked for it -
when all he did was go down
into the salt tide
of wanting as much as he wanted,
giving himself over so drunk
or stoned it almost didn't matter who,
though they were beautiful,
stampeding into him in the simple,
ravishing music of their hurry.
I think heaven is perfect stasis
poised over the realm of desires,
where dreaming and waking men lie
on the grass while wet horses
roam among them, huge fragments
of music we die into
in the body's paradise.
Sometimes we wake not knowing
how we cam to lie here,
or who has crowned us with these
temporary,
precious stones. And given
the world's perfectly turned shoulders,
the deep hollows blued by longing,
given the irreplaceable silk
of horses rippling in orchards,
fruits thundering and chiming down,
given the ordinary marvels of form
and gravity, what could he do,
what could any of us evr do
but ask for it?
- Mark Doty
Right, that is enough poetry for now, I hope it helps a little for any who need it.
Toodles
The Message
Send home my long strayd eyes to mee,
Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee,
Yet since there they have learn'd such ill,
Such forc'd fashions,
And false passions,
That they be
Made by thee
Fit for no good site, keep them still.
Send home my harmlesse heart againe,
Which no unworthy thought could staine,
Which if it be taught by thine
To make jestings
Of protestings,
And breake both
Word and oath,
Keepe it, for then 'tis none of mine.
Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
That I may know, and see thy lyes,
and may laugh and joy, when thou
Art in anguish
And dost languish
For some one
That will none,
Or prove as false as thou art now.
- John Donne
Resume
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
-Dorothy Parker
Throw Yourself Like Seed
Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit;
sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate
that brushes your heel as it turns going by,
the man who wantts to ;live is the man in whom
life is abundant.
Now you are only giving food to that final pain
which is slowly winding you in the nets of death,
but to live is to work, and the only thing which
lasts
is the work; start then, turn to the work.
Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into
your own field,
don't turn your face for that would be to turn it
to death,
and do not let the past weigh down your motion.
Leave what's alive in the furrow, what's dead in
yourself,
for life does not move in the same way as a
group of clouds;
from your work you will be able one day to
gather yourself.
- Miguel de Unamuno
And now onto fun ones that seem to be just there for enjoyment!!
Tiara
Peter died in a paper tiara
cut from a book of princess paper dolls;
he loved royalty, sashes
and jewels. I don't know,
he said, when he woke in hospice,
I was watching the Bette Davis film
festival
on Channel 57 and then -
At the wake, the tension broke
when someone guessed
the casket was closed because
he was in there in a big wig
and heels, and someone said,
You know he's always late,
he probably isn't here yet -
he's still fixing his make-up.
And someone said he asked for it.
Asked for it -
when all he did was go down
into the salt tide
of wanting as much as he wanted,
giving himself over so drunk
or stoned it almost didn't matter who,
though they were beautiful,
stampeding into him in the simple,
ravishing music of their hurry.
I think heaven is perfect stasis
poised over the realm of desires,
where dreaming and waking men lie
on the grass while wet horses
roam among them, huge fragments
of music we die into
in the body's paradise.
Sometimes we wake not knowing
how we cam to lie here,
or who has crowned us with these
temporary,
precious stones. And given
the world's perfectly turned shoulders,
the deep hollows blued by longing,
given the irreplaceable silk
of horses rippling in orchards,
fruits thundering and chiming down,
given the ordinary marvels of form
and gravity, what could he do,
what could any of us evr do
but ask for it?
- Mark Doty
Right, that is enough poetry for now, I hope it helps a little for any who need it.
Toodles
