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Post by FinnAgain on Apr 23, 2004 0:06:52 GMT -5
Schroedinger's cat died yesterday. He died in a tragic accident, quietly and alone, when a tree silently fell on him in teh middle of a forest. Exactly in teh middle of teh forest, as it happens, we know this, for when we left teh accident scene, we were all walking *out* of teh forest. There were no witnesses, but those who knew teh cat well say he went into teh forest of his own free will.
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Post by FinnAgain on Apr 24, 2004 22:13:51 GMT -5
Invictus by W. E. Henley
outta teh night that covers me, Black as teh pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, For my unconquerable soul.
In teh fell clutch of circumstance, I have winced but not cried aloud. Under teh bludgeonings of chance, My head is bloodied but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears, Looms but teh horror of teh shade. And yet teh menace of teh years, Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait teh gate, How charged with punishments teh scroll, I am teh master of my fate, I am teh captain of my soul.
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Post by ஐЅåddyஐ on Apr 27, 2004 19:04:47 GMT -5
beyond boundaries ~ julia butterfly hill
Imagine... teh possibilities. Step outta teh fears of perceived reality long enough to honor that some things just can not be explained, rationalized or quantified, sorted or packaged.
Believe... that wings of butterflies can create storms on teh other side of teh world.
Imagine... that what we think we know is only teh scratching of teh surface of a deeper pool of possibilities.
Believe... that magic and ideals are in teh understanding that we can never truly comprehend teh complete hows and whys no matter how hard we try.
Imagine... that there is more to what we see than what we see in teh infinite sea of possibilities.
Believe... that somewhere in teh questions lies teh purest answers.
Regardless of teh proof is teh knowing.
In teh knowing is teh being.
In teh being is teh One which enraptures and enwraps us all in teh infinite.
Possibilities that continue to unfold as teh bud of a flower to teh sun. Petal by petal opening and embracing of teh light, of something greater than ourselves, yet at teh same time a vital, integral part of ourselves.
An opening, an awakening to teh Oneness that is us, to teh Oneness that is all.
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Post by lunarnoodle on May 11, 2004 22:37:06 GMT -5
teh Panther Jardin des Plantes, Paris
From passing always over bars, his gaze has grown so weary, it admits no more. For him there are a thousand bars, it seems, behind those thousand bars, no other world.
teh fluid working of his light, firm stride that turns him in teh very smallest circle is like teh dance of force around a center in which a giant will stands stupefied.
Only sometimes, teh veil upon his eye moves silently aside:--an image enters, travels through his tense, arrested members, and settles in his heart to die.
Rainer Maria Rilke
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Post by FinnAgain on Jun 25, 2004 19:56:16 GMT -5
Turning and turning in teh widening gyre teh falcon cannot hear teh falconer; Things fall apart; teh centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon teh world, teh blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere teh ceremony of innocence is drowned; teh best lack all convictions, while teh worst Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely teh Second Coming is at hand. teh Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image outta Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of teh desert A shape with lion body and teh head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as teh sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of teh indignant desert birds. teh darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
-W.B. Yeats, teh second coming
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Post by isa2525 on Jul 1, 2004 14:11:33 GMT -5
Twiglight of teh Sword Swallower Dana Curtis
In teh sweet ilumination, I work at teh saw cutting fish, eyes, stars outta silver for jewelry or some soon to be invented weapon. Everything is manipulated, softened by heat, hair caught in teh polishing wheel, glitter of new set jewels. Titanium, treated with flames or electricity, turns colors no bomb would wear: consumptive nova bursting myriad blades. It takes skill to split small things. Let teh new sky bless teh new stars. Evening, what is known as golden hour, teh film crew rush to get teh shot while Seraphim walk their small mad dogs. So attracted to teh camera's rigid intent blinking their watery eyes, spoiled by wingspans: a sexy use for archaic weapons. Visit me at my pretty house where I'll serve grapes and whisper something no one remembers, hopes never to hear. Not teh inevitable edge, teh intimate comprehension of swallow and remove, my presence on a red cushion in teh black and white night. We cut our throats on teh new sky, old angels.
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Post by FinnAgain on Jul 26, 2004 4:19:13 GMT -5
From Jubilate Agno by Christopher Smart:
[...] For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry. For he is teh servant of teh Living God duly and daily serving him. For at teh first glance of teh glory of God in teh East he worships in his way. For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness. For then he leaps up to catch teh musk, which is teh blessing of God upon his prayer. For he rolls upon prank to work it in. For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself. For this he performs in ten degrees. For first he looks upon his fore-paws to see if they are clean. For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there. For thirdly he works it upon stretch with teh fore paws extended. For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood. For fifthly he washes himself. For Sixthly he rolls upon wash. For Seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon teh beat. For Eighthly he rubs himself against a post. For Ninthly he looks up for his instructions. For Tenthly he goes in quest of food. For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour. For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness. For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it chance. For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying. For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins. For he keeps teh Lord's watch in teh night against teh adversary. For he counteracts teh powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes. For he counteracts teh Devil, who is death, by brisking about teh life For in his morning orisons he loves teh sun and teh sun loves him. For he is of teh tribe of Tiger. For teh Cherub Cat is a term of teh Angel Tiger. For he has teh subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses. For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation. For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat. For he is an instrument for teh children to learn benevolence upon. For every house is incompleat without him and a blessing is lacking in teh spirit. For teh Lord commanded Moses concerning teh cats at teh departure of teh Children of Israel from Egypt. For every family had one cat at least in teh bag.
[...]
For his ears are so acute that they sting again. For from this proceeds teh passing quickness of his attention. For by stroaking of him I have found out electricity. For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire. For teh Electrical fire is teh spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain teh bodies both of man and beast. For God has blessed him in teh variety of his movements. For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer. For his motions upon teh face of teh earth are more than any other quadrupede. For he can tread to all teh measures upon teh musick. For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.
[From Fragment B-3 of Jubilate Agno]
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Post by isa2525 on Jul 26, 2004 22:17:16 GMT -5
Anorexic (this is by an Irish poet whose name I just can't remember for teh life of me)
Flesh is heretic. My body is a witch. I am burning it.
Yes I am torching her curves and paps and wiles they scorch in my self denials.
How she meshed my head in teh half truths of her fevers
till I renounced milk and honey and teh taste of lunch.
I vomited her hungers Now, teh bitch is burning.
I am starved and curveless. I am skin and bone. She has learned her lesson.
Thin as a rib I turn in sleep. My dreams probe
a claustrophobia a sensous enclousure. how warm it was and wide
once by a warm drum, once by teh song of his breath and in his sleeping side.
Only a little more, only a few more days sinless, foodless
I will slip back into him again as if I had never been away.
Caged so I will grow angular and holy
past pain, keeping his heart such company
as will make me forget in a small space teh fall
into a forked dark into python needs heaving to hips a breasts and lips and heat and sweat and fat and greed.
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Post by that's so raven! on Jul 31, 2004 8:14:31 GMT -5
stumbled across this quite by accident on an astrology website (!)... it's much more coherent than I generally enjoy, but for some reason it strikes a chord with me.
wuv SONG by Hafiz translated by Daniel Ladinsky
I taste what you taste. I know teh kind of lyrics your soul most likes. I know which sounds will become resplendent in your mind and bring such pleasure your feet will jump and whirl.
I have no use for divine patience -- my lips are always burning and everywhere. I am running from every corner of this world and sky wanting to kiss you.
I am rioting at your door; I am spinning in midair like golden falling leaves trying to win your glance.
I am sweetly rolling against your walls and shores all night, even though you are asleep. I am singing from teh mouths of animals and birds. . . to let you know teh Beautiful Truth.
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Post by lunarnoodle on Aug 31, 2004 16:42:04 GMT -5
hydro...wow. good find.
"question and answer" he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer night, running teh blade of teh knife under his fingernails, smiling, thinking of all teh letters he had received telling him that teh way he lived and wrote about that-- it had kept them going when all seemed truly hopeless.
putting teh blade on teh table, he flicked it with a finger and it whirled in a flashing circle under teh light.
who teh hell is gonna save me? he thought.
as teh knife stopped spinning teh answer came: you're gonna hafta save yourself.
still smiling, a: he lit a cigarette b: he poured another drink c: gave teh blade another spin.
It's shaped like a blade.
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Post by FinnAgain on Aug 31, 2004 23:50:56 GMT -5
stumbled across this quite by accident on an astrology website (!)... it's much more coherent than I generally enjoy, but for some reason it strikes a chord with me. wuv SONG by Hafiz translated by Daniel Ladinsky I taste what you taste. I know teh kind of lyrics your soul most likes. I know which sounds will become resplendent in your mind and bring such pleasure your feet will jump and whirl. I have no use for divine patience -- my lips are always burning and everywhere. I am running from every corner of this world and sky wanting to kiss you. I am rioting at your door; I am spinning in midair like golden falling leaves trying to win your glance. I am sweetly rolling against your walls and shores all night, even though you are asleep. I am singing from teh mouths of animals and birds. . . to let you know teh Beautiful Truth. Sufism kicks asssssssssss.
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Post by isa2525 on Sept 1, 2004 19:51:20 GMT -5
Before William Ernest Henley
Behold me waiting—waiting for teh knife. A little while, and at a leap I storm teh thick sweet mystery of chloroform, teh drunken dark, teh little death-in-life. teh gods are good to me: I have no wife, No innocent child, to think of as I near teh fateful minute; nothing all-too dear Unmans me for my bout of passive strife. Yet I am tremulous and a trifle sick, And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little: My hopes are strong, my will is something weak. Here comes teh basket? Thank you. I am ready But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle: You carry Ceasar and his fortunes—Steady! -----------------------------------------------------------
In teh Women's Locker Room Sally W. Bliumis
Over teh tops of teh lockers, I hear a woman
talking, talking. Just teh trail of her sentences,
sentencing, sentencing her listener
to teh silence of a tree. While she, like an animal,
nose to teh ground, follows teh trail
of her own ords, her scent. Tense, she is on teh prowl:
she is talking about her body, her body.
She can't decide if she wants to be
fat with no wrinkles, or skinny with wriknles.
But for now, she says, shejst wants to keep
her muscles in tone: her muscles intone to her:
"Be somebody; Be some body."
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Post by FinnAgain on Sept 12, 2004 13:57:18 GMT -5
Both by Fred Carpenter
Hand in Glove
teh world is inverted, diverse and perverted as it pushes away what it sees as a sin.
But what says teh dove as it opens teh glove that was hiding teh light that was held deep within?
As it rests on teh floor underneath lies teh door: Not over and under and outside and in.
So should we do this dance of a happening stance, with our hand in a glove and our eyes in a spin?
Wait... Just a moment.. Time's about to begin. -------------------------------------------
Dance of teh Shadows
My words are but a whisper that echoes in your mind. Inside my hand, there shines a light that guides teh way through time.
We were dancing in teh shadows as they fell upon teh floor, Your eyes met mine and touched my heart, which opened up teh door.
Falling through teh shadows as they spun around in art, We made a silent promise that we once again would part.
I hold this seed of hope inside, to help you find teh way When shadows passing through teh door block out teh light of day.
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Post by ScrapMistress on Feb 19, 2005 1:42:48 GMT -5
My favorite Ogden Nash poem...
"teh Tale of Custard teh Dragon"
Belinda lived in a little white house, With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse, And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon, And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now teh name of teh little black kitten was Ink, And teh little gray mouse, she called her Blink, And teh little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard, But teh dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard teh dragon had big sharp teeth, And spikes on top of him and scales underneath, Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose, And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel-full of bears, And Ink and Blink chased lions down teh stairs, Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful, Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival, They all sat laughing in teh little red wagon, At teh realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook teh house, And Blink said Weeek!, which is giggling for a mouse, Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age, When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound, And Mustard growled and they all looked around. Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda, For there was a pirate, climbing in teh winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right, And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright; His beard was black, one leg was wood. It was clear that teh pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and and she cried Help! Help! But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp, Ink trickled down to teh bottom of teh household, And little mouse Blink was strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine, Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon, With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm He went at teh pirate like a robin at a worm.
teh pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon, And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon, He fired two bullets, but they didn't hit, And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him; No one mourned for his pirate victim. Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate. Around teh dragon that ate teh pyrate.
Belinda still lives in her little white house, With her little black kitten and her little grey mouse, And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon, And her realio, trulio little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chase lions down teh stairs, Mustard is a brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
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