Thursday, 18 August 2011
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Past one o’clock. You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night.
I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegrams
I have no cause to wake or trouble you.
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind.
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then
To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.
Behold what quiet settles on the world.
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address
The ages, history, and all creation.
- Vladimir Mayakovsky
Saturday, 23 October 2010
...how sad, no way
to change the mad
cultivated asphodel, the
and skin's appalling
to be so Iying in the living
room drunk naked
and dreaming, in the absence
over and over eating the low root
of the asphodel,
rolling in generation
on the flowery couch
as on a bank in Arden--
my only rose tonite's the treat
of my own nudity.
- Allen Ginsberg.
Friday, 22 October 2010
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Here again (she said) is March the third
And twelve hours singing for the bird
‘Twixt dawn and dusk, from half past six
To half past six, never unheard.
‘Tis Sunday, and the church-bells end
With the birds’ songs. I think they blend
Better than in the same fair days
That shall pronounce the Winter’s end.
Do men mark, and none dares say,
How it may shift and long delay,
Somewhere before the first of Spring,
But never fails, this singing day?
When it falls on Sunday, bells
Are a wild natural voice that dwells
On hillsides; but the birds’ songs have
The holiness gone from the bells.
This day unpromised is more dear
Than all the named days of the year
When seasonable sweets come in,
Since now we know how lucky we are.