I'll look for it.
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I'll look for it.
Lately Art Bell has not been hosting; incidentally, his daughter was kidnapped. What fùcking luck. Anyway, they got this new guy, George Norry, on as host who is out there. I mean, in the ether. You really should check it out if you get a chance.
I'll check it out, in about half an hour.
I'm listening to it now. The host doesn't seem, to be that far out there. The guest is another story.
It's funny thoug when he talks about his childhood and his psychic/out-of-body experiences. Total slapstick.
I bet. W.C. Fields, is still the king.
Do you know who Ram Dhas(sp?) is?
Sefer Yetzira, reminds me of a movie called, the symbol for pi.
Aranofsky's Pi? That's an awesome film.
Who is Ram Dhas?
Yeah, that's the flick. The crazy hassidics in it.
He was some big wig at Harvard in the late 50's. Then he gave the students LSD. Got booted out. Moved to India. Came back here, changed his name and started writing craZy stuff.
Like what stuff?
Hang on a sec.
Be Here Now, without digging more.
It's Ram Dass. His name was Dr. Richard Alpert.
Was he Hindu or Zen?
Because I'm thinking of Krishnamurti for some reason. Ram Dass does sound familiar.
He's like Dali on acid.
I'm thinking Buddhist/Zen, but I'm not positive. I'd consider it more of a pot-luck.
~ponders this...~ hmm...Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalot"...
The Lady of Shallot is a good one. The song is also pretty good. Does anyone know who sang it?
I'll try em
Don't hurt yourself.
What about Whitman's Song of Myself?
" She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes...." Sigh!
One of my favorite poems of all time.
One of my favourite abstracts about love would be by Demon in Lermontov's poem - The Demon.
I have found the English version of it and i shall post the beginning...but i must say that it isn't even as near good as the original....
but...here goes:
Demon
By the first day of the creation
And by its latest day I swear,
By God's law and its violation
The triumph of eternal truth,
The bitter shame of sin I bear;
By the brief glory of this dream
I swear, and by our meeting here
And by the threat of separation;
I swear by all the spirit hosts
Whom Fate has set at my command,
On swords divine I take my oath
As wielded by my enemies
The impassive, sleepless angel band;
I swear by you, your life, your death,
Your last, long look and your first tear,
The gentle drawing of your breath,
The silken torrents of your hair;
I swear by suffering and bliss,
I swear even by this love of ours,-
I have renounced all vengefulness
I have renounced the pride of years;
etc....it's pretty long...
george gascoigne- ?1525-1577
also these poems=
"the strange passion of lover",
"the crystal glass and the glass of steel",
"a lover`s lullaby"
sing lullaby, as women do,
wherewith they bring their babies to
rest;
and lullaby can i sing to
as womanly as can the best
with lullaby they still the child
and, if i be not much beguiled,
full many a wanton babe have i,
which must be stilled with lullaby.
first, lullaby my youthfull years!
it is now time to go to bed,
for crooked age and hoary hairs
have won the haven within my head.
with lullaby then, youth, be still,
with lullaby content thy will.
since courage quails and comes behind,
go sleep, and so beguile thy mind!
next, lullaby my gazing eyes,
which wonted were to glance aspace,
for every glass may now suffice
to show the furrows in my face!
with lullaby then wink a while;
with lulaby yours looks beguile;
let no fair face, nor beauty bright,
entice you eft with vain delight.
and lullaby my wanton will!
let reason`s rule now rein thy thought;
since all too late i find my skill
how dear i have thy fancies bought,
with lullaby now take thine ease,
with lullaby thy doubts appease,
for trust to this, if thou be still
my body shall obey thy will.
Eke lullaby my loving boy-
my little robin, take thy rest!
since age is cold and nothing coy,
keep close thy coin, for so is best.
with lullaby be thou content,
with lullaby thy lusts relent!
let others pay which have more pence;
thou are too poor for such expense.
thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes,
my will, my ware, and all thet was!
i can no more delays devise;
but welcome pain, let pleasure pass!
with lulaby now take your leave,
with lullaby your dreams deceive,
and when you rise with waking eye,
remember then this lullaby.
Hundredth Sundry Flowers, about 1572
from a small leatherbound book called [the biblots/an elizabethan garland].
jm
by John Greenleaf Whittier
just a bit from this long poem-story
http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb....xtra/mogg.html
There’s a sudden light in the Indian’s glance,
A moment’s trace of powerful feeling –
Of love or triumph, or both perchance,
Over his proud, calm features stealing.
‘The words of my father are very good —
He shall have the land, and water, and wood,
And he who harms the Sagamore John
Shall feel the knife of MOGG MEGONE –
But the fawn of the Yengeese shall sleep on my breast,
And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest.’
‘But, father!’ and the Indian’s hand
Falls gently on the white man’s arm,
And, with a smile as shrewdly bland
As the deep voice is slow and calm:
‘Where is my father’s singing-bird –
The sunny eye and sunset hair?
I know I have my father’s word,
And that his word is good and fair;
But, will my father tell me where
Megone shall go and look for his bride? –
For he sees her not by her father’s side.’
The dark, stern eye of Bonython
Flashes over the features of MOGG MEGONE,
In one of those glances which search within –
But the stolid calm of the Indian alone
Remains where the trace of emotion had been.
‘Does the Sachem doubt? Let him go with me,
And the eyes of the Sachem his bride shall see.’
Cautious and slow, with pauses oft,
And watchful eyes and whispers soft,
The twain are stealing through the wood,
Leaving the downward-rushing flood,
Whose deep and hollow roar behind,
Grows fainter on the evening wind.
A cottage hidden in the wood –
Red through its seams a light is glowing,
On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude,
A narrow lustre throwing.
‘Who’s there?’ a clear, firm voice demands –
‘Hold, Ruth – ‘t is I – the Sagamore!’
Quick, at the summons, hasty hands
Unclose the bolted door;
And on the outlaw’s daughter shine
The flashes of the kindled pine.
Tall and erect the maiden stands,
Like some young priestess of the wood,
Some creature born of Solitude,
And bearing still the wild and rude,
Yet noble trace of Nature’s hands –
Her dark-brown cheek has caught its stain
More from the sunshine than the rain;
Yet, where her long fair hair is parting,
A pure white brow into light is starting;
And, where the folds of her mantle sever,
Are a neck and bosom as white as ever
The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river.
But, in the convulsive quiver and grip
Of the muscles around her bloodless lip,
There is something painful and sad to see’
And her eye has a glance more sternly wild
Than even that of a forest-child,
In it fearless and untamed freedom should be.
Oh! seldom, in hall or court, are seen
So queenly a form and so noble a mien,
As freely and smiling she welcomes them there –
Her outlawed sire and MOGG MEGONE;
‘Pray, father, how does thy hunting fare?
And, Sachem, say – does Scamman wear,
In spite of thy promise, a scalp of his own?’
Careless and light is the maiden’s tone;
But a fearful meaning lurks within
Her glance, as it questions the eye of Megone --
An awful meaning of guilt and sin! –
The Indian hath opened his blanket, and there
Hangs a human scalp by its long damp hair!
Now, God have mercy! – that maiden’s fingers
Are touching the scalp where the blood still lingers –
Turning up to the light its soft brown hair!
What an evil triumph her eye reveals!
What a baleful smile on her pale face steals –
Is the soul of a fiend in a form so fair?
Nay – traces of feeling are visible now,
In that quivering lip and that writhing brow!
But who shall measure the thoughts within,
Of hatred and love, of passion and sin?
Does not the eye of her mind go back
On the gloom and guilt of her stormy track? –
The traitor’s lip by her kisses met –
The traitor’s hand by her fine tears wet –
The trustless hopes on his promise built –
The gust of passion – the hell of guilt!
The warm embrace, when her tresses fair
Mingled themselves with that scalp’s brown hair –
And idly and fondly her small hand played
In dalliance sweet with its light and shade!
And, what are those tears which her wild eyes dim,
But tears of sorrow and love for him? –
For him, who drugged her cup with shame –
With a curse for her heart, and a blight for her name?
For him, whom her vengeance hath tracked so long,
Feeding its torch with the thought of wrong?
I have to say that one of my favourite love poems is Anabel Lee by Edgar Alan Poe it starts like this:
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
It's very sad and very beutyful, if you haven't read it you should.
There's a simple answer to this inquiry:
DANTE
Also, believe it or not my favorite romantic poet is Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. Try, Annabel Lee and Serenade.
Rainer Maria Rilke:
"A good marriage is that in which each appoints the other guardian of his solitude. Once the realisation is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue to exist, a wonderful living side by side can grow up, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole and against a wide sky. Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other."
I know that John Donne has been mentioned with regards to "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" but do not forget "Sonne Rising". nothing quite like making the bed of love the center of the world...
Thanks for this; it's well worth saving and remembering.Quote:
Originally posted by Isagel
Rainer Maria Rilke:
"A good marriage is that in which each appoints the other guardian of his solitude. Once the realisation is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue to exist, a wonderful living side by side can grow up, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole and against a wide sky. Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other."
I´m glad that you liked it.
Gibran wrote something similar in The Prophet, I thought you might like it:
Marriage
Then Almitra spoke again and said, "And what of Marriage, master?"
And he answered saying:
You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together, yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.
Very nice. Gibran's, The Prophet, was very popular sometime back.
In other words, (and not to make light of the insight and romantic imagery) don't buy matching jogging suits. :D
I´m a bit ambivalent towards the The Prophet. It´s is beautifully written, but some of the ideas I´m not sure I like at all. But this part I really do like.
(Mmm - I wonder - is it OK to read the same books? :-) )
Love me not for comely grace
LOVE not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart,—
For those may fail, or turn to ill, 5
So thou and I shall sever:
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why—
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever! 10
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediment.Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:-
No, It is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:-
If this be error, and upon me proved
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
W Shakespeare
I've always loved "Faustine" by Algernon Charles Swinburne. A small, sickly guy who loved partying, paganism and free love -- a Lord Byron wannabe born half a century too late. It seems either people love him or hate him, because no one else I know likes him. But I think he's a lot of fun. :D This poem is too long, and possibly too racy, to post here so here's a link:
http://eir.library.utoronto.ca/rpo/d.../poem2082.html
Neruda wrote some of the best love poems without any doubt. I'm spanish so maybe it is easy for me to enjoy Neruda's poetry but you must read "Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche". I have found it in english but it's not the same... I like to read poetry in the original language, it's better but I guess you would not understand it in spanish :)
SADDEST POEM
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
por favor, Xiketa, quiero leerla en espanol, si la tiene. gracias.
Yes, of course I have it! :)
PUEDO ESCRIBIR LOS VERSOS MÁS TRISTES ESTA NOCHE
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos."
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no está conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.
De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,
y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo.
One of the best love poets of all time, in my opinion, is the French poet Guillaume Apollinaire. "Company Commander" is one of my favorite love poems:
"My mouth will flame the sulphurs of the Pit
You will find my mouth a hell of sweetness and seduction
My mouth's angels will hold sway in your heart
My mouth's soldiers will take you by storm
The priests of my mouth will cense your beauty
Your soul will shake like a terrain in an earthquake
Your eyes will be charged will all the love that humanity has stored up in its eyes since the beginning
My mouth will be an army against you a stumbling awkward army
Tricky as a magician with his sleight of changing shapes
The choirs and orchestra of my mouth will tell you my love
It murmurs to you now from far away
While I stand here eyes fastened to my watch waiting for the exact moment to go over the top"
~ Company Commander (Chef de section), Guillaume Apollinaire
And as always, e.e. cummings and Dickinson are favorites as well. Also, check out Arthur Rimbaud, Paul Verlaine, and Langston Hughes.
Yours,
Raven
Love is anterior to life,
Posterior to death,
Initial of creation, and
The exponent of breath.
~ Emily Dickinson