Dealing with Words

Strangers

2011-11-29T22:40:00.004+01:00

Well, it didn't turn out quite the way I was hoping for. But, soon I'm off to new adventures yet again.

You dare to tell me I'll forget you
And I won't need you like I always have
That you'll come to be a memory
That fades away, that turns to grey

I know that theres no sense in looking back
There's no point in hanging on
So over and over I will let you go
But you will not be gone

I'll forget you every day, all the time and every place
One thing will never change
I'll forget you

every day

You're like a rock that I push up a hill
Knowing it will tumble right back down again
Like a man who walks agains the stream
He never quits, I'll never quit

See you in a strangers face
Erase you from my mind
I've got better things to do
I'll forget you

Every night I close my eyes and go to sleep
Every night, the same old, you come to me
Its like a nightmare, oh such a sweet sweet dream
won't og away, won't go away.

I'll forget you every day, all the time and every place
See you in a strangers face
Erase you from my mind
I've got better things to do
Than to remember you
One thing will never change
I'll forget you

Every day.

Starfish

2011-01-10T00:11:00.003+01:00

A new year, new opportunities, perhaps a chance to rid oneself of past mistakes; or at least try some other path. I have realised that time has run out on certain trains, and I have chosen to board the next, or maybe I will walk the way and find roads I never knew, and maybe on the way I'll meet people I otherwise never would have known. There is always time, time to watch the snow fall, time to listen to an old story told by a stranger on a bus, time to walk that extra mile; there is always time to visit a long absent friend, time to read a half forgotten poem; there is always time to rethink one's actions and find a better way.

Starfish

When the stars in the sky
ignore the firmament
and go off to sleep by day,
the stars of the water greet
the sky buried in the sea
inauguration the duties
of the new undersea heavens.
P. Neruda

In a Winter Landscape

2010-12-01T22:56:00.003+01:00

I woke a few days ago to wonderful scenery of winter beauty; my world was covered in a thin layer of pure white snow, in the sky above the sun shone from a brilliant blue. This is the winter landscape from the world of Friedrick and Frost. From my window in the office my view is towards the snow-laden forest, I see the day pass by while I study the works of long-since-dead authors. In just a few days, the university will quiet down, and my evening contemplations be composed of music, tea and piles of books yet again.

As I walked home that evening I came to think about a poem by Robert Frost I had read a long time ago, well I only remembered the last few lines, but it seemed so fitting when I again entered my slumbering neighbourhood:

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o'clock of a winter eve.

I spent today reading John Donne, his poetry of love and life is some of the most beautiful of the day. With lines such as "Goe, and catche a falling starre, Get with child a mandrake roote, Tell me where all past yeares are," from the poem Song, I long back to a world of those words, a world where proclamations of love could be written in verse of divine proportions and declared to all the world. If ever dreams were interrupted like this:

My Dreame thou brok'st not, but continued'st it,
Thou art so truth, that thoughts of thee suffice,
To make dreames truths; and fables histories;
Enter these armes, for since thou thoughtst it best,
Not to dreame all my dreame, let's act the rest.

I am only saddened that we rarely hear words spoken like this anymore.

Another poem I read today, and with which I will end this first winter thought, though not a winter poem, is from Petrarch:

A doe of purest white upon the grass
wearing two horns of gold appeared to me
between two streams beneath a laurel's shade
at sunrise in that season not yet ripe.

The sight of her was so sweetly austere
that I left all my work to follow her,
just like a miser who in search of treasure
with pleasure makes his effort bitterless.
"No one touch me," around her lovely neck
was written out in diamonds and in topaz,
"It pleased my Caesar to create me free."

The sun by now had climbed the sky midway,
my eyes were tired but not full from looking
when I fell into water, and she vanished.

The unknown one

2010-11-21T02:22:00.002+01:00

I want to measure the many things I don't know
and that's how I arrive
aimlessly, I knock and they open, I enter and see
yesterday's pictures on the walls,
the dining room of the man and the woman,
armchairs, beds, saltcellars.
Only then do I understand
that they don't know me.
I go out and I don't know what streets I'm walking,
nor how many poor and tantalising women,
workers of various breeds
and far from satisfactory rewards.

P.Neruda

Gently Weeping

2010-10-04T04:20:00.003+02:00

Been thinking a lot lately, do not actually know if I figured anything out, but one thing I have come to realize is that there is one person that frequent in my dreams, both during my nightly slumbers and as much in my waking moments. I do know that some dreams are not to be discarded as random afterglows of fleeting moments, but are to be cherished and kept safe. After waking, still remembering the music that flowed through all corners of my unconscious, the images of moments more sweet and piercing than ever felt during hours of daylight, I know I will carry with me the remembrance of the sweetest scent, the softest laughter; and a smile making this day the best I ever had, yours.

I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it need sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps

I don't know why nobody told you
how to unfold you love
I don't know how someone controlled you
they bought and sold you

I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps

I don't know how you were diverted
you were perverted too
I don't know how you were inverted
no one alerted you

I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at you all
Still my guitar gently weep.

G. Harrison

All Swept Away

2010-09-25T11:38:00.000+02:00

Sickness often, often attends me. I'm ruled by pain
Tortured memories burning my brain. Oh make it end
Killed for nothing. Killed by no-one. I was just a boy
Weak and lonely, cold and bloody. Give me a hand

Cared by many, but I know none. My life has gone
Rage and anger tearing through me. Who's God will pay?

Made me fight for you. Made me die for you
You and your sick God. You hope to be loved
We're all swept away, so you can have your day
On blooded knees for you. Heaven calls to you

But I won't die without
Without your heart
In my hand

My Dying Bride

The not-happening

2010-09-15T22:51:00.009+02:00

Some time ago, not a long time but still, I was sitting on the train home and in a compartment a bit further down sat a most beautiful girl. Every time I passed her she smiled at me and I smiled back at her, but not a word was spoken between us. We were both sitting alone at opposite sides of the carriage, still we only exchanged smiles. Half way through the journey she was gone, I can't even remember where she got off. For the rest of my homeward journey I contemplated on how I should have approached her, I ran through countless of opening lines and what were to follow those and what should again follow those, all too late. I still wonder what we might have had in common and what kind of music she listened to, and what movies she liked. I have travelled by the same train several times since this first encounter, but I never saw her again.

The not-happening was so sudden
that I stayed there forever,
without knowing, without their knowing me,
as if I were under a chair,
as if I were lost in night.
Not being was like that,
and I stayed that way forever.

Afterwards, I asked the others,
the women, the men,
what they were doing so confidently
and how they learned how to live.
They did not actually answer.
They went on dancing and living.

What determines that silence
is what doesn't happen,
and I don't want to keep on talking,
for I stayed there waiting.
In that place, on that day,
I have no idea what happened to me,
but now I am not the same.

P. Neruda

First day of Autumn, and late night at the Office

2010-09-07T21:25:00.004+02:00

Today autumn arrived, and my days at the office once again became somewhat longer than they have been the last few summer weeks. I do not object to the arrival of windier, darker and perhaps also quieter evenings, I quite like it to be honest. Though my days are almost always full of plans and assignments, I often look forward to the late evenings alone at the office. This is for me a time for thinking, reading and writing, even more effectively than I usually am able to during the busy time of day. When every other office is empty I make myself a new pot of tea and put on some music, some quiet late afternoon autumn music like Tom Mcrae or Susanne Sundfør. This poem is from Susanne Sundør's album The Brothel.

The Brothel

Purple pavement
Crookfingers knocking on windows without souls
Bodies are swinging from rooftops and poles
Howling through hollows
Restless nights and one night cheap hotels
Oh, I’m only drifting to always come back

And I search for something
Oh, whatever I don’t really care
Driving with their lights off they can be anywhere
Rolling down their windows
Open card with open mouths
Golden teeth and golden cars

You call me your eyes, you call me your mouth, you call me your ears
Still you follow my trail
I’ll do it all, I’ll do whatever you say, God has left me anyway

Love I laid in payment
Stars with stains and heaven and afterglow
Beneath the ashes of echoes buried alive
They are howling through hollows
Once we share their temple of our arms
Now our heads are hung up on walls

We are ruins within ruins
On every corner a gladiator is begging for another century
When no one cut your tongue to know nothing and to know it all
To be both the animal and god

You call me your eyes, you call me your mouth, you call me your ears
Still you follow our trail
We’ll do it all, we’ll do whatever you say, God has left us anyway
You call me your eyes, you call me your mouth, you call me your ears
Still you follow our trail
We’ll do it all, we’ll do whatever you say, God has left us anyway

There are echoes in the garden is anybody listening
There are echoes lost in the garden is anybody listening
They whisper:
The ones who are only living are the ones who are only dying

Komakino

2010-09-06T00:48:00.002+02:00

I reread James O'Barr's The Crow tonight, and just wanted to write down the last poem in the book by Joy Division:

This is the hour when the mysteries emerge
Strangeness so hard to reflect
A moment so moving goes straight
to your heart
Condition that's never been met
The attraction that's held like a wake
deep inside
Something I'll never forget
Pattern is set, the reaction will start
Complete but rejected too soon
Looking ahead in the grip of each tear
Impulse that blinds every move
Shadow that stood by the side of the road
Always reminds me of you
How can I find the right way
to control all the conflicts inside,
All the problems beside
As the questions are right,
and the answers don't fit
Into my way of paying, into my way
of paying

Sonnets in the Night

2010-09-01T00:56:00.003+02:00

Sonnet 23
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might.
O! let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

Sonnet 24
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath steel'd,
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

W. Shakespeare

Unforgiven

2010-08-29T22:41:00.004+02:00

Been on a journey, explored old and new, met people never met before, met friends dear to me. Has returned home, to a challenges new and old.

After having been to London and Bergen for a couple of weeks, in London alone, and returned home alone, I again feel the importance of friends. I travelled to Bergen to see my friend defend his doctoral thesis with the highest of praise, I salute him for his remarkable achievement. To be with friends again was truly a joy, and is the one thing I miss since moving here. Hopefully I will see them soon.

Now summer is over autumn is here, and work will recommence.

Unforgiven 2
Lay beside me, tell me what they've done
Speak the words I wanna hear, to make my demons run
The door is locked now, but it's opened if you're true
If you can understand the me, then I can understand the you

Lay beside me, under wicked sky
Black of day, dark of night, we share this pair of lives
The door cracks open, but there's no sun shining through
Black heart scarring darker still, but there's no sun shining through
No, there's no sun shining through
No, there's no sun shining

What I've felt, what I've known
Turn the pages, turn to stone
Behind the door, should I open it for you?

Yeah
What I've felt, what I've known
Sick and tired, I stand alone
Could you be there, 'cause I'm the one who waits for you
Or are you unforgiven too?

Come lay beside me, this won't hurt I swear
She loves me not, she loves me still, but she'll never love again
She lay beside me, but she'll be there when I'm gone
Black heart scarring darker still, yes she'll be there when I'm gone
Yes she'll be there when I'm gone
Dead sure she'll be there

What I've felt, what I've known
Turn the pages, turn to stone
Behind the door, should I open it for you?

What I've felt, what I've known
Sick and tired, I stand alone
Could you be there, cause I'm the one who waits for you
Or are you unforgiven too?

Lay beside me, tell me what I've done
The door is closed, so are your eyes
But now I see the sun, now I see the sun
Yes, now I see it

What I've felt, what I've known
Turn the pages, turn to stone
Behind the door, should I open it for you

What I've felt, what I've known
So sick and tired, I stand alone
Could you be there, cause I'm the one who waits
The one who waits for you

Oh, what I've felt, what I've known
Turn the pages, just turn to stone
Behind the door, should I open it for you

So I dub thee Unforgiven.

Oh, what I've felt
Oh, what I've known

I take this key (never free)
And I bury it (never me) in you
Because you're unforgiven too!

Never free
Never me
Because you're unforgiven too..

London never fading

2010-08-22T19:58:00.007+02:00

For the past week I have walked the streets of London, in multitudes of crowds, filled to the brim tube fares, lines upon lines of travelling tourists longing for an almost never-ending dream of a city soaked in music, colours, ancient history of kings long since gone, cask of whatever ale guesting the local pub at the moment and endless rows of performances of every kind. The performances of this city are as many faced as the galleries which inhabit it. From the man who plays his drum on the street corner, the Agatha Christie mystery which renews itself night after night never to be fully solved, to streets that never completely empties, just like the pint glasses of the old man in the local pub who also seems to never leave completely. Where ever you wander a show is always in progress, the steps of old St. Paul's invites to a play of old, how often have not a stranger put on his merry face to ask for a two-pence?

I have walked the streets of London many times before, and the show that I see is always new, always ancient, always the same. The ancient stones, the old faces, the familiar sounds and smells, but never fully the same. There is always a new road to take, a street corner never before seen, or a pub never before visited, this is what creates the show that never ends, the London of all time. I have been to many a bookstore in London before, but I always find a book I never read, I have entered many a friendly pub, but I always find a beer never tasted.

To walk the halls of knowledge, art and history I find myself amazed at every turn. I never get bored of either Turner, Shakespeare or the marble halls of the British museum. When entering these great halls, I feel just like the kid I once was, and well, never grew out of, that for ever hungers for more of that abundance of knowledge.

I have, as oftentimes before, walked the streets of London, but these streets are for me not quite the same, not quite new, though, I know not what I will see.

New Book of Poetry

2010-07-13T18:04:00.002+02:00

It is mid summer, the sun, the heat, and the summer holiday have laid my city in a dull haze of calm and relaxation. I have submerged myself in this midsummer slumber and bought a new book of poetry, namely Pablo Neruda, and moved to a shaded spot under a large tree. To read his poems is to wander around in feelings of love and longing, sensuality and desire. In my mind I truly see the images of my own desire, and continue to enjoy the beauty of midsummer.

In You the Earth

Little
rose,
roselet,
at times,
tiny and naked,
it seems
as though you would fit
in one of my hands,
as though I’ll clasp you like this
and carry you to my mouth,
but
suddenly
my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:
you have grown,
your shoulders rise like two hills,
your breasts wander over my breast,
my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin
new-moon line of your waist:
in love you loosened yourself like sea water:
I can scarcely measure the sky’s most spacious eyes
and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth.

P. Neruda

A Summer Night

2010-06-22T00:07:00.003+02:00

These last few months have truly been the most insanely busiest days for a very long time, but perhaps also some of the most interesting in quite a while. Part from my brother getting married, and I being his best man and toastmaster, he and my new sister-in-law came and visited me during Easter, I have travelled to my friends on the West-coast, attended a PhD-course in London and met many new friends, my second conference, have co-founded a research network, an online academic journal, and written the first 100 pages of my dissertation. Yesterday I ended a week of fun, work and an absolutely joyful time with visiting friends. I have also been witness to my first summer month here in the south, which I must admit has not been at all bad.

I now have some time to relax somewhat and devote my time to hopefully read books I have been longing for. I have brought my book with the Auden poems and found one which describes my present summer in this sunny and surprisingly quiet neighbourhood. Over my speakers Julie London's beautiful voice fills the room, and the summer night sky is clear with stars is my view.

Out on the lawn I lie in bed,
Vega conspicuous overhead
In the windless night of June,
As congregated leaves complete
Their day's activity; me feet
Point to the rising moon.

Lucky, this point in time and space
Is chosen as my working-place,
Where the sexy airs of summer,
The bathing hours and the bare arms,
The leisured drives through a land of farms
Are good to a newcomer.
W.H. Auden

Spring and Easter

2010-04-01T04:00:00.002+02:00

Almost all the snow has gone, but there is still some chill in the early morning breeze. There are still some small patches of snow along the road, but spring is rappidly moving, and Easter has already arrived. Some say that this week should be a time of solemn reflextion, quiet reading of books and chocolate, to some degree I agree.

’TIS spring; come out to ramble
The hilly brakes around,
For under thorn and bramble
About the hollow ground
The primroses are found.

And there’s the windflower chilly
With all the winds at play,
And there’s the Lenten lily
That has not long to stay
And dies on Easter day.

And since till girls go maying
You find the primrose still,
And find the windflower playing
With every wind at will,
But not the daffodil,

Bring baskets now, and sally
Upon the spring’s array,
And bear from hill and valley
The daffodil away
That dies on Easter day.

A.E. Housman

Some new words

2010-02-24T17:57:00.004+01:00

It has been a long time since I last posted any new words on this blog, the reasons for this are manifold. I have of late been overladen with all sorts of academic activities, most prominent of all perhaps has been my Oh so facinating doctoral thesis, which slouches ever so painstakingly forwards. There has also been a lot of time devoted to reading all I can get my hands on relating to my fields of interest, this leads me further and further back in time as well as deeper and deeper into quaint and curious volumes of more or less forgotten lore. I can also add that my daily ritual of walking through the forest has, of late, resembled a struggle towards any of the snow laden cornes of the world, of which there seems to be quite so many of these days. Though my office is warm and comfortable, the thought of having to leave the building at the end of the day does seem to keep me here for great while longer than on sunnier days. But, I will not fall into any sour mood of complaints, I do get lots of time to my books, and there must be said; I have vast supply of Twinings Earl Grey.

I was somewhat surprised to see that within this last month several new followers have succumbed to the pleasure of the words posted on this blog, for this I am also very greatful. I hope in the future to be a bit more present, and will try to find ever more poems of depth and beauty.

What 'vaileth truth, or by it to take pain ?
To strive by steadfastness for to attain
How to be just, and flee from doubleness ?
Since all alike, where ruleth craftiness,
Rewarded is both crafty, false, and plain.
Soonest he speeds that most can lie and feign :
True meaning heart is had in high disdain.
Against deceit and cloaked doubleness,
What 'vaileth truth, or perfect steadfastness ?
Deceived is he by false and crafty train,
That means no guile, and faithful doth remain
Within the trap, without help or redress :
But for to love, lo, such a stern mistress,
Where cruelty dwells, alas, it were in vain.
What 'vaileth truth !
T.Wyatt

Poor Fellows

2010-01-24T02:39:00.002+01:00

What it takes on this planet,
to make love to each other in peace.
Everyone pries under your sheets,
everyone interferes with your loving.
They say terrible things about a man and a woman,
who after much milling about,
all sorts of compunctions,
do something unique,
they both lie with each other in one bed.
I ask myself whether frogs are so furtive,
or sneeze as they please.
Whether they whisper to each other in swamps about illegitimate frogs,
or the joys of amphibious living.
I ask myself if birds single out enemy birds,
or bulls gossip with bullocks before they go out in public with cows.
Even the roads have eyes and the parks their police.
Hotels spy on their guests,
windows name names,
canons and squadrons debark on missions to liquidate love.
All those ears and those jaws working incessantly,
till a man and his girl
have to raise their climax,
full tilt,
on a bicycle.

P. Neruda

Water

2010-01-21T02:03:00.006+01:00

These last days, well actually it is the last couple of months, an abundance of water, in form of snow, has been getting on my nerves. Every day I have to drag myself through mountains of unploughed snowy streets and forests, well only one but still, to get to where ever I need to be at a certain time. This is, if nothing else, time consuming, hard work, slippery, cold, annoying, wet after getting inside, as well as demanding since one needs to get dressed up in far too heavy boots and clothing to even attempt to form the thought of opening the door to get out for the mail.

The good thing about having snow is the amusement of having to sit afront of the tv watching facinating shows on themes one knows nothing about, or reading the books that either should have been read for a very long time ago, or books that have been postponed to just such an evening, whilst drinking anything that will help keep the spirit(s) to a maximum. Luckily for me I have an abundance of all of the afore mentioned items and have been craving more and more the last few days. Hopefully it will all go away soon, as I should, by all reckonings, be doing something useful such as writing my dissertation on Renaissance law, drama and cognitive linguistics.

All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water's
Monotone.

The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.

J. Joyce

Good Hours

2009-12-22T23:49:00.003+01:00

It's that time of the year again, there is something in the air, something white and cold, and something rather strange; this time it's actually a snowy white Christmas, and the time when everything, eventually, slows down. These last few months have been for me rather strange and life overturning, but in the end this fasted paced struggle, though there where a often the feeling of nothing at all would move, entered the Peterson Night Train and came to an end. And I decided that it was now time for a break.

All my shopping has come to an end, the tree is lit and the peace has reached even me. I left my solitude in the south and took the Christmas night train to my parents and the busy life of shopping spirit in the city. There is a special feeling one gets from just strolling around in a hectic last minute celebration of this wonderful time of get-toghethers in shopping malls. Though, I also see coffee shops packed with people having a very good time, which is nice since good coffee should be appreciated.

This Christmas is for me a rather nice one, since I for the first time can afford giving those who have been there for me something in return.

As mentioned, peace has reached me at last, and on this Christmasy evening, I am having a splendid time. I have poured myself a most wonderful winter stout, I am listening to old jazz records and taking life with utmost ease.

I wish all my friends a very merry Christmas.

Good Hours

I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.

I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street

Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o’clock of a winter eve.

R. Frost

Blow, Blow thou Winter Wind

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

W. Shakespeare

To Tom Waits

2009-12-07T22:31:00.004+01:00

Have a glass or ten of whisky in honour of Tom Waits' 60th birthday. The man with the voice of days gone bye, which was once described by Daniel Durchholz "like it was soaked in a vat of bourbon, left hanging in the smokehouse for a few months, and then taken outside and run over with a car." His songs take me back to some of my best memories of dark and smoky pubs, sittin alone at the bar drinking dark beer and smoking hand-rolled ciggarettes and just being on your own. He also reminds me of long evening when my writing was suffering from not being written and I had to force words unto the page with the help from a bottle of Scotch and ol' Tom, thanks for that. I raise my whisky filled glass and say "Happy Birthday Tom".

"We are all mad here"

You can hang me in a bottle like a cat
Let the crows pick me clean but for my hat
Where the wailing of a baby
Meets the footsteps of the dead
We're all mad here

As the devil sticks his flag into the mud
Mrs Carol has run off with Reverend Judd
Hell is such a lonely place
And your big expensive face will never last

And you'll die with the rose still on your lips
And in time the heart-shaped bone that was your hips
And the worms, they will climb the rugged ladder of your spine
We're all mad here

And my eyeballs roll this terrible terrain
And we're all inside a decomposing train
And your eyes will die like fish
And the shore of your face will turn to bone.

"Lullaby"

Sun is red; moon is cracked
Daddy's never coming back
Nothing's ever yours to keep
Close your eyes, go to sleep
If I die before you wake
Don't you cry, don't you weep

Nothing's ever as it seems
Climb the ladder to you dreams
If I die before you wake
Don't you cry, don't you weep
Nothing's ever yours to keep
Close your eyes; go to sleep.

New Era and Winter Wonderland

2009-12-07T21:48:00.004+01:00

Finally, I am all settled inn! These last few months have been very strange and hectic, but I managed to back up all my books and my entire life into a set of boxes. After much stress and heavy lifting we was on our way, I got help from my friends to pack and drive the lot south. Though, when I arrived, my supervisor was in Rome and nobody knew of my arrival, so no office, no keys, I was a non-entity. Last week, late last week, all was on its place and my new life could begin.

This is my new neighbourhood:

Since this is very much like a new beginning to my studies I thought it appropriate to quote W. Whitman's "Beginning My Studies":

BEGINNING my studies the first step pleas'd me so much,

The mere fact consciousness, these forms, the power of motion,

The least insect or animal, the senses, eyesight, love,

The first step I say awed me and pleas'd me so much,

I have hardly gone and hardly wish'd to go any farther,

But stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs.

Last week, winter came, and the landskape transformed into pure beauty. So when was heading to work I took some lovely pictures of my daily walk through the forrest:

Christmas is on the doorstep and a song that for me is truly Christmasy is "Walking in the Air" from the childrens' book "The Snowman" by Howard Blake:

Walking in the air, floating the sky...
Floating in the air...

We're walking in the air
We're floating in the moonlit sky
The people far below are sleeping as we fly

We're holding very tight
I'm riding in the midnight blue
I'm finding I can fly so high above with you

Far across the world
The villages go by like dreams
The rivers and the hills
The forest and the streams

Children gaze open mouthed
Taken by surprise
Nobody down below believes their eyes

We're surfing in the air
We're swimming in the frozen sky
We're drifting over icy
mountains floating by

Suddenly swooping low on an ocean deep
Arousing of a mighty monster from its sleep

We're walking in the air
We're dancing in the midnight sky
And everyone who sees us greets us as we fly.

Cats and Owls in the Night

2009-10-30T05:58:00.003+01:00

How can I describe the feeling of movement? How to make clever remarks about rather dull boxes filled with books? Well, I heard an owl just a few days ago which made made me stop and contemplate the night and the morning after night. I sat down on a bench and listend through a Dire Straits record. When I neared the end the had started to crawl up the mountains surrounding Bergen. It was at this time I realized that the owls and cats had left the night, I was nearing my waking hours. Entering my flat at this time, in silence, only the slow whisteling of the morning sun and the dull sound of my flatmates snoring reminded me that I am not alone, and I am rather thankful for that. But, when I was sitting in my room, well actually sitting in my room listening to some goodnight jazz, I glanced out of the window of my bedroom and said hello to an early morning cat who greeted my late night with an early morning greeting.

1

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

2

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

Lord Tennyson

A traveller is contemplating his journey

2009-10-12T23:12:00.003+02:00

I am again about to embark on a journey to an unknown place and for a measure of time I do not know. The pursuit of happines and knowledge will take me to places I do no yet know and people I have yet to meet. For the last couple of days my time has been spent on sitting in the library coffee bar chatting with friends about the books we are currently reading and the films we are about to read, I have been drinking beer while discussing international politics, television programs and pizza recipes all jumbled together forming a good time well spent.

These few days I have been sitting in my comfy chair drinking tea thinking of knowledge yet to gain and new friends to drink coffee and discuss life, universe and something else not yet known to me with.

I can with confidence say that I am truly looking forward to undertake a new adventure.

MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path there be or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,	5
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
—If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:	10
With Thought and Love companions of our way—
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,—
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

W. Wordsworth

New Era

2009-09-20T01:20:00.004+02:00

A couple of days ago I got an email that told me that I am to become a research fellow at a university on the other side of the country. This filled me with joy and excitement, but also with some sadness. I am excited to start on a new road, a road filled with opportunities and challenges as well as an enormous amount of joy to be allowed to wander freely in my pace and direction. The last couple of days have been somewhat strange, not really knowing what to do. I have tried to find out what is happening and what is going to happen. I have found out that I'll deal with that a bit later.

What have struck me with sadness are the people I leave behind me when I leave. People I love and care a lot about. On this I have no more words.

...and the road becomes my bride
I have stripped of all but pride
so in her I do confide
and she keeps me satisfied
gives me all I need

...and with dust in throat I crave
only knowledge will I save
to the game you stay a slave
rover wanderer
nomad vagabond
call me what you will

but I'll take my time anywhere
free to speak my mind anywhere
and I'll redefine anywhere
anywhere I may roam
where I lay my head is home
Metallica

How many roads you’ve traveled
How many dreams you’ve chased
Across sand and sky and gravel
Looking for one safe place

Will you make a smoother landing
When you break your fall from grace
Into the arms of understanding
Looking for one safe place

Life is trial by fire
And love’s the sweetest taste
And I pray it lifts us higher
To one safe place
Marc Cohn

Once and no more: so said my life,
When in my arms inchained
She unto mine her lips did move,
And so my heart she gained.
Thus done, she saith, "Away I must
For fear of being missed ;
Your heart's made over but in trust :"
And so again she kissed.
John Cotgrave

Nocturne Blues

2009-08-30T01:59:00.003+02:00

It's night, the rain is hitting hard against my window, not been feeling well for a couple of days. Tonight I'am drinking red wine and listening to blues and Charlie Haden. I must confess that there are nights when a blues is the best kind of music. Remebering the old bar, half crowded with dusty figures of a forgotten time, cold beer, a timeless world forgotten by all but those who happened to be there when it all was washed away by fleeting time. I can still smell the sweet whiskey and the mellow pipe tobacco they used to smoke, though it is slowly fading away into shadow of the past, with half-forgotten childhood dreams and summer evenings. How do you make time slow down?

Nocturne
Now through night's caressing grip
Earth and all her ocans slip,
Capes of China slide away
From her fingers into day
And th'Americas incline
Coasts towards her shadow line.

Now the ragged vagrants creep
Into crooked holes to sleep:
Just and unjust, worst and best,
Change their places as they rest:
Awkward lovers like in fields
Where disdainful beauty yields:

While the splendid and the proud
Naked stand before the crowd
And the losing gambler gains
And the beggar entertains:
May sleep's healing power extend
Through these hours to our friend.
Unpursued by hostile force,
Traction engine, bull or horse
Or revolting succubus;
Calmly till the morning break
Let him lie, then gently wake.

W.H, Auden

The final curtain

2009-08-09T04:43:00.004+02:00

I am dreadfully sorry for not writing in too long a time. This night however I felt like reading yet another upbeat poem by one of my most beloved poets. I am entering the end of a holiday crowded with meddelsome northerners and troublesome days with rain and endless complaints, though all this is nearing the end. It is soon time for the final curtain call and I will be back at my books and to my rather somber thirst for even more books.

Whilst sitting in my bedroom, listenting to Charlie Haden's Nocturne, which I find suitable at this time of night, can't help thinking, with a somewhat melancholy mind that yet another summer has passed and autumn will unavoidably be following soon behind. I do, though, look forward to a few weeks of renewed friendship and merry laughter, the odd klinking of glasses and the oh so familiar songs of youth and spirit, even i

the final curtain on one of the longest running
musicals ever, some people claim to have
seen it over one hundred times.
I saw it on the tv news, that final curtain:
flowers, cheers, tears, a thunderous
accolade.
I have not seen this particular musical
but I know if I had that I wouldn't have
been able to bear it, it would have
sickened me.
trust me on this, the world and its
peoples and its artful entertainment has
done very little for me, only to me.
still, let them enjoy one another, it will
keep them from my door
and for this, my own thunderous
accolade.

C. Bukowski

A hot summer night

2009-07-15T22:15:00.003+02:00

It's summer, it's rather hot, it's pretty humid and I am reading French poets whilst sipping to Scotch Whisky... Thought that just a short post would suffice this time. Good Night!

On Summer Nights

On summer nights, before the shining shop windows,
When the sap pulses beneath the tarnished halos
Formed by the grillwork at the feet of fragile elms,
Leaving black gatherings, gay groups or stay-at-homes,
Who lights up cheap cigars and pipes and puff away,
Into this narrow, half-stone stall I wend my way.
While overhead hangs a poster - Iblend, it states -
I imagine that winter also inudates
Tibet in running water, washing the yellow tide,
And that winter wind spares nothing left outside.

A. Rimbaud

Passing through a City

2009-07-12T22:58:00.004+02:00

Yesterday was one of those days when I just plug in my iPod and walk around in the city to get some perspective and some peace. I enjoy these fleeting moments of passing through crowds of unfamiliar faces and unknown streets. Whenever I come to a new city, or an old city I've visited time and time again, I always do the same rutine, music and walking. It may not only be crowded streets I pass through, but empty shops or shops packed with people. I like to pass through everyday life situations only to see the moment become something special, a fleeting moment captured. I sat down on a table outside a coffee-shop to take in the buzzing of the place around me, at this particular day, a clear summer day, the city was full of eager turists wanting almost the same as me; to take in as much they could in a single day. They were all cueing at all possible places they could find to cue up at, they wanted to see everything in just a couple of fleeting moments, waiting until later to take it all in, to look at a screen with a picture and say "I do not know excatly when or where this was taken, but it must have been nice." Well, I sat at the table for a few more moments and walked away to listen to some more music, just passing through.

ONCE I pass'd through a populous city, imprinting my brain, for
future use, with its shows, architecture, customs, and
traditions;
Yet now, of all that city, I remember only a woman I casually met
there, who detain'd me for love of me;
Day by day and night by night we were together,--All else has long
been forgotten by me;
I remember, I say, only that woman who passionately clung to me;
Again we wander--we love--we separate again;
Again she holds me by the hand--I must not go!
I see her close beside me, with silent lips, sad and tremulous.

Walt Whitman

Science and Procrastination

2009-07-08T22:56:00.002+02:00

A few days ago a friend of mine showed me this television series Fringe, which I immediately fell for. I have been watching the first 10 episodes just in a matter of days. I must confess since my studies into cognitive science is for a mere literary scholar somewhat of a mystery and a curiosity, but also at the same time a bit alarming, I suddenly remebered dear old Edgar Allan's take on science. I would also reccomend for all who have some time to kill, or simply want to procrastinate instead, to read Poe's excellent short story: The Case of Mr. M. Valdemar while on the subject of bizarre science.

Sonnet to Science

SCIENCE, meet daughter of old time thou art,
Who alterest all things with thy piercing eyes!
Why pray'st thou thus upon the poet's heart —
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities!

How shall he love thee, or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering,
To seek for treasure in the jewell'd skies,
Albeit he soar with an undaunted wing.

Hast thou not dragg'd Diana from her car,
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood,
To seek for shelter in some happier star,
The gentle Nais from the fountain flood.

The elfin from the greenwood and from me,
The summer's dream beneath the shrubbery.

Daisy

2009-07-03T13:45:00.005+02:00

At the present I am sitting in an office helping costumers in need. Though, I would rather have been swimming in a cool lake or some warm and relaxing place. This has been a whole week of sun and summer as rarely seen, and I have been trapped inside with distressed and somewhat angry costumers also wishing to be outside rather than arguing with me. So, I found a poem by William Carlos William, "Daisy", longing for a riverbank with a good book and some refreshments...

The dayseye hugging the earth

in August, ha! Spring is

gone down in purple,

weeds stand high in the corn,

the rainbeaten furrow

is clotted with sorrel

and crabgrass, the

branch is black under

the heavy mass of the leaves--

The sun is upon a slender green stem

ribbed lengthwise.

He lies on his back--

it is a woman also--

he regards his former

majesty and

round the yellow center,

split and creviced and done into

minute flowerheads, he sends out

his twenty rays-- a little

and the wind is among them

to grow cool there!

One turns the thing over

in his hand and looks

at it from the rear: brownedged,

green and pointed scales

armor his yellow.

But turn and turn,

the crisp petals remain

brief, translucent, greenfastened,

barely touching at the edges:

blades of limpid seashell.

Along the streets of Prague

2009-06-14T10:58:00.003+02:00

Sitting in a Starbucks cafe in the middle of Prague, just by the Charles bridge, the one with all the statues, I am almost a bit baffled by the complete mix of history and culture in this city. As you can see in the picture below, I am standing in front of an old building with its art nouveau front, and in the same building there is a Mango fashion store. It is almost Kafkaesque...

I also found this poet, Louis Armand, an aussie living and teaching here in Prague. Although I have not, as the poem describes, travelled by the Nighttrain, but maybe some day I will.

NIGHTTRAIN

the allegory is ended where the window
across from you—opening
to the left & right
like a hollow stage—phantom
fleeing ... but the day after tomorrow
there is also time
which can be banished
of every one of those senses—the un-
charted space of
enactment foreshortened to memory
the distant pitch of factory sirens'
tedious iteration—brooding
over the strange absence between—
when you find yourself anonymous
as any other passenger (the ticket in your hand
no longer proof of destination) ...

nearer they came: it's impossible to know
the degree of solitude you’ll reach
once fate touches you ... & the wind
pushing behind the glass
almost visible—frightened by its
humanness (a moment later the light outside
has faded against the roof-line)—
was it death that was between us then?

Et lite vår/sommer dikt på norsk

2009-06-01T02:26:00.002+02:00

Tenkte at jeg, ettersom jeg, mer eller mindre, kun har skrevet på engelsk på denne bloggen, skulle ha en kort liten post på norsk. Som jeg nevnte i forrige post, så er det nå deilig sommer med parkopphold, iste og is, og en av de beste tidene på året til å bruke mesteparten av den lyse tiden til å lese alt jeg ikke får lest ellers. En forfatter som da ofte dukker opp er Harald Sverdrup, ettersom det kan bli sagt at vi ikke helt ennå er fullt i sommermodus, men heller i en skumringstime mellom vår og sommer, synes jeg at Sverdrups lille dikt "Våren er en videofilm" passer utmerket.

Våren er en videofilm med vold og porno,
spissrotgang og underlivslukt av hegg og berberis,
surt piss fra bakgårder, søt lukt av svanger skogbunn,
regnvåt ensomhet under svarte paraplyer,
glimt av solbyen Nirvana, menns og kvinners nakenhet
åpenbaret i fragmenter, små frydefulle hikst.

Rovfugl svever inn i himmelens blå redsel,
forfølgelsesvanvidd flykter rundt i vinden
og får kongler og en håndfull sand i hodet.
Svarttrosten i asylparken synger fiolett med gule gnister.
Et formørket sinn vil sette punktum for sitt liv,
men blir reddet av en solstråle.

Summer Holiday

2009-06-01T00:31:00.004+02:00

The summer has finally arrived, and so has my first real holiday in years. Since the completion of my Latin exam last Thuesday my action of the has definetly been an equally opposite reaction to the days before: utter non action. It has, without doubt, a sated experience. As to summery weather, it has likewise been warm, sunny, a pleasent continous founderous view of delightful and beautiful people, and a wonderous smell of barbeque in the air.

Whilst laying in the park, I came across a poem by D.H. Lawrence, which by all accounts suits these last few days perfectly:

How strange it would be if some women came forward and said:
We are sun-women!
We belong neither to men nor our children nor even ourselves
but to the sun.

And how delicious it is to feel sunshine upon me!
And how delicious to open like a marigold
when a man comes looking down upon one
with sun in his face, so that a woman cannot but open
like a marigold to the sun
and thrill with glittering rays.

Jacob Marley

2009-05-09T17:22:00.003+02:00

Well, there are some days that the reading of Latin verbs is not what I most long for. Some days Jacob Marley has left his chains on my doorstep and the memories of yesteryear come to visit.

Well, today a friend told me this sorry tale
as he stood there trembling and turning pale
he said each day's harder to get on the scale
sort of like Jacob Marley's chain.
But it's not like life's such a vale of tears
it's just full of thoughts that act as souvenirs
for those tiny blunders made in yesteryear
that comprise Jacob Marley's chain.
Well, I had a little metaphor to state my case
it encompassed the condition of the human race
but to my dismay, it left without a trace
except for the sound of Jacob Marley's chain.
Now there is no story left to tell
so I think I'd rather just go on to Hell
where there's a snowball's chance that the personnel
might help to carry Jacob Marley's chain.
help to carry Jacob Marley's chain.
carry Jacob Marley's chain.

A. Mann

Some Mondays

2009-04-27T19:17:00.003+02:00

Some mondays you know that you should have stayed in bed. Some mondays are too rainy, too hung over, too busy, and too much work for not staying in. Some mondays I know to be all about the comfort of my bed and not about sour cold coffee and locked doors. Some mondays I'd prefer to be just a long sunday night.

The silicon chip inside her head
Gets switched to overload
And nobody’s gonna go to school today
She’s gonna make them stay at home
And daddy doesn’t understand it
He always said she was good as gold
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to be show-ow-ow-ow-own?

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oot the whole day down

The Telex machine is kept so clean
And it types to a waiting world
And mother feels so shocked
Father’s world is rocked
And their thoughts turn to their own little girl
Sweet 16 ain’t that peachy keen
Now that ain’t so neat to admit defeat
They can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reasons do you need?
Oh Oh Oh Oh

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oot
The whole day down, down, down, shoot it all down

And all the playing's stopped in the playground now
She wants to play with the toys a while
And school's out early and soon we'll be learning
And the lesson today is how to die
And then the bullhorn crackles
And the captain tackles
(With the problems of the how's and why's)
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to die, die?
Oh Oh Oh

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like
I don’t like (Tell me why)
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like
I don’t like (Tell me why)
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don't like Mondays
I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oot the whole day down.

B. Geldof

Almost six o'clock

2009-04-12T05:08:00.005+02:00

Well, there are those nights that you instantly fall asleep the moment you hit anything soft and pillowish, and there are those nights when you get to see the sunrise before going to bed. I must confess that I enjoy those nights that will never end. Chatting away with friends far away, listening to Waits. This has been such a night. But, now one might say it is nearing closing time.

Well I hope that I don't fall in love with you
'Cause falling in love just makes me blue,
Well the music plays and you display your heart for me to see,
I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

Well the room is crowded, people everywhere
And I wonder, should I offer you a chair?
Well if you sit down with this old clown, take that frown and break it,
Before the evening's gone away, I think that we could make it,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

Well the night does funny things inside a man
These old tom-cat feelings you don't understand,
Well I turn around to look at you, you light a cigarette,
I wish I had the guts to bum one, but we've never met,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

I can see that you are lonesome just like me, and it being late,
You'd like some some company,
Well I turn around to look at you, and you look back at me,
The guy you're with has up and split, the chair next to you's free,
And I hope that you don't fall in love with me.

Now it's closing time, the music's fading out
Last call for drinks, I'll have another stout.
Well I turn around to look at you, you're nowhere to be found,
I search the place for your lost face, guess I'll have another round
And I think that I just fell in love with you.

T.Waits

Misty Mountains on the Way Home

2009-04-09T03:23:00.004+02:00

There are some rather pleasant sights to see whilst driving home over the mountains, by driving I mean of course relaxing on a train that moves steadily, listening to the exquisite words of an Oxonian don read aloud by a tremendously British fellow, one can enjoy a magnificent vista of pure white. This is what I newly have experienced. Would it were just a few hours shorter. I came to think, when, as mentioned, listening to the hazardous adventures read in a outstandingly soft tone, about misty mountains. I must say that I find it most disturbing to see people dressed up in strange contraptions ready to fling themselves down from a mountain top. But then again, having spent quite a few Easters in a somewhat gray city just around April, I remembered a small poem by Carl Sandburg:

"Just Before April Came"

The Snow piles in dark places are gone.
Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear.
The gravel of all shallow places shines.
A white pigeon reels and somersaults.

Frogs plutter and squdge - and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin
steel sliver of melody.
Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.
A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs.
I might ask: Who are these people?

An Angel in the Library

2009-04-06T00:06:00.004+02:00

There's a book called
"A Dictionary of Angels."
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered

The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.

Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.

She's very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.

I hear nothing, but she does.

C. Simic

Gentleman Alone

2009-04-03T01:48:00.004+02:00

The young maricones and the horny muchachas,
The big fat widows delirious from insomnia,
The young wives thirty hours' pregnant,
And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night,
Like a collar of palpitating sexual oysters
Surround my solitary home,
Enemies of my soul,
Conspirators in pajamas
Who exchange deep kisses for passwords.
Radiant summer brings out the lovers
In melancholy regiments,
Fat and thin and happy and sad couples;
Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon,
There is a continual life of pants and panties,
A hum from the fondling of silk stockings,
And women's breasts that glisten like eyes.
The salary man, after a while,
After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night,
Has decisively fucked his neighbor,
And now takes her to the miserable movies,
Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes,
And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down
With his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes.
The night of the hunter and the night of the husband
Come together like bed sheets and bury me,
And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are masturbating,
And the animals mount each other openly,
And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically,
And cousins play strange games with cousins,
And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient,
And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought,
Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast,
And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly
On beds big and tall as ships:
So, eternally,
This twisted and breathing forest crushes me
With gigantic flowers like mouth and teeth
And black roots like fingernails and shoes.

P. Neruda

Just Take Five

2009-04-01T00:15:00.002+02:00

Just stop and take a little time out with me.
Oh just take five, just take five.
Stop your busy day and take the time out to see
that I'm alive, I'm alive.

Oh, though I'm going out of my way
Just so I can pass by each day
not a single word do we say
It's a pantomine, I'm out of time.
Still I know our eyes often meet,
I feel tingles down to my feet,
When you smile, that's much too discreet.
Sends me on my way.

Now wouldn't it be better not to be so polite
when you could offer a light?
Just start a little conversation now, it's alright
when you're taking five...(ah-ha)

Five!

Won't ya take a little time out with me (my pretty)
Baby take five.
Stop your busy day and take the time to see, girl, that i'm alive
Though I'm going out of my way
Just so I can pass by each day
Not a single word do we say
It's a pantomine, I'm out of time
Still I know our eyes often meet,
I feel tingles down to my feet,
When you smile, that's much too discreet.
Sends me on my way.

Wouldn't it be better not to be so polite, pretty mama
Don't you know that you could offer me a light?
Start a little conversation now, it's alright
when you're taking five...

Won't ya take a little time out with me, girl
Come take five
Stop your busy day and take the time to see that I'm alive
Oh, though I'm going out of my way
so I can pass by each day
not a single word do we say
It's a pantomine, I'm out of time
Still I know our eyes often meet,
I feel tingles down to my feet,
When you smile, that's much too discreet.
Sends me on my way.

Baby,just don't say hello and do not stare
you could offer your hand
hugging and a-chugging it could be so grand
oh take fiiive

If you want to

A. Jarreau

careful hands

2009-03-31T02:57:00.002+02:00

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

e.e.cummings

A Green World

2009-03-26T17:54:00.002+01:00

I fell into the ocean
When you became my wife
I risked it all against the sea
To have a better life
Marie you are the wild blue sky
Men do foolish things
You turn kings into beggars
And beggars into kings

Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
We can bring back the old days again
When all the world is green

The face forgives the mirror
The worm forgives the plow
The questions begs the answer
Can you forgive me somehow?
Maybe when our story's over
We'll go where it's always spring
The band is playing our song again
And all the world is green

Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
Can we bring back the old days again?
And all the world is green

The moon is yellow silver
On the things that summer brings
It's a love you'd kill for
And all the world is green
He's balancing a diamond
On a blade of grass
The dew will settle on our graves
When all the world is green

Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
We can bring back the old days again
When all the world is green

He's balancing a diamond
On a blade of grass
The dew will settle on our graves
When all the world is green.

T.Waits

See the World

2009-03-25T01:29:00.003+01:00

Day to day
Where do you want to be?
cose now you're trying to pick a fight
With everyone you need

You seem like a soldier
Who's lost his composure
You're wounded and playing a waiting game
In no-man's land no-one's to blame

See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you want

Empty handed, surrounded by a senseless scene
With nothing of significance
Besides a shadow of a dream
You sound like an old joke
You're worn-out, a bit broke
An' askin me time and time again
When the answer's still the same

See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you want

You've got a chance to put things right
So how's it going to be?
Lay down your arms now
And put us beyond doubt
So reach out it's not too far away
Don't mess around now, don't delay

See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you want.

Gomez

The Sun warms everything

2009-03-23T20:27:00.003+01:00

The sun warms everything,
pure and gentle,
once again it reveals to the world
April's face,
the soul of man
is urged towards love
and joys are governed
by the boy-god.

All this rebirth
in spring's festivity
and spring's power
bids us to rejoice;
it shows us paths we know well,
and in your springtime
it is true and right
to keep what is yours.

Love me faitfully!
See how I am faithful:
with all my heart
and with all my soul,
I am with you
even when I am far away.
Whosoever loves this much
turns on the wheel.

Carmina Burana

Another Time

2009-03-20T01:21:00.001+01:00

For us like any other fugitive,
Like the numberless flowers that cannot number
And all the beasts that need not remember,
It is today in which we live.

So many try to say Not Now,
So many have forgotten how
To say I Am, and would be
Lost, if they could, in history.

Bowing, for instance, with such old-world grace
To a proper flag in a proper place,
Muttering like ancients as they stump upstairs
Of Mine and His or Ours and Theirs.

Just as if time were what they used to will
When it was gifted with possession still,
Just as if they were wrong
In no more wishing to belong.

No wonder then so many die of grief,
So many are so lonely as they die;
No one has yet believed or liked a lie,
Another time has other lives to live.

W.H. Auden

Reality sandwich

2009-03-19T14:48:00.003+01:00

On Burroughs' Work

The method must be pures meat
and no symbolic dressing,
actual visions & actual prisons
as seen then and now.

Prisons and visions presented
with rare descriptions
corresponding exactly to those
of Alcatraz and Rose.

A naked lunch is natural to us,
we eat reality sandwiches.
But allegories are so much lettuce.
Don't hide the madness.

A. Ginsberg

Grey Rooms

2009-03-18T01:59:00.002+01:00

Well I've been here before
Sat on the floor in a grey grey room
Where I stay in all day
I don't eat, but I play with this grey grey food

Desolé, if someone is prayin' then I might break out,
Desolé, even if I scream I can't scream that loud

I'm all alone again
Crawling back home again
Stuck by the phone again

Well I've been here before
Sat on a floor in a grey grey mood
Where I stay up all night
And all that I write is a grey grey tune

So pray for me child, just for a while
That I might break out yeah
Pray for me child
Even a smile would do for now

'Cause I'm all alone again
Crawling back home again
Stuck by the phone again

Have I still got you to be my open door
Have I still got you to be my sandy shore
Have I still got you to cross my bridge in this storm
Have I still got you to keep me warm

If I squeeze my grape and I drink my wine
Coz if I squeeze my grape and I drink my wine
Oh coz nothing is lost, it's just frozen in frost,
And it's opening time, there's no-one in line

But I've still got me to be your open door,
I've still got me to be your sandy shore
I've still got me to cross your bridge in this storm
And I've still got me to keep you warm.

D. Rice

The Phoenix and the Ashes

2009-03-12T23:04:00.003+01:00

O Blest unfabled Incense Tree,
That burns in glorious Araby,
With red scent chalicing the air,
Till earth-life grow Elysian there!

Half buried to her flaming breast
In this bright tree, she makes her nest,
Hundred sunn'd Phoenix! When she must
Crumble at length to hoary dust!

Her gorgous death-bed! Her rich pyre
Burnt up with aromatic fire!
Her urn, sight high from spoiler men!
Her birthplace when self-born again!

The mountainless green wilds among,
Here ends she her unechoing song!
With amber tears and oderous sighs
Mourn'd by the desert where she dies!

Laid like the young fawn mossily
In sun-green vales of Araby,
I woke hard by the Phoenix tree
That with shadeless boughs flamed over me,

And upward call'd for a dumb cry
With moonbread orbs of wonder I
Beheld the immortal Bird on high
Glassing the great Sun in her eye.

Stedfast she gazed upon his fire,
Still her destroyer and her sire!
As if to his her soul of flame
Had flown already whence it came;

Like those that sit and glare so still,
Intense with their death struggle, till
We touch, and curdle at their chill!
But breathing yet while she doth burn
The deathless Daughter of the Sun!

Slowly to crimson embers turn
The beauties of the brightsome one.
O'er the broad nest her silver wings
Shook down their wasteful glitterings;

Her brinded neck high arch'd in air
Like a small rainbow faded there;
But brighter glow'd her plumy crown
Mouldering to golden ashes down;

With fume of sweet woods, to the skies,
Pure asa Saint's adoring sighs,
Warm as a prayer in Paradise,
Her life-breath rose in sacrifice!

The while with shrill triumphant tone
Sounding aloud, aloft, alone,
Ceaseless her joyful deathwail she
Sang to departing Araby!

George Darley

I miss you, and love you...

2009-03-01T03:43:00.003+01:00

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height.

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight.

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints.

I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life;

and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.

E. Browning

La Fee Verte

2009-02-25T00:36:00.001+01:00

Even when she walks she seems to dance!
Her garments writhe and glisten like long snakes
obedient to the rhythm of the wands
by which a fakir wakens them to grace.
Like both the desert and the desert sky
insensible to human suffering,
and like the ocean’s endless labyrinth
she shows her body with indifference.
Precious minerals are her polished eyes,
and in her strange symbolic nature
angel and sphinx unite,
where diamonds, gold, and steel dissolve into one light,
shining forever, useless as a star,
the sterile woman’s icy majesty.

Charles Baudelaire

Like the Gods Of the Sun

2009-02-23T15:30:00.002+01:00

As I draw up my breath,
And silver fills my eyes.
I kiss her still,
For she will never rise.
On my weak body,
Lays her dying hand.
Through those meadows of Heaven,
Where we ran.
Like a thief in the night,
The wind blows so light.
It wars with my tears,
That won't dry for many years.
"Loves golden arrow
At her should have fled,
And not Deaths ebon dart
To strike her dead."

Some Changes and Some new Words

2009-02-22T00:43:00.005+01:00

As time has flown by and I have read exhaustively these past few month I now try another deal with other words.

With these opening words I will give the floor to the thoughts of Deadalus as a starter to smothen the path I now have taken:

"It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle’s phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and in my mind’s darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms."

With the words of Wallace Stevens the thoughts go on:

The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.

At this very end the last thoughts are in the words of Auden:

What does the song hope for? And his moved hands
A little way from the birds, the shy, the delightful?
To be bewildered and happy,
Or most of all the knowledge of life?

But the beautiful are content with the sharp notes of the air;
The warmth is enough. O if winter really
Oppose, if the weak snowlake,
What will the wishm what will the dance do?

Thank you, and good night.

The Call

2008-09-30T01:11:00.002+02:00

It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word

And then that word grew louder and louder
Til it was a battle cry

I'll come back
When you call me
No need to say goodbye

Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never
Been this way before

All you can do is try to know
Who your friends are
As you head off to the war

Pick a star on the dark horizon
And follow the light

You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye

You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye..

Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to forget

Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
Til they're before your eyes

You'll come back
When they call you
No need to say good bye

You'll come back
When they call you
No need to say good bye..

For Good

2008-09-08T01:42:00.001+02:00

I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you:

Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good.

Queen and Soldier

2008-07-28T21:58:00.002+02:00

The soldier came knocking upon the queen's door
He said, "I am not fighting for you any more"
The queen knew she'd seen his face someplace before
And slowly she let him inside.
He said, "I've watched your palace up here on the hill
And I've wondered who's the woman for whom we all kill
But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will
Only first I am asking you why."
Down in the long narrow hall he was led
Into her rooms with her tapestries red
And she never once took the crown from her head
She asked him there to sit down.
He said, "I see you now, and you are so very young
But I've seen more battles lost than I have battles won
And I've got this intuition, says it's all for your fun
And now will you tell me why?"
The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye
She said, "You won't understand, and you may as well not try"
But her face was a child's, and he thought she would cry
But she closed herself up like a fan.
And she said, "I've swallowed a secret burning thread
It cuts me inside, and often I've bled"
He laid his hand then on top of her head
And he bowed her down to the ground.
"Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel
As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed
But I won't march again on your battlefield"
And he took her to the window to see.
And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray
And she wanted more than she ever could say
But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away
And would not look at his face again.
And he said, "I want to live as an honest man
To get all I deserve and to give all I can
And to love a young woman who I don't understand
Your highness, your ways are very strange."
But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break
And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached
She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait
She would only be a moment inside.
Out in the distance her order was heard
And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word
And while the queen went on strangeling in the solitude she preferred
The battle continued on

Suzanne Vega

I look into my Glass

2008-07-16T21:36:00.002+02:00

I LOOK into my glass,
And view my wasting skin,
And say, “Would God it came to pass
My heart had shrunk as thin!”

For then, I, undistrest	5
By hearts grown cold to me,
Could lonely wait my endless rest
With equanimity.

But Time, to make me grieve,
Part steals, lets part abide;	10
And shakes this fragile frame at eve
With throbbings of noontide.

T. Hardy

strangers

2008-07-06T01:00:00.002+02:00

stop me if you've heard this one
i feel as though we've met before
perhaps i'm mistaken
but it's just that i remind you
of someone you used to care about
but that was long ago
do you think i'd fall for that
i wasn't born yesterday
besides i never talk to strangers anyway

i ain't a bad guy when you get to know me
i just thought there ain't no harm
hey just try minding your own business
bud who asked you to annoy me
with your sad repartee
besides i never talk to strangers anyway

your life's a dimestore novel
this town is full of guys like you
and you're looking for someone to take the place of her
and you're bitter cause he left you
that's why you're drinkin in this bar
well only suckers fall in love
with perfect strangers

it always takes one to know one stranger
maybe we're just wiser now
and been around the block so many times
that we don't notice
that we're all just perfect strangers
as long as we ignore
that we all begin as strangers
just before we find
we really aren't strangers anymore

t.waits

Nothing Survives

2008-06-26T14:49:00.003+02:00

i really know my place/ it says i am small
don't look into my face/ it says it all

there in the dark light/ confusion is born
i think i am spineless/ my dreams are all torn

heavy atmosphere/ the fear/ who cares?

there in the raincloud/ the answer lies
but the reality/ always defied

heavy atmosphere/ the fear/ who cares?

i thought i knew my place/ thought i was small
but now i know for sure/ i'm nothing at all
there on the corner/ i gave a sigh
and then i realized/ nothing had survived
nothing had survived

S.A.Myklebost

My Weeping Heart

2008-06-16T00:43:00.003+02:00

My weeping heart on the deack drools spit;
They soil it with cigartte butts,
They spatter it with slop shit;
My weeping heart on the deck drools spit.
The soldiers drink and laugh at it;
The sound of laughing hurts my guts.
My weeping heart on the deck drools spit;
They soil it with cigarette butts.

Soldiers' cocks are a black burlesque;
They rape my heart with what they say.
In scrawls on the mast, grotesque
Soldiers' cocks are a black burlesque.
Ocean, abracadabrantesque,
Take my heart and wash it away!
Soldiers' cocks are a black burlesque;
They rape my heart with what they say.

When they are done, and all worn out
How will I act, my stolen heart?
All I will hear is a drunken shout
When they are done and all worn out.
I will throw up and then pass out,
I know, with my heart torn apart
When they are done, and all worn out.
How will I act, my stolen heart?

A. Rimbaud

Big Night on the Town

2008-06-15T01:06:00.003+02:00

drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.

you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.

you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star Turd
where love died
laughing.

C. Bukowski

The Sun Rising

2008-06-09T01:10:00.002+02:00

BUSY old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think ?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."

She's all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.

J. Donne

Blues

2008-05-22T23:58:00.003+02:00

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H.Auden

Evening Song

2008-05-20T02:42:00.004+02:00

I wait in the dark once more,
Swung between space and space:
Before my mirror I lift my hands
And face my remembered face.
Is it I who stand in a question here,
Asking to know my name? …
It is I, yet I know not whither I go,
Nor why, nor whence I came.

It is I, who awoke at dawn
And arose and descended the stair,
Conceiving a god in the eye of the sun,—
In a woman’s hands and hair.
It is I whose flesh is grey with the stones
I builded into a wall:
With a mournful melody in my brain
Of a tune I cannot recall …

There are roses to kiss: and mouths to kiss;
And the sharp-pained shadow of death.
I remember a rain-drop on my cheek,—
A wind like a fragrant breath …
And the star I laugh on tilts through heaven;
And the heavens are dark and steep …
I will forget these things once more
In the silence of sleep.

C. Aiken

Leaving

2008-05-10T15:17:00.002+02:00

Change the locks on the door.
Put out the light in the hall.
I do not live here anymore

Put the world in a box.
Turn the sign to the street.
Aim for where horizon and blue skies, meet

But all I know is
I’m not ready yet
For the light to dim
Got a suitcase, got regrets
But I’m hopeful yet

I’ve been a gifted thief
Stole everything for the cause
I never had fingers as light as yours

So wake up pretty girl
See the hope in small things
Disappointment can wear you thin

But all I know is
I’m not ready yet
For the light to dim
Got a suitcase, got regrets
But I’m hopeful yet
And I’ll raise this glass of wine
And I’ll say your name

So let’s be killers babe
Make the great escape
From all the bitter words
Of every crowded street and empty heart
It’s Christmas day, Brooklyn in the rain
But I am safe inside a better world of hope and memory
Drunk on velvet wine, southern cross for light
Deal your cards and hope that I can play a better hand this time.

T. McRae

Still Here

2008-04-20T21:42:00.002+02:00

You haven't looked at me that way in years
You dreamed me up and left me here
How long was I dreaming for
What was it you wanted me for

You haven't looked at me that way in years
Your watch has stopped and the pond is clear
Someone turn the lights back off
I'll love you til all time is gone

You haven't looked at me that way in years
But I'm still here.

T. Waits

Rochester's Farewell

2008-04-18T00:15:00.000+02:00

Farewell

If, underneath death's cold wing,
His restless soul should fly away,
Beyond the grasp of fools,
T'would meet with the bliss they deny,
So stand for him, kneel for him,
As he lies low in kneaded clay,
Pray for him, who prayed too late,
That he might shine on judgement day.

Kyrie Eleison. Christe Eleison.
Kyrie Eleison. Christe Eleison.

O Domine Deus dona nobis pacem.
O Domine Deus dona nobis pacem.

Lonesome Years

2008-03-29T16:26:00.002+01:00

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

E.A.P.

Iron Bells

2008-03-21T02:44:00.001+01:00

Hear the tolling of the bells
Iron Bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people - ah, the people
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All Alone
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone
They are neither man nor woman
They are neither brute nor human
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells:
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells
Bells, bells, bells
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

E.A.P.

A Kiss to Remember

2008-03-03T03:25:00.002+01:00

Open me
And drink up my scarlet
Kiss me deep
Kiss me deep and love me forever more
Bloody love
Bloody love inside of you
Swallow me
Thank God, there's nothing I can do

Come with me my friend, come and see the end
And let me swallow up your pain
Leave the village lights, step into the night
Open your mouth to my bloody rain
And at your second birth, we will slay the earth
And stalk mankind 'til Heaven burns
Just lay down for me, naked for me to see
It's just one kiss, that's all I need

Take me down
Down to the bloody shore
Dig me deep, dig me deep
And leave me forever more
Lay me down
Down with all of them
And forget me
Like you forgot the rest of the rest of them.

MDB

Moonbeams and the Sea

2008-03-01T00:04:00.003+01:00

THE fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle—
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea—
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Shelley

Metamorphoses of a Vampire

2008-02-17T21:19:00.003+01:00

Meanwhile, from her red mouth the woman, in husky tones,
Twisting her body like a serpent upon hot stones
And straining her white breasts from their imprisonment,
Let fall these words, as potent as a heavy scent:

My lips are moist and yielding, and I know the way
To keep the antique demon of remorse at bay.
All sorrows die upon my bosom. I can make
Old men laugh happily as children for my sake.
For him who sees me naked in my tresses, I
Replace the sun, the moon, and all the stars of the sky!
Believe me, learned sir, I am so deeply skilled
That when I wind a lover in my soft arms, and yield
My breasts like two ripe fruits for his devouring-both
Shy and voluptuous, insatiable and loath-
Upon his bed that groans and sighs luxuriously
Even the impotent angels would be damned for me!

When she drained me of my very marrow, and cold
And weak, I turned to give her one more kiss-behold,
There at my side was nothing but a hideous
Putrescent thing, all faceless and exuding pus.
I closed my eyes and mercifully swooned till day:
Who seemed to have replenished her arteries from my own,
The wan, disjointed fragments of a skeleton
Wagged up and down in a new posture where she had lain;
Rattling with each convulsion like a weathervane
Or an old sign that creaks upon its bracket, right
Mournfully in the wind upon a winter's night.

Baudelaire

Dear God

2008-01-29T01:20:00.000+01:00

Dear God
Hope you got the letter and...
I pray you can make it better down here
I don't mean a big reduction in the price of beer
But all the people that you made in your image
See them starving on their feet
Cause they don't get enough to eat
From God
I can't believe in you
Dear God
Sorry to disturb you but...
I feel that I should be hear loud and clear
We all need a big reduction
In the amount of tears
And all the people that you made in your image
See them fighting in the street
Cause they can't make opinions meet about God
I can't believe in you
Did you make disease
and the diamond blue?
Did you make mankind
after we made you?
And the devil too?
Dear God,
Don't know if you noticed but...
Your name is on a lot of quotes in this book
And as crazy humans wrote it
you should take a look
And all the people that you made in your image
Still believeing that junk is true
Well I know it ain't and so do you, dear God
I can't believe in
I don't believe in
I won't believe in heaven and hell
no saints no sinners no devil as well
no pearly gate no thorny crown
you're always letting us humans down
the wars you bring
the babes you drown
those lost at sea and never found
and it's all the same the whole world round
the hurt I see helps to compound
That Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
is just somebody's unholy hoax
And if you're up there you'd perceive
That my heart's here upon my sleeve
If there's one thing I don't believe in...
It's you, dear God.

S. McLachlan

Waiting

2008-01-27T15:07:00.000+01:00

Waiting on an angel
One to carry me home
Hope you come to see me soon
Cause I don't want to go alone
I don't want to go alone

Now angel won't you come by me
Angel hear my plea
Take my hand lift me up
So that I can fly with thee
So that I can fly with thee

And I'm waiting on an angel
And I know it won't be long
To find myself a resting place
In my angel's arms
In my angel's arms

So speak kind to a stranger
Cause you'll never know
It just might be an angel come
Knockin at your door
Knockin at your door

And I'm waiting on an angel
And I know it won't be long
To find myself a resting place
In my angel's arms
In my angel's arms

Waiting on an angel
One to carry me home
Hope you come to see me soon
Cause I don't want to go alone
I don't want to go alone
Don't want to go
I don't want to go alone.

B. Harper

Tired

2008-01-19T04:43:00.000+01:00

I count the cases piled up high
For the 1:15.
For platform and for passerby
It's the same routine.
I'm ranting while I’m raving,
There's nothing here worth saving.

Tell me now, what more do you need?
Take me to Walter Reed tonight.
Baby I've lost the will for fighting
Over everything.
Well there's a few things I gotta say
And make no mistake, I'm mad…
'Cause every good thing I've had
Abandoned me.

All I want to do is hide.
It's graduation day
And everything I learned inside
Didn't seem to pay.
I've had my fill of palm trees
And lighting up Grauman's Chinese.

Tell me now, what more do you need?
Take me to Walter Reed tonight.
Baby I've lost the will for fighting
Over everything
And there's a few things I gotta say.
Make no mistake, I'm mad.
'Cause every good thing I had
Abandoned me.

A sad and lonesome me.

I'm the walking wounded
And I'd say it to your face
But I can't find my place.

So tell me now, what more do you need?
Take me to Walter Reed tonight.
Baby I've lost the will for fighting
Over everything
And there's a few things I gotta say.
Make no mistake, I'm mad
'Cause every good thing I had
Abandoned me.

A sad and lonesome me.
A sad and lonesome me.
A sad and lonesome me.

Michael Penn

Tears and Rain

2008-01-17T23:28:00.001+01:00

How I wish I could surrender my soul;
Shed the clothes that become my skin;
See the liar that burns within my needing.
How I wish I'd chosen darkness from cold.
How I wish I had screamed out loud,
Instead I've found no meaning.

I guess it's time I run far, far away; find comfort in pain,
All pleasure's the same: it just keeps me from trouble.
Hides my true shape, like Dorian Gray.
I've heard what they say, but I'm not here for trouble.
It's more than just words: it's just tears and rain.

How I wish I could walk through the doors of my mind;
Hold memory close at hand,
Help me understand the years.
How I wish I could choose between Heaven and Hell.
How I wish I would save my soul.
I'm so cold from fear.

I guess it's time I run far, far away; find comfort in pain,
All pleasure's the same: it just keeps me from trouble.
Hides my true shape, like Dorian Gray.
I've heard what they say, but I'm not here for trouble.
Far, far away; find comfort in pain.
All pleasure's the same: it just keeps me from trouble.
It's more than just words: it's just tears and rain.

Tears and Rain.

Tears and Rain.

Far, far away; find comfort in pain,
All pleasure's the same: it just keeps me from trouble.
It's more than just words: it's just tears and rain.

Je crois entendre encore

2008-01-16T02:22:00.000+01:00

I think I can still hear,
hidden under the palm-trees,
her tender and sonorous voice
singing like a dove's.
O bewitching night,
exquisite rapture,
O delightful memory,
mad elation, sweet dream!

Under the light of the stars
I can almost see her
slightly opening her long veils
to the tepid evening breeze.

Michel Carré

We Danced

2008-01-10T00:54:00.000+01:00

Reborn and shivering
Spat out on new terrain
Unsure, unconvincing
this faint and shaky hour

Day one, day one
Start over again
Step one, step one
I'm barely making sense
For now I'm faking it
'Til I'm psuedo-making it
From scratch, begin again
But this time I as "I"
And not as "we"

Gun-shy and shivering
Tear it without a hand
Feign brave but still intent
Little and hardly here

Day one, day one
Start over again
Step one, step one
I'm barely making sense
For now I'm faking it
'Til I'm psuedo-making it
From scratch, begin again
But this time I as "I"
And not as "we"

Eyes wet,
Toward wide open freight
If God is taking bias,
I pray he wants to lose

Day one, day one
Start over again
Step one, step one
I'm barely making sense
For now I'm faking it
'Til I'm psuedo-making it
From scratch, begin again
But this time I as "I"
And not as "we"

A. Morissette

Stars

2008-01-06T02:31:00.000+01:00

HOW countlessly they congregate
O’er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!—

As if with keenness for our fate,	5
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,—

And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white	10
Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.

Robert Frost

Sleep

2007-12-30T23:23:00.000+01:00

A cruel sleep 'cross our land
All withered and dying
As they fall, the victims
They're dying a sad death
In our land, we lay down
And suffer again

A dark girl 'cross our land
Is pacing. Is preying
And with her, a fever
A marching black fever
No eyes see. No features
Just black form, suffering

You have her sympathy
You have her tears
She tries only to take
All your fears
The pain she feels
When she drinks your soul
Is hers to suffer
It is her toll
Believe me, she's helpless
When she curses our land
When she swallows light
It's not her hand

Poison awaits when you kiss her
Her heart cries out for you, for me
Untold misery is hers to serve
out for eternity
Out cold. Mankind will stay
forevermore if she gets her way
She can't help it. It's her curse
To sing your pain in her own verse

She is the dark
The nightmares you hide
The pain you feel
The suffering inside
Though she was like you
Through her dark past
But now, the conqueror
Her choirs vast
Oh, please forgive her
As mankind dies
As angels weep
And heaven cries

MDB

All the Heart

2007-12-28T23:32:00.001+01:00

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

W.B. Yeats

Catherine Blake

2007-12-25T21:22:00.000+01:00

So vile mens' torment was truly a pleasure
A plan that would change mankind for ever more

Catherine Blake slept fitfully in the
summer night. In the heat.
she murmured gently and moved smoothly,
this way and that. Oh, the beauty.
Her luscious eyes, delicate fingers,
clawed at her sodden bed.
Catherine smiled. Took a fabulous breath
of summer air and tasted death.

Die Erorians' visit had been succesful, rewarding.
with nights of female screams of whimpers,
lustful dreams.
Night followed rampant night of
delicate soft gasps.
The ultimate attack on all Heaven and it's glories.
Seduce them as they slept, oblivous to
their midnight tryst.
The seed of doom was platned.
Phantom raped in their dreams.
The sad ones take their own lives.
Slay their men night after night.

Catherine Blake dreamt of a horror.
Of passion too, and of terror.
Over her silent breast, shadows swept,
shades caressed.

Motherhood was destroyed by the seed
and laid to waste.
A great rift was born. Man and the
world were torn.
The daggers went in dep, vile and sickening.
Women swept away all infancy from their wombs.
And still the Lord God remained silent.
No utterance, no movement, no tears.
The earth became red.
The cutting machines of man.
Disgust and hatred for the lives of woman.
The butchery, the savagery, did spill
unto themselves.
A chorus of agony from Heaven and rain poured
In a colossus of angels tears.
The creature of all sins. The lord of the
bleakest abode.
Did wonder at the silence.
What did the Almighty know?
All Hell did fill with the screaming souls
of dead men.
The mighty army of God did stand and wait.
Hoping our lord would unleash them all.
the great firy pit. Hordes ripped apart.
Chaos ensued, screaming from the dark.
Observing his darkened child, in the miserable corners of earth
The great heart of God will heal up the earth.
The Lord watched as his beloved slipped silently
Back into the darkness below

My Dying Bride

Tornerose

2007-12-22T02:35:00.000+01:00

I den røde rosenlund
hviler hun.
Hviler i sitt hvite hår.
Vår og vinter - hundre år
ventet hun den ene som
aldri kom.
Gamle, gamle Tornerose,
sover du fremdeles?

Snart er alt din sommer gav
blomstret av.
Og ditt første forårs venn
kommer aldri mer igjen
før din haves ville hekk
visner vekk.
Gamle, gamle Tornerose,
sover du fremdeles?

En gang stod han stum av rus
ved ditt hus.
Torner stengte for din grind,
og du slapp ham ikke inn.
Derfor står ditt rosenkratt
gudsforlatt.
Gamle, gamle Tornerose,
sover du fremdeles?

Er det ham din fattigdom
drømmer om?
Dit hvor dine roser sner
vil han aldri vandre mer.
I en annen dronnings land
hersker han.
Gamle, gamle Tornerose,
sover du fremdeles?

Om den store sødmestund
drømmer hun.
Akk, men livet går forbi
den som intet har å gi.
Øde står din have nu
stakkars du.
Gamle, gamle Tornerose,
sover du fremdeles?

Uten frukt og uten frø
må du dø.
Aldri mere blir du glad,
du som våren vandret fra,
og ditt hjerte brenner ned
uten fred.
Gamle, gamle Tornerose,
gråter du fremdeles

André Bjerke

Edward

2007-12-16T21:25:00.000+01:00

Poor Edward

Did you hear the news about Edward?
On the back of his head
He had another face
Was it a woman's face
Or a young girl
They said to remove it would kill him
So poor Edward was doomed
The Face could laugh and cry
It was his Devil twin
And at night she spoke to him
Of things heard only in hell
They were impossible to separate
Chained together for life
Finally the bell tolled his doom
He took a suit of rooms
And hung himself and her
From the balcony irons
Some still believe he was freed from her
But i knew her too well
I say she drove him to suicide
And took Poor Edward to Hell.

Tom Waits

Waiting for Sleep

2007-12-07T17:21:00.000+01:00

Standing by the window
Eyes upon the moon
Hoping that the memory
will leave her spirit soon

She shuts the doors and lights
And lays her body on the bed
Where images and words are
running deep
She has too much pride to pull
the sheets above her head
So quietly she lays and waits
for sleep

She stares at the ceiling
And tries not to think
And pictures the chains
She's been trying to link again
But the feeling is gone

And water can't cover her
memory
And ashes can't answer her
pain
God give me the power to take
breath from a breeze
And call life from a cold metal
frame

In with the ashes
Or up with the smoke from the
fire
With wings up in heaven
Or here, lying in bed
Palm of her hand to my head
Now and forever curled in my
heart
And the heart of the world

Dream Theatre

Alice in Wonderland

2007-11-30T00:52:00.000+01:00

A BOAT, beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July;

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,	5
Pleased a simple tale to hear;—

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die,
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantom-wise,	10
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.	15

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream,
Lingering in the golden gleam,—	20
Life, what is it but a dream?

Lewis Carroll

The Raven

2007-10-17T16:34:00.000+02:00

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary
as I pondered, weak and weary
over many a quaint and curious
volume of forgotten lore
while I nodded, nearly napping
suddenly there came a tapping
as of some one gently rapping
rapping at my chamber door
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered
"tapping at my chamber door
only this and nothing more."

Muttering I got up weakly
always I've had trouble sleeping
stumbling upright my mind racing
furtive thoughts flowing once more
I, there hoping for some sunrise
happiness would be a surprise
loneliness no longer a prize
rapping at my chamber door
seeking out the clever bore
lost in dreams forever more
only this and nothing more

Hovering my pulse was racing
stale tobacco my lips tasting
scotch sitting upon my basin
remnants of the night before
came again
infernal tapping on the door
in my mind jabbing
is it in or outside rapping
calling out to me once more
the fit and fury of Lenore
nameless here forever more

And the silken sad uncertain
rustling of the purple curtain
thrilled me, filled me
with fantastic terrors never felt before
so that now, oh wind, stood breathing
hoping yet to calm my breathing
"'Tis some visitor entreating
entrance at my chamber door
some lost visitor entreating
entrance at my chamber door
this it is, and nothing more."

Deep into the darkness peering
long I stood there
wondering fearing
doubting dreaming fantasies
no mortal dared to dream before
but the silence was unbroken
and the stillness gave no token
and the only word there spoken
was the whispered name, "Lenore."
this I thought
and out loud whispered from my lips
the foul name festered
echoing itself
merely this, and nothing more

Back into my chamber turning
every nerve within me burning
when once again I heard a tapping
somewhat louder than before
"surely," said I
surely that is something at my iron staircase
open the door to see what threat is
open the window, free the shutters
let us this mystery explore
oh, bursting heart be still this once
and let this mystery explore
it is the wind and nothing more

Just one epithet I muttered as inside
I gagged and shuddered
when with manly flirt and flutter
in there flew a stately raven
sleek and ravenous as any foe
not the least obeisance made he
not a minutes gesture towards me
of recognition or politeness
but perched above my chamber door
this fowl and salivating visage
insinuating with its knowledge
perched above my chamber door
silent sat and staring
nothing more

Askance, askew
the self's sad fancy smiles at you I swear
at this savage viscous countenance it wears
Though you show here shorn and shaven
and I admit myself forlorn and craven
ghastly grim and ancient raven
wandering from the opiate shores
tell me what thy lordly name is
that you are not nightmare sewage
some dire powder drink or inhalation
framed from flames of downtown lore
quotes the raven, "nevermore."

And the raven sitting lonely
staring sickly at my male sex only
that one word
as if his soul in that one word
he did outpour, "pathetic."
nothing farther than he uttered
not a feather then he fluttered
till finally was I that muttered as I stared
dully at the floor
"other friends have flown and left me
flown as each and every hope has flown before
as you no doubt will fore the morrow."
but the bird said, "never, more."

Then I felt the air grow denser
perfumed from some unseen incense
as though accepting angelic intrusion
when in fact I felt collusion
before the guise of false memories respite
respite through the haze of cocaine's glory
I smoke and smoke the blue vial's glory
to forget
at once
the base Lenore
quoth the raven, "nevermore."

"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil
prophet still, if bird or devil
by that heaven that bend above us
by that God we both ignore
tell this soul with sorrow laden
willful and destructive intent
how had lapsed a pure heart lady
to the greediest of needs
sweaty arrogant dickless liar
who ascribed to nothing higher
than a jab from prick to needle
straight to betrayal and disgrace
the conscience showing not a trace."
quoth the raven, "nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting
bird or fiend," I yelled upstarting
"get thee back into the tempest
into the smoke filled bottle's shore
leave no black plume as a token
of the slime thy soul hath spoken
leave my loneliness unbroken
quit as those have quit before
take the talon from my heart
and see that I can care no more
whatever mattered came before
I vanish with the dead Lenore."
quoth the raven, "nevermore."

But the raven, never flitting
still is sitting silent sitting
above a painting silent painting
of the forever silenced whore
and his eyes have all the seeming
of a demon's that is dreaming
and the lamplight over him
streaming throws his shadow to the floor
I love she who hates me more
I love she who hates me more
and my soul shall not be lifted from that shadow
nevermore

Poe/Reed

Arrow and Song

2007-10-07T17:11:00.000+02:00

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

H.W. Longfellow

Music

2007-10-06T17:38:00.000+02:00

MUSIC, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,	5
Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

P.B.Shelley

Dream

2007-10-03T21:46:00.000+02:00

DEARE love, for nothing lesse then thee
Would I have broke this happy dreame,
It was a theame
For reason, much too strong for phantasie,
Therefore thou wakd'st me wisely; yet
My Dreame thou brok'st not, but continued'st it,
Thou art so truth, that thoughts of thee suffice,
To make dreames truths; and fables histories;
Enter these armes, for since thou thoughtst it best,
Not to dreame all my dreame, let's act the rest.

J. Donne

O Kisse

2007-09-29T02:25:00.000+02:00

O kisse, which dost those ruddie gemmes impart,
Or gemmes or fruits of new-found Paradise,
Breathing all blisse, and sweetning to the heart,
Teaching dumbe lips a nobler exercise;
O kisse, which soules, euen soules, together ties
By linkes of loue and only Natures art,
How faine would I paint thee to all mens eyes.
Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part!
But she forbids; with blushing words she sayes
She builds her fame on higher-seated praise.
But my heart burnes; I cannot silent be.
Then, since, dear life, you faine would haue me peace,
And I, mad with delight, want wit to cease,
Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.

P. Sidney

A Time Long ago

2007-09-15T14:29:00.000+02:00

There was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same
As still my soul hath been to thee.

And from that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,

None, none hath sunk so deep as this---
To think how all that love hath flown;
Transient as every faithless kiss,
But transient in thy breast alone.

And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,
Remembrance of the days that were.

Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again,
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain.

Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.

Byron

Your Beauty in Mine Eyes

2007-09-07T23:42:00.000+02:00

MINE eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,
And perspective it is best painter’s art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,	5
To find where your true image pictur’d lies,
Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me	10
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

W. Shakespeare

Passion

2007-08-05T19:36:00.000+02:00

Passion. It lies in all of us. Sleeping, waiting, and though unwanted,
unbidden, it will stir. Open it's jaws, and howl.

It speaks to us, guides us. Passion rules us all, and we obey. What
other choice do we have?

Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief.

It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we can live without
passion, maybe we'd know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow.

Empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion, we'd be truly dead.

Rain on a Grave

2007-07-31T00:05:00.000+02:00

Clouds spout upon her
Their waters amain
In ruthless disdain, --
Her who but lately
Had shivered with pain
As at touch of dishonour
If there had lit on her
So coldly, so straightly
Such arrows of rain.

She who to shelter
Her delicate head
Would quicken and quicken
Each tentative tread
If drops chanced to pelt her
That summertime spills
In dust-paven rills
When thunder-clouds thicken
And birds close their bills.

Would that I lay there
And she were housed here!
Or better, together
Were folded away there
Exposed to one weather
We both, -- who would stray there
When sunny the day there,
Or evening was clear
At the prime of the year.

Soon will be growing
Green blades from her mound,
And daisies be showing
Like stars on the ground,
Till she form part of them --
Ay -- the sweet heart of them,
Loved beyond measure
With a child's pleasure
All her life's round.

T. Hardy

The End

2007-07-22T18:00:00.000+02:00

Oh, the torment bred in the race,
the grinding scream of death
and the stroke that hits the vein,
the haemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,
the curse no man can bear.

But there is a cure in the house
and not outside it, no,
not from others but from them,
their bloody strife. We sing to you,
dark gods beneath the earth.

Now hear, you blissful powers underground,
answer the call, send help.
Bless the children, give them Triumph now.

Remorseful Day

2007-07-22T02:21:00.000+02:00

How clear, how lovely bright,
How beautiful to sight
 Those beams of morning play;
How heaven laughs out with glee
Where, like a bird set free,
Up from the eastern sea
 Soars the delightful day.

To-day I shall be strong,
No more shall yield to wrong,
 Shall squander life no more;
Days lost, I know not how,
I shall retrieve them now;
Now I shall keep the vow
 I never kept before.

Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
 Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found,
How hopeless under ground
 Falls the remorseful day.

a.e. housman

Evening Prayer

2007-07-18T00:22:00.000+02:00

I spend my life sitting, like an angel in a barber's chair
Holding a beer mug with deep-cut designs
My neck and gut both bent, while in the air
A weightless veil of pipe smoke hangs.
Like steaming dung within an old dovecote
A thousand Dreams within me softly burn:
From time to time my heart is like some oak
Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.
And then, when I have swallowed down my Dreams
In thirty, forty mugs of beer, I turn
To satisfy a need I can't ignore,
And like the Lord of Hyssop and of Myrrh
I piss into the skies, a soaring stream
That consecrates a patch of flowering fern.

a. rimbaud

Vanitas Vanitatum

2007-07-12T00:34:00.000+02:00

ALL the flowers of the spring
Meet to perfume our burying;
These have but their growing prime,
And man does flourish but his time:
Survey our progress from our birth;
We are set, we grow, we turn to earth.
Courts adieu, and all delights,
All bewitching appetites!
Sweetest breath and clearest eye,
Like perfumes, go out and die;
And consequently this is done
As shadows wait upon the sun.
Vain ambition of kings
Who seek by trophies and dead things
To leave a living name behind,
And weave but nets to catch the wind.

J.Webster

The Modern End

2007-07-11T01:00:00.000+02:00

Camera angles
decadence of a dying world
Matchsticks
Long dark corridors
They´ve got the urge to die young

Deepbluelettering

Carousels and fireworks
Ferris wheels
are spinning in the arc-lite city
Do they know
They have slept for so long
Do they know
The taste of their tongue
Do they know
They are trapped

Let´s celebrate the modern end
Let the world begin again
Celebrate the renaissance man

Seigmen

A Place Called Home

2007-07-08T21:39:00.000+02:00

Well, it's not hard to see
Anyone who looks at me
Knows I am just a rolling stone
Never landing anyplace to call my own
To call my own

Well, it seems like so long ago
But it really ain't you know
I started out a crazy kid
Miracle I made it through the things I did
The things I did

Someday I'll go where there ain't no rain or snow
‘Til then, I travel alone
And I make my bed with the stars above my head
And dream of a place called home

I had a chance to settle down
Get a job and live in town
Work in some old factory
I never liked the foreman standing over me
Over me

Oh I’d rather walk a winding road
Rather know the things I know
See the world with my own eyes
No regrets, no looking back, no goodbyes
No goodbyes

Someday I'll go where there ain't no rain or snow
‘Til then, I travel alone
And I make my bed with the stars above my head
And I dream of a place called home

Kim Richey

Dealing with Words

Strangers

Starfish

In a Winter Landscape

The unknown one

Gently Weeping

All Swept Away

The not-happening

First day of Autumn, and late night at the Office

Komakino

Sonnets in the Night

Unforgiven

London never fading

New Book of Poetry

A Summer Night

Spring and Easter

Some new words

Poor Fellows

Water

Good Hours

To Tom Waits

New Era and Winter Wonderland

Cats and Owls in the Night

1

When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

2

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

A traveller is contemplating his journey

New Era

Nocturne Blues

The final curtain

A hot summer night

Passing through a City

Science and Procrastination

Daisy

Along the streets of Prague

Et lite vår/sommer dikt på norsk

Summer Holiday

Jacob Marley

Some Mondays

Almost six o'clock

Misty Mountains on the Way Home

An Angel in the Library

Gentleman Alone

Just Take Five

careful hands

A Green World

See the World

The Sun warms everything

Another Time

Reality sandwich

Grey Rooms

The Phoenix and the Ashes

I miss you, and love you...

La Fee Verte

Like the Gods Of the Sun

Some Changes and Some new Words

The Call

For Good

Queen and Soldier

I look into my Glass

strangers

Nothing Survives

My Weeping Heart

Big Night on the Town

The Sun Rising

Blues

Evening Song

Leaving

Still Here

Rochester's Farewell

Lonesome Years

Iron Bells

A Kiss to Remember

Moonbeams and the Sea

Metamorphoses of a Vampire

Dear God

Waiting

Tired

Tears and Rain

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.