Friday, March 23, 2018

Perverse Pleasure


You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Perverse Pleasure

Flowers 🌷 

- Wendy Cope

Some men never think of it.
You did. You'd come along
And say you'd nearly brought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.
The shop was closed. Or you had doubts –
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly. You thought
I might not want your flowers.

It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But, look, the flowers you nearly brought
Have lasted all this while.

Monday, March 19, 2018

Stephen Hawking (January 8, 1942–March 14, 2018)

When asked how he would design the universe if he could design it any way he wanted, Hawking, beloved for his dry humor, answers:

It is like the anthropic argument: If I had designed it differently, it wouldn't have produced me. So that is a meaningless question. I'm prepared to make do with the universe we have, and try to find out what it is like.

Perverse Pleasure

The Colonel
WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried
a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went   
out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the
cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over
the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English.
Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On
the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had
dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of
bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief
commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot
said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed
himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries
home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like
dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one
of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water
glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As
for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck them-
selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last
of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some
of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the
ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
                                                                                     May 1978

for those days

Does it give you particular pleasure to ignore me?
Or, does it make you feel better when you put me down?
Well, two can play this game.

Monday, August 14, 2017

Fwd: disappearing into nothingness

have you ever had the feeling that you are being torn to shreds?
that your existence may no longer be a reality- that you will cease?
there is a strange restlessness as i feel the diminishing, the daily cutting away
there is no fight left in me
only salt tears which seem lacerate as they slide down
i don't even know what i am mourning
because isn't it my deepest desire to stop being?
perhaps it is what comes after that scares me
the great unknown?
or perhaps nothing at all? 

Image result for dead flowers

Monday, May 1, 2017

A song to sing yourself to sleep

Why despair the loss of friends? Why despair being alone?
Did we not come alone into this world?
And who will come with us when we begin the journey back?
Why despair not having a hand to hold?
Desolate the landscape always was,
Except for those occasions when someone came by
Perhaps it was not in the natural order of things
So why despair when it's gone again?
Stark the tree was without any leaves
Thorns were its only pride
So why despair when the flowers fall off? 
They were only there for a fortnight.
Why despair a starless sky?
The twinkling stars are too far away,
None of their warmth will ever reach you,
So why despair when they are away?

Loneliness was a constant friend
Even in the middle of a shallow crowd
And when everyone goes away, Loneliness waits like a trusted friend
Solitude is the best solace- silence the best conversation you can have
An empty room, an empty bed - why despair?
When everything is gone, the loneliness still remains....