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fireflyjuly-blog · 13 years
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We never met, you and I We were always inside We were somewhere inside one another And I'll live without you, love But what good is one glove without the other? You only ask about my leaving Well honey I had no choice So I call and (When you hear that heavy breathing) For that sound of your voice But you sit there silent, folded arms And look down as I walk by Though my face has changed You know it's me You know by the stillness in my eyes Come and whisper in my ear "You're very pretty, dear," and "It'll be alright." You're lying! But I don't mind tonight So I wander and I wander Your absence beating inside my chest I try but I can't remember The color of your eyes - Just the shape of your dress And through a garden overgrown Oh, it's a long walk home I said I'd not come back Well I'm coming back - And you'd better be alone But you sit there silent, folded arms And you smile as I walk by My face has changed But you know it's me You know it's me! Come and whisper in my ear "My dear! My dear!" It'll be alright It'll be alright It'll be alright It'll be alright It'll be alright It'll be alright!
"Gentlemen," MeWithoutYou
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fireflyjuly-blog · 13 years
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fireflyjuly-blog · 13 years
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fireflyjuly-blog · 13 years
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... we let our young men and women go out unarmed, in a day when armor was never so necessary. By teaching them all to read, we have left them at the mercy of the printed word. By the invention of film and the radio, we have made certain that no aversion to reading shall secure them from the incessant battery of words, words, words. They do not know what the words mean; they do not know how to ward them off or blunt their edge or fling them back; they are a prey to words in their emotions instead of being the masters of them in their intellects. We who were scandalized in 1940 when men were sent to fight armored tanks with rifles, are not scandalized when young men and women are sent into the world to fight massed propaganda with a smattering of [academic] "subjects"; and when whole classes and whole nations become hypnotized by the arts of the spellbinder, we have the impudence to be astonished. We dole out lip-service to the importance of education -- lip-service and, just occasionally, a little grant of money; we postpone the school-leaving age, and plan to build bigger and better schools; the teachers slave conscientiously in and out of school hours; and yet, as I believe, all this devoted effort is largely frustrated, because we have lost the tools of learning, and in their absence can only make a botched and piecemeal job of it.
Dorothy Sayers, from "The Lost Tools of Learning"
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fireflyjuly-blog · 13 years
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fireflyjuly-blog · 13 years
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Are these jumbled fantasms Or portentous dreams, Or are they even just everyday thoughts On which my happiness rests? It is possible that he who arouses desires Actually realizes them. In that case their gardens would offer me The plucking of roses.
Ibn 'Arabi, from Perfect Harmony
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fireflyjuly-blog · 13 years
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We cannot sweat here. Our skin is icy. We cannot breed here. Our wombs are empty. Help us to escape youth and beauty. Write us out of the poem. Make us human in cadences of change and mortal pain and words we can grow old and die in.
from "What Language Did," Eavan Boland, shamelessly jacked from a friend's facebook profile.  Thanks, Kohleun. ;)
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fireflyjuly-blog · 13 years
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"Elm": I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this face So murderous in its strangle of branches? --- Its snaky acids hiss, It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill. *** "The Jailor": I imagine him Impotent as distant thunder, In whose shadow I have eaten my ghost ration. I wish him dead or away. That, it seems, is the impossibility. That being free. What would the dark Do without fevers to eat? What would the light Do without eyes to knife, what would he Do, do, do without me? *** "Tulips": My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Ariel: The Restored Edition, Sylvia Plath
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fireflyjuly-blog · 13 years
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Now Livie's gone west, out of the dust, on her way to California, where the wind takes a rest sometimes. And I'm wondering what kind of friend I am, wanting my feet on that road to another place, instead of Livie's.
Out of the Dust, Karen Hesse
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