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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[glitter]
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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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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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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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"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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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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