Uncategorized Quotes

...unfortunately, it's true: time does heal. It will do so whether you like it or not, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. If you're not careful, time will take away everything that ever hurt you, everything you have ever lost, and replace it with knowledge. Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience. Raw data will be compiled, will be translated into a more comprehensible language. The individual events of your life will be transmuted into another substance called memory and in the mechanism something will be lost and you will never be able to reverse it, you will never again have the original moment back in its uncategorized, preprocessed state. It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

Prayer is an insurance policy that you can never lapse on.

I think the dilemma exists because art, among all the other tidy categories, most closely resembles what it is like to be human. To be alive. It is our nature to be imperfect. To have uncategorized feelings and emotions. To make or do things that don’t sometimes necessarily make sense.

And as soon as you have renounced that aim of "surviving at any price" and gone where the calm and simple people go—then imprisonment begins to transform your former character in an astonishing way. To transform it in a direction most unexpected to you. And it would seem that in this situation feelings of malice, the disturbance of being oppressed, aimless hate, irritability, and nervousness ought to multiply. But you yourself do not notice how, with the impalpable flow of time, slavery nurtures in you the shoots of contradictory feelings. Once upon a time you were sharply intolerant. You were constantly in a rush. And you were constantly short of time. And now you have time with interest. You are surfeited with it, with its months and its years, behind you and ahead of you—and a beneficial calming fluid pours through your blood vessels—patience. You are acending... Formerly you never forgave anyone. You judged people without mercy. And you praised people with equal lack of moderation. And now an understanding mildness has become the basis of your uncategorical judgements. You have come to realize your own weakness—and you can therefore understand the weakness of others. And be astonished at another's strength. And wish to possess it yourself. The stones rustle beneath our feet. We are ascending... With the year, armor-plated restraint covers your heart and all your skin. You do not hasten to question and you do not hasten to answer. Your tongue has lost its flexible capability for easy oscillation. Your eyes do not flash over with gladness over good tidings, nor do they darken with grief. For you still have to verify whether that's how it is going to be. And you also have to work out—what is gladness and what is grief. And now the rule of your life is this: Do not rejoice when you have found, do not weep when you have lost. Your soul, which formerly was dry, now ripens with suffering. And even if you haven't come to love your neighbors in the Christian sense, you are at least learning to love those close to you.

I Don't Write Because God Gives Me A Fresh Word Everyday, I write Because of The Words He Has Already Spoken Yesterday That Changed Today.

Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience. Raw data will be compiled, will be translated into a more comprehensible language. The individual events of your life will be transmuted into another substance called memory and in the mechanism something will be lost and you will never be able to reverse it, you will never again have the original moment back in its uncategorized, unprocessed state. It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

Unfortunately, it's true: time does heal. It will do so whether you like it or not, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. If you're not careful, time will take away everything that ever hurt you, everything you have ever lost, and replace it with knowledge. Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience. Raw data will be compiled, will be translated into a more comprehensible language. The individual events of your life will be transmuted into another substance called memory and in the mechanism something will be lost and you will never be able to reverse it, you will never again have the original moment back in its uncategorized, preprocessed state. It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

Campbell’s slideshow lists grim domestic violence statistic after statistic: second leading cause of death for African American women, third leading cause of death for native women, seventh leading cause of death for Caucasian women. Campbell says twelve hundred abused women are killed every year in the United States.1 That figure does not count children. And it does not count the abusers who kill themselves after killing their partners, murder-suicides we see daily in the newspaper. And it does not count same-sex relationships where one or the other partner might not be “out.” And it does not count other family members, like sisters, aunts, grandmothers, who are often killed alongside the primary victim. And it does not count innocent bystanders: the twenty-six churchgoers in Texas, say, after a son-in-law has gone to a service to target his mother-in-law, or the two spa employees in Wisconsin killed alongside their client by her ex. The list is endless. And it does not count the jurisdictions who do not report their homicides, since homicide reporting is voluntary through the FBI’s Supplemental Homicide Reporting Data. So how many people are killed as a result of domestic violence each year? The bystanders, the other family members, the perpetrators’ suicides? The victims who just can’t take it anymore and kill themselves? The accidents that turn out not to be accidents at all, victims pushed out of cars and from cliffs or driven into trees. Tragedies forever uncategorized.

They expect you to act as an Angel does, when they do not even know; if their souls are going to Heaven or Hell. -MillYentei D.Y

I always felt that someone, a long time ago, organized the affairs of the world into areas that made sense-catagories of stuff that is perfectible, things that fit neatly in perfect bundles. The world of business, for example, is this way-line items, spreadsheets, things that add up, that can be perfected. The legal system-not always perfect, but nonetheless a mind-numbing effort to actually write down all kinds of laws and instructions that cover all aspects of being human, a kind of umbrella code of conduct we should all follow. Perfection is crucial in building an aircraft, a bridge, or a high-speed train. The code and mathematics residing just below the surface of the Internet is also this way. Things are either perfectly right or they will not work. So much of the world we work and live in is based upon being correct, being perfect. But after this someone got through organizing everything just perfectly, he (or probably a she) was left with a bunch of stuff that didn't fit anywhere-things in a shoe box that had to go somewhere. So in desperation this person threw up her arms and said, 'OK! Fine. All the rest of this stuff that isn't perfectible, that doesn't seem to fit anywhere else, will just have to be piled into this last, rather large, tattered box that we can sort of push behind the couch. Maybe later we can come back and figure where it all is supposed to fit in. Let's label the box ART.' The problem was thankfully never fixed, and in time the box overflowed as more and more art piled up. I think the dilemma exists because art, among all the other tidy categories, most closely resembles what it is like to be human. To be alive. It is our nature to be imperfect. The have uncategorized feelings and emotions. To make or do things that don't sometimes necessarily make sense. Art is all just perfectly imperfect. Once the word ART enters the description of what you're up to , it is almost getting a hall pass from perfection. It thankfully releases us from any expectation of perfection. In relation to my own work not being perfect, I just always point to the tattered box behind the couch and mention the word ART, and people seem to understand and let you off the hook about being perfect a go back to their business.

Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience. Raw data will be compiled, will be translated into a more comprehensible language. The individual events of your life will be transmuted into another substance called memory and in the mechanism something will be lost and you will never be able to reverse it, you will never again have the moment back as its uncategorized, preprocessed state. It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

Thakur’s findings were not news to Ranbaxy’s top executives. Just ten months earlier, in October 2003, outside auditors started investigating Ranbaxy facilities worldwide. In this case, the audits had been ordered up by Ranbaxy itself. This was a common industry practice: drug companies often hired consultants to audit their facilities as a dry run to see how visible their problems were. If the consultants could find it, they reasoned, then most likely regulators could too. The fact-finding mission by Lachman Consultant Services left Ranbaxy officials under no illusion as to the extent of the company’s failings. At Ranbaxy’s Princeton, New Jersey, facility, auditors found that the company’s Patient Safety Department barely functioned and training was essentially “non-existent.” The staff had no written protocols for investigating patient complaints, which piled up in boxes, uncategorized and unreported. They had no clerical help for basic tasks like mailing out the patients’ samples for testing. “I don’t think there’s the same medicine in this medicine,” was a common refrain from patients. Even when there were investigations, they were so perfunctory and half-hearted that expiration dates were listed as “unknown,” even when they could easily have been found from a product’s lot number. An audit of Ranbaxy’s main U.S. manufacturing plant, Ohm Laboratories in New Jersey, found that the company, though required to report adverse events to the FDA, rarely did so. There was no system to capture patient complaints after hours, and no global medical officer to ensure that any potential negative consequences for patients were being monitored. The consultants from Lachman urged Ranbaxy to address these problems globally. Ranbaxy’s initial reaction to the findings was to question the number of hours, and the resulting invoice, that Lachman had sent for its work.

The ongoing problem with most American poetry & poets today is their lack of belief in themselves & that they don't expand upon their ideals or experiment enough with their craft. That's why we are all stuck in the same old literary grind & groove still pushing out old ideas, listening to ridiculous banter of egotistical critics & still worshipping the old schools & movements of long past yesterdays from decades ago. Dead icons, dead ideas, dead slams and an established academic system that's biased and too busy promoting all the cliche events that they believe are all about community but mainly promoting their own of which are not open to all poets without degrees but mostly only to students & the inner sanctum. Poetry is for everyone and it needs a new vision of our times. The 21st century. The majority of poets who are producing new & original works are being ignored. Poetry should be independent and free of bias and uncategorized. Workshops or classes are not the solution.

The individual events of your life will be transmuted into another substance called memory and in the mechanism something will be lost and you will never be able to reverse it, you will never again have the original moment back in its uncategorized, preprocessed state. It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

Relationships are not created for nothing; nothing expecting something from nothing, produces nothing but fluffing, and this ain't pillow-talk. When making connections virtually or network socially, I highly respect interactive engagement with people who understand and value communication as a key to building relationships. Lack of communication can be diminutive to relationship building. Wisdom comes with experience and information applied to a conscious observation. Observing the dynamics of communication daily, I seriously question the mindset & motives of those who make contacts with no intention of building a mutually substantial interaction. The way I see it, especially when it comes to social media networking, these superficial contacts become little more than uncategorical profiles of cyber-clutter, trending for the trash bin...and that junk ought to get you digitally-dumped quicker than a cached-out-file.

I’m cool with those people who don’t give a fock about me, they are not going to hate on you, “it’s those muthafockas who don’t like you; it is better to pay attention to”. -MillYentei

Thy thoughts have become imbecilic, to think life has no value, a meaningless mind has no reason for existence. -MillYentei

You can do whatever you’re doing with your life; but once you forget there’s a God, you are on your own. -MillYentei D.Y.

Life is funny; but still sunny, what’s a dream without money, what’s love without a wonderful woman, what’s happiness without truth, I told her what’s a flow without you. -MillYentei_D.L.Y

আমি এক সৌন্দর্য রাক্ষস প্রজাপতির চিত্রল ডানা দেখে বিরহ থেকে বিবাহের দিকে চলে যায় মানবসম্প্রদায় — আমি এক সৌন্দর্য রাক্ষস ভেঙে দিয়েছি প্রজাপতির গন্ধসন্ধানী শুঁড় আমার নিজের কোনো বিশ্বাস নেই কাউর ওপর অলস বদ্মাস আমি মাঝে মাঝে বেশ্যার নাঙ হয়ে জীবন যাপনের কথা ভাবি যখন মদের নেশা কেটে আসে আর বন্ধুদের উল্লাস ইআর্কির ভেতর বসে টের পাই ব্যর্থ প্রেম চেয়ে দেখি পূর্ণিমা চাঁদের ভেতর জ্বলন্ত চিতা এখন আমি মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি এক মৃতদেহ আমার জ্যান্ত শরীর নিয়ে চলে গেছে তার শাঁখাভাঙা বিধবার ঋতুরক্ত ন্যাকড়ার কাছে মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি — চিতাকাঠ শুয়ে আছে বৃক্ষের ভেতর প্রেম নেই প্রসূতিসদনে নেই আসন্নপ্রসবা স্ত্রী মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি এ-ভাবেই রয়ে গেছি কেটে যায় দিন রাত বজ্রপাত অনাবৃষ্টি কত বালিকার মসৃণ বুকে গজিয়ে উঠল মাংসঢিবি কত কুমারীর গর্ভসঞ্চার গর্ভপাত — সত্যজিতের দেশ থেকে লাভ ইন টোকিও চলে গ্যালো পূর্ব আফরিকায় — মার্কাস স্কোয়ারে বঙ্গসংস্কৃতি ভারতসার্কাস রবীন্দ্রসদনে কবিসন্মিলন আর বৈজয়ন্তীমালার নাচ হল — আমার ত হল না কিছু কোনো উত্তরণ অবনতি কোনো গণিকার বাথরুম থেকে প্রেমিকার বিছানার দিকে আমার অনায়াস গতায়াত শেষ হয় নাই — আকাশগর্ভ থেকে তাই ঝরে পড়ে নক্ষত্রের ছাই পৃথিবীর বুকের ওপর তবু মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি এবং মৃতদেহ আমার জ্যান্ত শরীর নিয়ে চলে গ্যাছে তার শাঁখাভাঙা বিধবার ঋতুরক্ত ন্যাকড়ার কাছে প্রজাপতির চিত্রল ডানা দেখে বিরহ থেকে বিবাহের দিকে চলে যায় মানুষেরা আমি এক সৌন্দর্য রাক্ষস ভেঙে দিয়েছি প্রজাপতির গন্ধসন্ধানী শুঁড় রেটিং করুন Share this: TwitterFacebook Related মানুষের সঙ্গে কোনো বিরোধ নেইIn "কবিতা" প্যারিসের চিঠিIn "কবিতা" তোমাকেই চাইIn "কবিতা" This entry was posted in কবিতা and tagged ফালগুনী রায়, হাংরি আন্দোলন. Bookmark the permalink. পোস্টের নেভিগেশন « মানুষের সঙ্গে কোনো বিরোধ নেই নাচ মুখপুড়ি » মন্তব্য করুন কবি এবং কাব্যগ্রন্থঃ আখলাকের ফিরে যাওয়া (2) আনিসুল হক (4) আবুল হাসান (1) আব্দুল মান্নান সৈয়দ (11) আল মাহমুদ (58) ইমদাদুল হক মিলন (2) উপন্যাস (70) কবিতা (1,396) কেরানি ও দৌড়ে ছিল (22) গল্প (45) গ্রন্থ (4) জিহান আল হামাদী (2) তসলিমা নাসরিন (30) তারাপদ রায় (1) তাহমিদুর রহমান (1) নজরুল গীতি (37) নবারুন ভট্টাচার্য (1) নির্মলেন্দু গুণ (53) পাবলো নেরুদা (1) পূর্ণেন্দু পত্রী (4) বকুল ফুলের ভোরবেলাটি (1) বিকেলের বেহাগ (14) বেলাল চৌধুরি (14) ভুকন্যা (1) মনিভুষন ভট্টাচার্য্য (2) মহাদেব সাহা (43) মুহম্মদ নূরুল হুদা (1) যে জলে আগুন জ্বলে (3) রফিক আজাদ (1) রবীন্দ্র নাথ ঠাকুর (7) রবীন্দ্র সঙ্গীত (97) রুদ্র মুহান্মদ শহীদুল্লাহ (5) লিরিক (53) লেখক পরিচিতি (18) শহীদ কাদরী (7) শামসুর রাহমান (21) শেষের কবিতা (17) সবিনয় নিবেদন (3) সুকান্ত ভট্টাচার্য (1) সুকুমার রায় (1) সেলিনা হোসেন (1) সৈয়দ শামসুল হক (14) স্মৃতি চারন (41) হুমায়ুন আজাদ (26) হুমায়ুন আহমেদ (1) হেলাল হাফিজ (4) Uncategorized (85) যন্ত্রপাতিঃ রেজিষ্টার লগ ইন আর,এস,এস, মন্তব্য RSS WordPress.com এখানে খুজুন খোঁজ করুন ভোট দিন আমাদের সংকলন কেমন লেগেছে ? ভাল মোটামোটি খারাপ Vote View Results Crowdsignal.com সাম্প্রতিক পোস্ট সমূহ তাঁর দরকার ‘লিভ টুগেদার’! দেখিবার অপেক্ষায় আছোঁ অভিজ্ঞতা ছাড়া মহৎ সাহিত্য তৈরি হবে না তারে কই বড় বাজিকর বোধোদয় হলেই মঙ্গল বাংলা সংবাদপত্র Email Subscription Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. Join 693 other followers আমাদের লিঙ্ক অল্পকথা ডট কম সেতুবন্ধন ডট কম Blog at WordPress.com. Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use.

Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience. Raw data will be compiled, will be translated into a more comprehensible language. The individual events of your life will be transmuted into another substance called memory and in the mechanism something will be lost and you will never be able to reverse it, you will never again have the original moment back in its uncategorized, preprocessed state. It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

time does heal. It will do so whether you like it or not, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. If you’re not careful, time will take away everything that ever hurt you, everything you have ever lost, and replace it with knowledge. Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience. Raw data will be compiled, will be translated into a more comprehensible language. The individual events of your life will be transmuted into another substance called memory and in the mechanism something will be lost and you will never be able to reverse it, you will never again have the original moment back in its uncategorized, preprocessed state. It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

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