V Poetry Quotes

Nothing says you care for me better than offering to torture my enemies." He grinned. "No sense doing things halfhearted. And to think, some girls have to endure listening to poetry.

For what is a dream if not love first felt and what is mystery if not life itself

All beautiful distractions, ignites from you.

I. Those of us born by water are never afraid enough of drowning. Bruises used to trophy my knees from my death-defying tree climb jumps. Growing up, my backyard was a forest of blackberry bushes. I learned early nothing sweet will come to you unthorned. II. At twelve your body becomes a currency. So Jenny and I sat down and cut up all our clothes into nothing. That year I failed math class but knew the exact number of calories in a carrot stick. I learned early being desired goes hand in hand with hunger. III. The last time I tried to scream I felt my father climbing up through my throat and into my mouth. IV. There is a certain kind of girl who reads Lolita at fourteen and finds religion. I painted my eyes black and sucked barroom cherries to red my tongue. There was a boy who promised Judas really did love Jesus. I learned early every kiss and betrayal are up for interpretation. V. I think he must have conferenced with my nightmares on exactly how to hurt me. VI. He never broke my heart. He only turned it into a compass that always points me back to him.

The sea waves stirred before me they dashed against the rocks Like a mermaid rising from its depths curled white sea foam were her locks...

Isn't there something in living dangerously?' There's a great deal in it,' the Controller replied. 'Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time.' What?' questioned the Savage, uncomprehending. It's one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory.' V.P.S.?' Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. It's the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconvenience.' But I like the inconveniences.' We don't,' said the Controller. 'We prefer to do things comfortably.' But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.' In fact,' said Mustapha Mond, 'you're claiming the right to be unhappy. Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer, the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen tomorrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.' There was a long silence. I claim them all,' said the Savage at last. Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. 'You're welcome,' he said.

Among the fluctuation of the river currents, an abyss as green as the sea, its extension and profundity as immense as the ocean opened before me: the eyes of a beautiful girl. I succumbed into that abyss instantly, like a man who falls from the highest cliff into the ocean … … and I drowned.

Poetry is not communication with angels or with the "subconscious." It is communication with the guts, genitals, and five portals of sense. Nothing more.

Private Parts The first love of my life never saw me naked - there was always a parent coming home in half an hour - always a little brother in the next room. Always too much body and not enough time for me to show it. Instead, I gave him my shoulder, my elbow, the bend of my knee - I lent him my corners, my edges, the parts of me I could afford to offer - the parts I had long since given up trying to hide. He never asked for more. He gave me back his eyelashes, the back of his neck, his palms - we held each piece we were given like it was a nectarine that could bruise if we weren’t careful. We collected them like we were trying to build an orchid. And the spaces that he never saw, the ones my parents half labeled “private parts” when I was still small enough to fit all of myself and my worries inside a bathtub - I made up for that by handing over all the private parts of me. There was no secret I didn’t tell him, there was no moment I didn’t share - and we didn’t grow up, we grew in, like ivy wrapping, moulding each other into perfect yings and yangs. We kissed with mouths open, breathing his exhale into my inhale - we could have survived underwater or outer space. Breathing only of the breathe we traded, we spelled love, g-i-v-e, I never wanted to hide my body from him - if I could have I would have given it all away with the rest of me - I did not know it was possible. To save some thing for myself. Some nights I wake up knowing he is anxious, he is across the world in another woman’s arms - the years have spread us like dandelion seeds - sanding down the edges of our jigsaw parts that used to only fit each other. He drinks from the pitcher on the night stand, checks the digital clock, it is 5am - he tosses in sheets and tries to settle, I wait for him to sleep. Before tucking myself into elbows and knees reach for things I have long since given up.

In what world To live? What love To give? Is it worthy? Or will it break My heart? Everyone Seems to be Secretly evil And to try To disguise The truth With lies; It’s disappointing But still I see Something different In you; I find hope And I fall In love

Ko hodiš, pojdi zmeraj do konca. Spomladi do rožne cvetice, poleti do zrele pšenice, jeseni do polne police, pozimi do snežne kraljice, v knjigi do zadnje vrstice, v življenju do prave resnice, v sebi do rdečice čez eno in drugo lice. A če ne prideš ne prvič, ne drugič do krova in pravega kova poskusi: vnovič in zopet in znova.

All my life I lived in fear; I was always blaming myself For everything: Even little things; Now I realize Nothing was my fault

Let the wet earth embrace you firmly, soundly. She needs to be revived, she needs to beat like a heart full of adrenaline inside a chest.

One day I will laugh and no loneliness will fall out.

Places We Love Places we love exist only through us, Space destroyed is only illusion in the constancy of time, Places we love we can never leave, Places we love together, together, together, And is this room really a room, or an embrace, And what is beneath the window: a street or years? And the window is only the imprint left by The first rain we understood, returning endlessly, And this wall does not define the room, but perhaps the night Your son began to move in your sleeping blood, A son like a butterfly of flame in your hall of mirrors, The night you were frightened by your own light, And this door leads into any afternoon Which outlives it, forever peopled With your casual movements, as you stepped, Like fire into copper, into my only memory; When you go, space closes over like water behind you, Do not look back: there is nothing outside you, Space is only time visible in a different way, Places we love we can never leave.

But before a computer became an inanimate object, and before Mission Control landed in Houston; before Sputnik changed the course of history, and before the NACA became NASA; before the Supreme Court case Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka established that separate was in fact not equal, and before the poetry of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech rang out over the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Langley’s West Computers were helping America dominate aeronautics, space research, and computer technology, carving out a place for themselves as female mathematicians who were also black, black mathematicians who were also female.

The spirit, my love, is stronger than laughter, stronger than the hungry panting of reckless lions that paw and shuffle underneath the canopy of bowed trees, stronger than the pace of a dying heart, that awaits to be pumped to life by episodes mothered by time, by hands of mankind, by slivers of hope hidden in the common mind.

Beloved, my ears listen for you, my lips thirst for you, my eyes search for you, and darkness brings light, but light brings truth to be fed by your sight. And when the winds of Persia blew, for a moment in time, something awakened in my fertile mind; an awareness boldly standing in my view, that my heart has always, and only, bled for you.

And like nectar inside the bud, my blood drinks from your blood, beloved, and starves to join the salvation in your eyes; to be understood again and again, by your nakedness and certainty, a humbleness that trickles into the crevices of my seasoned mind.

Testifying against my abuser is not about a trial or about revenge This is a woman learning that to wear the burden of hurt but to deprive herself of the blessing that is healing is its own injustice.

Why are you so hard on yourself? I love you just the way you are, with your withered coat and wet scarf dangling like a spotless chandelier. The snow banks in Montreal are high, but I can see your trace, and silent grace and tin cup through the paned window. The precipitation melts your face, distorting your expression through the aged glass; broken, when I threw ancient stones to get your attention as a child. I wanted a friend. The honest kind.

The day of apocalypse came; Everyone knows the truth now; Everyone sees now; Except of the ignorants of technology; Humanity screams change For a fairer tomorrow

When I close my eyes I see the light: A Universe within my spark; When I open my eyes I see the dark: A Universe out of sight

A breeze of change Is in the air; Everything leaves Even fallen leaves; Feelings of hate Became peace

I can't live anymore In this world No one is fair No one truly cares And I can't find my love

I can't live like this any longer; I don't have friends; I don't have life... I thought I liked being alone; ...But it was an illusion; I'm living a lie

My family bought a new T.V. the year I came. It lasted seven years.

It is not your job to understand. Sick people do sick things. You do not understand the mind of an abuser, because you are not sick like one.

Unlike the bough that shook off her dead leaves violently like a wet terrier, unlike the beating of the butterfly, her wings, against the cocoon, some dreams never made a move.

Nikad samlji nego krajem jula Kad je letu pedalj do zenita, A hlorofilu aršin do rasula U metastazi žutila i ruja, Tamnije kad zelene su boje U vrtovima, a strnjika suva, Tamnija donja amplituda bruja Vetra što obnoć u vremenu duva. Nikad samlji nego krajem jula Kad sve je, misliš, na dohvatu čula Oštra kao nož još topao od točka Brusača, ali bitno nedostaje: Anđela koga slutiš nećeš sresti. A vazduh trudan je od blagovesti.

I think these movements and become them, here, In this room's stillness, none of them about, And relish them all-until I think of where Thrashed by a crook, the cursive adder writes Quick V's and Q's in the dust and rubs them out. from "Movements

I walk alone In this cruel world; I don’t trust anyone; I’m suspicious of everyone If you believe the lies You’ll be just another bully And I know You don’t want that; I’m out of the crowd; But still they see ghosts of me; I haven’t; I stay away

They cover Those they want; Themselves of course And other criminals Like them; They sell an idealized lie To earn something And they throw The others: The innocents; The pure; The vulnerable; The different; They are not justice: They are a clique

A thousand lips, a thousand eyes, a thousand hearts will read these words, as you read them, graze them, this moment. Thousands will utter them into the abyss, someday, perhaps for years to come; loudly, softly, repeatedly, again and again and again. Some will mock, some will laugh. Some will shed a tear. But it is written only for your lips, your eyes, your heart, beloved.

Si mi voz muriera en tierra, llevadla al nivel del mar y dejadla en la ribera. Llevadla al nivel del mar y nombradla capitana de un blanco bajel de guerra. ¡Oh my v0z condecorada con la insignia marinera: sobre el corazón un ancla y sobre el ancla una estrella y sobre la estrella el viento y sobre el viento la vela!

Winning is a matter of endurance. As long as you don't quit, you will win!

maybe experiencing misery with someone is what makes love. And dangerous women happen to wear misery like a glove.

Proofs are to mathematics what spelling (or even calligraphy) is to poetry. Mathematical works do consist of proofs, just as poems do consist of words.

Allow me to articulate this arrogance: What this poem has lost in poeticity, the whole of Philippine poetry has gained in complexity.

I still live And I feel That I will never die All my life An infinite time Both an eternity And a prison But perhaps these two are one

They are all criminals But can you catch them? They catch their victims instead; Innocents are weak And moral

Hate rose And any hope Became blue; How to reverse the lies? How to love again In the fake sunset?

I can’t live anymore In this world; No one is fair No one truly cares And I can’t find my love

Look at the stars Look how calm they are Their dreams have come true So only dreams cure

My life is a tragedy; Perhaps it's not my time yet; But I was always impatient And I ended up a patient Because no one can understand me

Alone, unknown, unloved, I die...and the room had grown a ghostly thorax, with a heart unknown, unloved - but not alone

if what is true brings us sorrow, / if what sorrow brings is truth

I have a birthmark on my calf that mimics the shape of a closed-mouth kiss. Most days, it is a reminder that I was built for love.

A man awakes every morning and instead of reading the newspaper reads Act V of Othello. He sips his coffee and is content that this is the news he needs as his wife looks on helplessly.

Words turn to anagrams; Temples get burnt; Songs contain threats; What is happening in the world? World War III is in the air; Have we realized it yet? Madonna came to pray; Have we woken up?

I am no star And I am no calm; I cry all the time Because I don’t like my life I don’t have money; I can’t do anything; I can’t do any other job; Telling stories is all I want Only Dreams Can Cure Me

The TRUTH is...If more men would rise up and speak against domestic violence, there would be less(V.A.W.)Violence Against Women in our world! Why Should they? Because 1 is 2 many! Any violence is too much.

This world is no paradise; People try to disguise; People care about lies And love is dying This world wasn’t meant to unite; It’s all a construction For every kingdom’s strategy; There is no place for love

When the truth Is the opposite The silent liars Are the true criminals When the truth Becomes fear It's altered But reveal The memories Of light It's the only justice In this corrupted earth The Memories Are The Only Justice

IV . my God, my heart clenches into a fist for fear of losing all You've bloomed in it so teach me to pray as poetry could only dream to i cannot help but see stars in the darkest night of my soul if you sing to me of heaven V . we're all just porcelain bones dipped in a prayer and there's no telling what's going to break us so i've come to hold my life lightly in my hands 'cause all these feelings of futility have so heavied my head, that the weight of all this empty could snap my neck at any moment

This world is no paradise; People try to disguise; People care about lies And love is dying This world wasn't meant to unite; It's all a construction For every kingdom's strategy; There is no place for love …Here you'll only find fake wishes That you may Rest In Peace RIP Love

Could any State on Earth Immortall be, Venice by Her rare Goverment is She; Venice Great Neptunes Minion, still a Mayd, Though by the warrlikst Potentats assayed; Yet She retaines Her Virgin-waters pure, Nor any Forren mixtures can endure; Though, Syren-like on Shore and Sea, Her Face Enchants all those whom once She doth embrace, Nor is ther any can Her bewty prize But he who hath beheld her with his Eyes: Those following Leaves display, if well observed, How she long Her Maydenhead preserved, How for sound prudence She still bore the Bell; Whence may be drawn this high-fetchd parallel, Venus and Venice are Great Queens in their degree, Venus is Queen of Love, Venice of Policie.

Dream of Freedom There’s a dream in the land With its back against the wall. By muddled names and strange Sometimes the dream is called. There are those who claim This dream for theirs alone— A sin for which, we know They must atone. Unless shared in common Like sunlight and like air, The dream will die for lack Of substance anywhere. The dream knows no frontier or tongue, The dream no class or race. The dream cannot be kept secure In any one locked place. This dream today embattled, With its back against the wall— To save the dream for one, It must be saved for ALL.

I. In the greenest of our valleys, By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. In the monarch Thought’s dominion— It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair. II. Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow (This—all this—was in the olden Time long ago); THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER14 And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. III. Wanderers in that happy valley Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically To a lute’s well-tunèd law; Round about a throne, where sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. IV. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. V. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch’s high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) And, round about his home, the glory That blushed and bloomed EDGAR ALLAN POE 15 Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. VI. And travellers now within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody; While, like a rapid ghastly river, Through the pale door, A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh—but smile no more.

Music of the Grid: A Poem in Two Equations _________________________ The masses of particles sound the frequencies with which space vibrates, when played. This Music of the Grid betters the old mystic mainstay, "Music of the Spheres," both in fantasy and in realism. LET US COMBINE Einstein's second law m=E/C^2 (1) with another fundamental equation, the Planck-Einstein-Schrodinger formula E = hv The Planck-Einstein-Schrodinger formula relates the energy E of a quantum-mechanical state to the frequency v at which its wave function vibrates. Here h is Planck's constant. Planck introduced it in his revolutionary hypothesis (1899) that launched quantum theory: that atoms emit or absorb light of frequency v only in packets of energy E = hv. Einstein went a big step further with his photon hypothesis (1905): that light of frequency v is always organized into packets with energy E = hv. Finally Schrodinger made it the basis of his basic equation for wave functions-the Schrodinger equation (1926). This gave birth to the modern, universal interpretation: the wave function of any state with energy E vibrates at a frequency v given by v = E/h. By combining Einstein with Schrodinger we arrive at a marvelous bit of poetry: (*) v = mc^2/h (*) The ancients had a concept called "Music of the Spheres" that inspired many scientists (notably Johannes Kepler) and even more mystics. Because periodic motion (vibration) of musical instruments causes their sustained tones, the idea goes, the periodic motions of the planets, as they fulfill their orbits, must be accompanied by a sort of music. Though picturesque and soundscape-esque, this inspiring anticipation of multimedia never became a very precise or fruitful scientific idea. It was never more than a vague metaphor, so it remains shrouded in equation marks: "Music of the Spheres." Our equation (*) is a more fantastic yet more realistic embodiment of the same inspiration. Rather than plucking a string, blowing through a reed, banging on a drumhead, or clanging a gong, we play the instrument that is empty space by plunking down different combinations of quarks, gluons, electrons, photons,... (that is, the Bits that represent these Its) and let them settle until they reach equilibrium with the spontaneous activity of Grid. Neither planets nor any material constructions compromise the pure ideality of our instrument. It settles into one of its possible vibratory motions, with different frequencies v, depending on how we do the plunking, and with what. These vibrations represent particles of different mass m, according to (*). The masses of particles sound the Music of the Grid.

Kell skimmed the spell and frowned. “An eternal flame?” Rhy absently plucked one of the lin from the floor and shrugged. “First thing I grabbed.” He tried to sound as if he didn’t care about the stupid spell, but his throat was tight, his eyes burning. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, skipping the coin across the ground as if it were a pebble on water. “I can’t make it work.” Kell shifted his weight, lips moving silently as he read over the priest’s scrawl. He held his hands above the paper, palms cupped as if cradling a flame that wasn’t even there yet, and began to recite the spell. When Rhy had tried, the words had fallen out like rocks, but on Kell’s lips, they were poetry, smooth and sibilant. The air around them warmed instantly, steam rising from the penned lines on the scroll before the ink drew in and up into a bead of oil, and lit. The flame hovered in the air between Kell’s hands, brilliant and white. He made it look so easy, and Rhy felt a flash of anger toward his brother, hot as a spark—but just as brief. It wasn’t Kell’s fault Rhy couldn’t do magic. Rhy started to rise when Kell caught his cuff. He guided Rhy’s hands to either side of the spell, pulling the prince into the fold of his magic. Warmth tickled Rhy’s palms, and he was torn between delight at the power and knowledge that it wasn’t his. “It isn’t right,” he murmured. “I’m the crown prince, the heir of Maxim Maresh. I should be able to light a blasted candle.” Kell chewed his lip—Mother never chided him for the habit—and then said, “There are different kinds of power.” “I would rather have magic than a crown,” sulked Rhy. Kell studied the small white flame between them. “A crown is a sort of magic, if you think about it. A magician rules an element. A king rules an empire.” “Only if the king is strong enough.” Kell looked up, then. “You’re going to be a good king, if you don’t get yourself killed first.” Rhy blew out a breath, shuddering the flame. “How do you know?” At that, Kell smiled. It was a rare thing, and Rhy wanted to hold fast to it—he was the only one who could make his brother smile, and he wore it like a badge—but then Kell said, “Magic,” and Rhy wanted to slug him instead. “You’re an arse,” he muttered

Ripped from my body before mortality, the shape of your figure, the slope of your waist the thunder of your thighs your breasts, mountains it all fits every crevice of my body was filled with your flesh! Every dark wonder of you, explored.

Bezgove ure "To je stari bezeg za hišo. To so bezgove ure. Grozljivo zelena tesnoba listov. Črnikasta barva jagod. Grenki bezgov čas pred nevihto. Pod zidom vetje kopriv. Nepokošena trava. Za zidom soba. Preležani duh samskih stricev. Votlo bezgovo steblo nedelje. Poobedna tihota. Rdečkasti peclji jagod. Njihov plehki, pusti okus v bezgovem spancu. Sladke sline zorijo v medlečih ustih dečkov, ki slonijo ob bezgovih bokih hiš.

we find from their writings that Moses, Job, David, Solomon and Isaiah were the leading scientists of the ages in which they lived. They understood natural history, architecture, sculpture, poetry, music, botany, and in astronomy they made such progress that many of the constellations still retain the names they used, such as Orion, Pleaides, etc. (See Job xxxviii, 31; Amos v, 8.)

Humanity A to Z (The Poem) A for assimilation is the way, B for bigotry must be thrown away. C for conscience when at play, D for delusions all run away. E for equality once brought to life, F for fears can no longer survive. G for greed when let not to thrive, H for humility won't be caught in strife. I for integrity mustn't be compromised, J for justice will then prevail alright. K for kindness must never run tight, L for life can then be lived upright. M for mercy can never be forgotten, N for naivety keeps you from being rotten. O for oppression when is begotten, P for patience must be overridden. Q for questions when let fly, R for rigidity will weaken and die. S for serenity will go awry, T for tradition if obeyed dry. U for unity is our supreme mission, V for vanity leads only to destruction. W for wholeness is our salvation, X for xenophobia is no civilization. Y for yield we must never to separation, Z for zeal we mustn't lose for ascension.

No doctor can help me My only doctor is my dreams

When I die, I’ll come back             an oakleaf hydrangea— Something bigger             than I was when we began. When you die             I want you to be a boy so I can take you in             on some decrepit path pretending the wind running through             somehow belongs to you. When you bury me             watch out: I’ll spread. And you’ll recognize my autumnal red             psychic flames burning near your split rail fence.             I was what you chose to plant to absorb the emptiness             left from other things. Tasha Cotter, “Hydrangea,” Dialogist: Quartertly Poetry & Art (v.1, no. 3)

Viral Code …I want my dreams And I want them now; Give me my dreams; Only dreams can cure me; Everyone deserves dreams Because no one deserves them

I want to live Just as I wish But only a shock Can help me now Fall is the new rise

If you don’t give me My dreams I will be negative - If you give me My dreams I will be positive +

Ηate rose And any hope Became blue; How to reverse The lies? How to love again In the fake sunset? The blessed Must not get cursed; Who will be left To push humans Towards evolution? What joy can ever be calm When all there is Is harm?

To, co píšu, má význam především pro mě. V poezii se totiž člověk ocitne úplně někde jinde. Poezie není pro masy. Nechci pohrdat čtenáři, ale už, tuším, Halas říkal, že básník píše jen pro básníka. Pokud někdo poezii rozumí, tak je asi básník, i když třeba vlastní verše sám netvoří.

I want to be moral; I believe In divine justice; If I do wrong God will punish me somehow So I don’t I’m pure And I stay away From everyone; I’m a poor And lonesome cowgirl I’m not Who you think I am; Question everything If you want to find truth;

Chraň si mne. Haj si mne. V moci tvé všecko: aby ztroskotala loď, anebo přistala.

What you ask of me Is so unreal That it’s like You ask of me To give light To the sun That day I will be strong And I promise you; That I will do; I will give light To the sun

They don’t care About the truth: They use lies For power And condemn innocents They pretend To be good But they are The worst of all We care And we will fight For morality

NÁŠ KOCOUREK Náš kocourek bělovousek – je ho ještě malý kousek, ale práci všude shání od rána až do klekání. Venku leze po jabloni, doma zase klubko honí, u stodůlky honí klásek, pak se chytá za ocásek. Jde-li moucha po výsluní, náš kocourek hned je u ní. A kde pavouk nitky souká, kocourek se aspoň kouká. Pohne-li se kvítek bledý, kocourek jde na výzvědy a tu záři rosných kapek rád by lapil do svých tlapek. Na slunci i na podstřeší celý den ho něco těší; po práci a po robotě tiše spinká v staré botě.

POLÁMAL SE MRAVENEČEK Polámal se mraveneček, ví to celá obora – o půlnoci zavolali mravenčího doktora. Doktor klepe na srdíčko, potom píše recepis: „Třikrát denně prášek cukru, Bude chlapík jako rys.“ Dali prášku podle rady, mraveneček stůně dál, celý den byl jako v ohni, celou noc jim proplakal. Čtyři stáli u postýlky, pátý těšil: „Neplakej! Zafoukám ti na bolístku, do rána ti bude hej!“ Zafoukal mu na ramínko, pohladil ho po čele, hop! a zdravý mraveneček ráno skáče z postele!

ZAZPÍVAL POTŮČEK Zazpíval potůček: „Kdo se mnou poplyne? Čilá moje vlnka k řece se přivine. Oba zasnoubení, ó jak blaze sníme, než se v moři dálném na věky spojíme! Pak v sluneční záři vzhůru se vineme, co obláčky spolu nebem poplyneme!

LESNÍ STUDÁNKA Znám křišťálovou studánku, kde nejhlubší je les, tam roste tmavé kapradí a vůkol rudý vřes. Tam ptáci, laně chodí pít pod javorový kmen, ti ptáci za dne bílého, ty laně v noci jen. Když usnou lesy hluboké a kolem ticho jest, tu nebesa i studánka jsou plny zlatých hvězd.

It was an illusion; I was living a lie I want to change everything; I want to go to prison; But I haven't done anything wrong And I will never do I get too starstruck; I have photophobia And I can't stand light

It was dark, I could barely see her outline. Nd when I called out her nickname! She was ready to turn to face me but gave me a side view with her shy, blushing cheek. Now, I can watch her clearly through the rays of purest sunlight she was covering till then, eyes slightly down, and She was looking through her eyelashes. Lately, she smiled this time confusing me more!

Poetry has to be as hasty and rough as eating, sleep or sex.

Villicus Vadum: Soldier Of Fortune by Stewart Stafford I am the ghost of lupine Romulus, Founder of Rome, hear my tale, Of Villicus Vadum - young, driven, Steward to Senator Lucius Flavius. Villicus wanted Flavia, the senator’s daughter, But she was betrothed to Marcus Brutus; A consul of noble and virtuous stock, Villicus conspired to take Flavia's hand. Treachery and deception were his tools, Knavish peacock of Rome's epic stage, Sought to take Flavia from Marcus Brutus, To snatch and cage his treasured gem. Bribed a false soothsayer to trap her, Believing her beloved began with V, Flavia agreed to elope with him to Gaul, With Brutus vowing deadly vengeance. Fleeing to the bosom of Rome's enemy - Vercingetorix, at war with Julius Caesar, Villicus offered to spy on the Senate, While plotting to seize Gaul's throne. Queen Verica also caught his eye, Villicus was captured by Mark Antony, Taken to Caesar's camp as a traitor; Brutus challenged him to a duel. Brutus slashed him but spared his life, They dragged Villicus to Rome in chains, To try him for his now infamous crimes; Cicero in defence, Cato as prosecutor. Cicero argued Villicus acted out of love, And that his ambition merited mercy, Cato wanted death for his wicked threat, Julius Caesar pondered a final verdict. Villicus - pardoned but banished from Rome, Immediate death if he returned to Flavia, Villicus kissed the emperor's foot for naught, Flavia refused to join him in fallen exile. Now learn from this outcast's example, friends, That I, Romulus, warn you to avoid at your peril, Villicus Vadum, the wrath of the gods upon him, Until time ceases, sole spectre of night's edge. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Let my heart and mind The heart loves, The mind thinks, The heart wants to believe in what it loves, But the mind denies to feel before it thinks, The day brings her forth in beauty’s all possible forms, The night hides her from the eyes desperate to see her, Then the mind creates her in all known and felt forms, While the heart begins to only beat for her, The pulse of life seeks her in everything, While the fear of death scares the mind, But the heart is busy creating her life’s impressions in everything, So that when the mind dies, it loves her with its own mind, But neither the heart nor the mind bother to consult me, For the mind believes what it thinks and the heart believes only what it feels, And my mind constantly thinks of her, my heart only loves to feel her, and ah what a joy they both bring to me, Because only when my heart is loving her, my mind the true pulse of life feels, So I finally get to know the heart in love, My mind that loves to think only her thoughts, And finally I allow my heart to be the heart of love, And my mind the mind of loving thoughts, Her thoughts, her love, her feelings, her everything, Until I lose every sense that defines me, Because now just like my heart, wherever I might be, I only see her in everything, Even her sensation now fills a major part of me, And finally I manage to give all these feelings a name, That always feels and sounds the same, She, her beauty, her feelings and her name, The world around me has not evolved, but certainly has changed, but her feeling and my love for her remain the same, So my love Irma, let my heart feel you long enough, For it loves beating for you, Let my mind think of you long enough, For I love it, when it only thinks of you!

Let my heart and mind The heart loves, The mind thinks, The heart wants to believe in what it loves, But the mind denies to feel before it thinks, The day brings her forth in beauty’s all possible forms, The night hides her from the eyes desperate to see her, Then the mind creates her in all known and felt forms, While the heart begins to only beat for her, The pulse of life seeks her in everything, While the fear of death scares the mind, But the heart is busy creating her life’s impressions in everything, So that when the mind dies, it loves her with its own mind, But neither the heart nor the mind bother to consult me, For the mind believes what it thinks and the heart believes only what it feels, And my mind constantly thinks of her, my heart only loves to feel her, and ah what a joy they both bring to me, Because only when my heart is loving her, my mind the true pulse of life feels, So I finally get to know the heart in love, My mind that loves to think only her thoughts, And finally I allow my heart to be the heart of love, And my mind the mind of loving thoughts, Her thoughts, her love, her feelings, her everything, Until I lose every sense that defines me, Because now just like my heart, wherever I might be, I only see her in everything, Even her sensation now fills a major part of me, And finally I manage to give all these feelings a name, That always feels and sounds the same, She, her beauty, her feelings and her name, The world around me has not evolved, but it certainly has changed, but her feeling and my love for her remain the same, So my love Irma, let my heart feel you long enough, For it loves beating for you, Let my mind think of you long enough, For I love it, when it only thinks of you!

Tan my hide, but this Henry was one of us, with a true love of Mother Church, and would surely have been a recusant in later days! Hear you all, they called him the mirror of Christian kings, and he had his soldiers sing Non Nobis and Te Deum when the field was won!

People are not objects They are not meant for fixing And while I’ve sometimes been able to preserve— You can never revive a dead thing

I shoot the man who told me my womanism is of the devil As if he knew the demons that trouble me These demons that trouble me Have no trouble shooting you They shoot you They will not pray For God’s forgiveness I always knew I had a little bit of heathen in me. Always knew I had a lot of woman in me. We shoot you

I grew into my hips when I was seventeen years old I learned from my mother She used hers like a boat To bring my father home, Ashore.

When an immigrant speaks of feeling uncomfortable just know, you are in the presence of man who knows what the sting of assimilation is.

No religion is more worldly than Islam. In spite of its political incapacity, no religion keeps men’s eyes more fixed on the way the world is run. And in the poetry of the doctor’s son, in his fumbling response to the universal civilization, his concern with ‘basics’, I thought I could see how Islamic fervour could become creative, revolutionary, and take men on to a humanism beyond religious doctrine: a true renaissance, open to the new and enriched by it, as the Muslims in their early days of glory had been.

I wonder where we'd be if the masses knew just what a poem could do

When you go, space closes over like water behind you, Do not look back: there is nothing outside you, Space is only time visible in a different way, Places we love we can never leave

Every bookshop is a condensed version of the world. It is not a flight path, but rather the corridor between bookshelves that unites your country and its language with vast regions that speak other languages. It is not an international frontier you must cross but a footstep--a mere footstep--you must take to change topography, toponyms and time: a volume first published in 1976 sits next to one launched yesterday, which has just arrived; a monograph on prehistoric migrations cohabits with a study of the megalopolis in the twentieth-first century; the complete works of Camus precede those of Cervantes (it is in that unique, reduced space where the line by J.V. Foix rings truest: "The new excites and the old seduces"). It is not a main road, but rather a set of stairs, perhaps a threshold, maybe not even that: turn and it is what links one genre to another, a discipline or obsession to an often complementary opposite; Greek drama to great North American novels, microbiology to photography, Far Eastern history to bestsellers about the Far West, Hindu poetry to chronicles of the Indies, entomology to chaos theory." - Jorge Carrión, Bookshops: A Reader's History

When light brings me sorrow And dark gives me peace It's difficult to reach tomorrow And hope blooms in endings

I can't die It's a paradox I've got the consciousness here

This world needs me; If I don't exist The world doesn't exist The World Ends With Me

  Now let us thank the Eternal Power: convinced   That Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction,—   That oft the cloud which wraps the present hour   Serves but to brighten all our future days. Barbarossa, Act v. Sc. 3. J. BROWN.

Poetry has a mysterious way of illustrating the landscapes of life. One can't help but love its audacity to record the journey.