Alice - The Dream Keeper
Submitted by Alice on Tue, 09/02/2008 - 11:56pm.
*
Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamer,
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.
*
Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamer,
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.
Langston Hughes
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Israfel
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
Whose heart-strings are a lute;
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Israfel
*
In an introduction to the poem, Poe says that Israfel is described in the Koran as an angel whose heart is a lute and who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures." His song quiets the stars, the poem says, while the Earth-bound poet is limited in his own "music." Poe's friend Thomas Holley Chivers said "Israfel" comes the closest to matching Poe's ideal of the art of poetry.
Cheers ... I am going to refind the Cat Houses Code..
I finally get here, just to fall asleep on my desk/keyboard, because my computer has gotten a new Google browser and most everything went awry and whilst I was wish'n' & hope'n' & wait'n & dream'n' - since the computer Was Sayng SLOW/FROZEN - basically driving me mad & say'n' NO, NO, NO! - "DOH" and GRRR. I will be back ...
She's Backkkkk ;)
The Cat House
(but code prints "dirty" - but it still works ;) )
well CODE looks fine now :D
Not like your pretty pixs, but still a CAT HOUSE (snicker)
*Poof*
I'm Explaining a Few Things, by Pablo Neruda
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.
I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.
From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!
Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.
And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
A Seth
Your world and everything in it exists first in the imagination.
You usually think, for example, that your feelings about a given event are primarily reactions to the event itself. It seldom occurs to you that the feelings themselves might be primary, and that the particular event was somehow a response to your emotions, rather than the other way around. The all-important matter of your focus is largely responsible for your interpretation of any events.
True Imagination
"True imagination is not fanciful daydreaming;
it is fire from heaven."
Ernest Holmes
note to self: ... relax and breathe
-
Hi Alice. :)
The World is Perfect
"This must be your point of view: that the world and all it contains is perfect, though not completed."
Wallace Wattles
note to self: ... relax and breathe
-
The Secret Life of Rhonda
Hi SR!
Happy Saturday... t minus 15 minutes and my lunch is over...
How's everything?
SR..
you have to get yourself to my house..
we could spend a week at least in my library...it would be SO FUN!
:)
Hi Alice,...
Sorry to hear you're working.
I had to run over to Pizza Hut and grab some pizzas.
My daughter is having a tie-dye birthday party with a couple of her friends here.
Things are well. Probably gonna do another dose of tuning out the news, perhaps until the election ends and McCain is put in a nursing home. That Palin woman is getting under my skin. I'm thinking I need a psychic shower.
Anyway...
All is actually great.
How are you?
---
Alice, I would love to come over to your house & I'm really trying. Someday. I'm just hoping soon.
(I hear you have a hammock.)
I once wrote a song about how life wouldn't be so hard, had I a hammock and a yard.
--
Anyway...
I'm hoping to have my ideal library organized & accessible to visitors, as well. I wish you and P. could get to Tucson someday, too. Still trying to use my imagination to create next summer's vacation which we alluded to.
I have a feeling that a lot of very cool stuff is about to be fully manifested, ... soon. I know it's already on its way.
--
Uh oh. Looks like lunchtime's over for you.
I hope you have a happy afternoon, Alice.
If I'm not too tired, hopefully, I'll stop in and say hi tonite, if you're in Sederville.
I'm hoping to do a new Emerson post later today, too.
Not political, of course. :)
Well, I'll catch you later.
xoxox,...
sr
note to self: ... relax and breathe
-
Haiku (Birds singing...)
Birds singing
in the dark
—Rainy dawn.
Jack Kerouac
-a tie-dye birthday party-
That sounds fun - maybe I will do that on my birthday too..I need some new tank tops anyway... :)
Hey Alice,...
Wow,...our timing on this thread is trippy.
I just got on the computer a minute ago.
I've been off for about 6 hours.
I guess tie-dying is fun. I wouldn't know.
I've never participated.
(I also don't look very good in tie-dyes.) ... :)
But, as for the party,...
A library work friend of my wife's also came over to do it.
So did two of my son's friend's.
And, one of his friends' father did, also.
I, of course, tried to lay low, rest & read.
--
(I just finished watching the second half of the movie, "Knocked Up," with my 8 year old daughter, my wife & my 15 year old son. Rated R. Probably not appropriate as a family movie. But, we're getting all the HBO channels free for a couple days courtesy of the cable company...for some reason.)
I hope you had a nice day, Alice. :)
note to self: ... relax and breathe
-
burnt offering
"I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."
Jack Kerouac
...from the book, "Dharma Bums,"..
... a world full of rucksack wanderers, Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn't really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, at least new fancy cars, certain hair oils and deodorants and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume, I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures...
author: Jack Kerouac
note to self: ... relax and breathe
-
G'nite Alice.
Sweet dreams.
xoxox,
sr
Dear Goddess, You Sly Universal Virus
by Rob Brezsny
http://dir.salon.com/story/people/brez/2000/09/20/goddess/print.html
I'm happy to announce that this is a perfect moment. It's a perfect moment for many reasons, but especially because I have been inspired to say a gigantic prayer for all of you. I've been roused to unleash a divinely greedy, apocalyptically healing prayer for each and every one of you -- even those of you who don't believe in the power of prayer.
And so I am starting to pray right now to the God of Gods ... the God beyond all Gods ... the Girlfriend of God ... the Teacher of God ... the Goddess who invented God.
Dear Goddess, You who never kill but only change:
I pray that my exuberant, suave and accidental words will move you to shower ferocious blessings down on everyone who reads this benediction.
I pray that you will give them what they don't even know they want -- not just the boons they think they need but everything they've always been afraid to even imagine or ask for.
Dear Goddess, You wealthy anarchist burning heaven to the ground:
Many of the divine chameleons out there don't even know that their souls will live forever. So please use your blinding magic to help them see that they are all wildly creative geniuses too big for their own personalities.
Guide them to realize that they are all completely different from what they think they are and more exciting than they can possibly imagine.
Make it illegal, immoral, irrelevant, unpatriotic and totally tasteless for them to be in love with anyone or anything that's no good for them.
O Goddess, You who give us so much love and pain mixed together that our morality is always on the verge of collapsing:
I beg you to cast a boisterous love spell that will nullify all the dumb ideas, bad decisions and nasty conditioning that have ever cursed the wise and sexy virtuosos out there.
Remove, banish, annihilate and laugh into oblivion any jinx that has clung to them, no matter how long they've suffered from it, and even if they've become accustomed or addicted to its ugly companionship.
And please conjure an aura of protection around them so that they will receive an early warning if they are ever about to act in such a way as to bring another hex or plague or voodoo into their lives in the future.
Dear Goddess, sweet Goddess, You sly universal virus with no fucking opinion:
I pray that you will help all the personal growth addicts out there become disciplined enough to go crazy in the name of creation, not destruction.
I pray that you will teach them the difference between oppressive self-control and liberating self-control, awaken in them the power to do the half-right thing when it is impossible to do the totally right thing.
Arouse the Wild Woman within them -- even if they're men.
And please give them bigger, better, more original sins and wilder, wetter, more interesting problems.
Dear Goddess, You pregnant slut who scorns all mediocre longing:
I pray that you will inspire all the compassionate rascals communing with this prayer to love their enemies just in case their friends turn out to be jerks.
Provoke them to throw away or give away all the things they own that encourage them to believe that they are better than anyone else.
Show them how much fun it is to brag about what they cannot do and do not have.
Most of all, Goddess, brainwash them with your freedom so that they never love their own pain more than anyone else's pain.
Dear Goddess, You psychedelic mushroom cloud at the center of all our brains:
The curiously divine human beings reading this prayer deserve everything they are yearning for and much, much more.
So please bless them with lucid dreams while they are wide awake and solar-energy-operated sex toys that work even in the dark and vacuum cleaners for their magic carpets and a knack for avoiding other people's hells and their very own 900 number so that everyone has to pay to talk to them and a secret admirer who is not a psychotic stalker.
Dear Goddess, You fiercely tender, hauntingly reassuring, orgiastically sacred feeling that is even now running through all of our soft, warm animal bodies:
I pray that you provide everyone out there with a license to bend and even break all rules, laws and traditions that keep them apart from the things they love.
Show them how to purge the wishy-washy wishes that distract them from their daring, dramatic, divine desires.
And teach them that they can have anything they want if they'll only ask for it in an unselfish way.
And now dear God of Gods, God beyond all Gods, Girlfriend of God, Teacher of God, Goddess who invented God, I bring this prayer to a close, trusting that in these mysterious moments you have begun to change everyone out there in the exact way they've needed to change in order to express their soul's code.
Amen. Awomen. And glory halle-fucking-lujah.
Sep 20, 2000
Francisco de la Torre - Sonnet
Bella es mi Ninfa, si los lazos de oro
al apacible viento desordena;
bella, si de sus ojos enajena
el altivo desdén, que siempre lloro.
Bella, si con la luz que sola adoro
la tempestad del viento y mar serena;
bella, si a la dureza de mi pena
vuelue las gracias del celeste coro.
Bella si mansa, bella si terrible;
bella si cruda, bella esquiva, y bella
si vuelue grave aquella luz del cielo,
cuya beldad humana y apacible
ni si puede saber lo que es sin vella,
ni vista entenderá lo que es el suelo.
My nymph is lovely, if with golden hair,
she brings disorder to the placid wind;
lovely, if with her eyes she can convey
haughty disdain, which I forever mourn.
Lovely, if with the one light I adore
she calms the tempest of the wind and sea;
lovely, if the harshness of my grief
into celestial music she transforms.
Lovely if tame, lovely if she is rude;
lovely if cruel, and coy, and lovely too
if she turns dark the light from heaven's sky,
one cannot know without seeing her first,
nor, once seen, can by earth be satisfied.
"note to self: ... relax and breathe" Well Spoken ;..
;) Tea Cheers *Poof*
I thought this was sent ... DOH
***
>>>>>> ALICE <<<<<< Wonderful Words & Sonnets
* R U "Through The Looking Glass?"
WONDERFUL WORDS, ALL!
(i have been "dancin' with the devil --
The Computer)
BTW this night is the 9th of September 2008c.e.
SJ, I had wanted to contact you after my FIRST POST here, to Alice, which I had tried the whole day.
Hope to send a Bee Cheers to you....soon ;)
*Poof*
WD! :) (bee cheers to SJ..that's funny)..
DREAM LAND, by Christina Rossetti
Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.
She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.
Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.
Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;
Rest, rest at the heart's core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.
First published in The Germ
Dante and Christina
I like the Rossetti's
*
A TRIAD
Three sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
And one was blue with famine after love,
Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
The burden of what those were singing of.
One shamed herself in love; one temperately
Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
One famished died for love. Thus two of three
Took death for love and won him after strife;
One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
All on the threshold, yet all short of life.
From Goblin Market and other poems (1862)
.
The World is Perfect
SONNET I
Louïse Labé
SONNET I
What if the hero of the Odyssey
Had been like you, a man that’s fair of face ?
Would he have had that easy-mannered grace,
Yet be the cause of so much agony ?
At any rate, your roving ways are sure
To make me count the weeks we’ve been apart,
And open gaping wounds within my heart,
This ailing heart which you alone can cure.
O ill-starred fate! A scorpion sting
Eats at my heart. I need a remedy
From the malicious beast that poisoned me.
I beg you, dear, just stop my suffering.
Come back to your true love, and let me lie
Clasped in your arms again, or let me die.
http://users.telenet.be/gaston.d.haese/deadpoetesses.html
Dead Poetess Society
(cleaning out my bookmarks the last couple of night...QUITE fun!)
Pierrot
Sara Teasdale
Pierrot stands in the garden
Beneath a waning moon,
And on his lute he fashions
A fragile silver tune.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
He thinks he plays for me,
But I am quite forgotten
Under the cherry tree.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
And all the roses know
That Pierrot loves his music, --
But I love Pierrot.
Two doves upon the selfsame branch
Two doves upon the selfsame branch,
Two lilies on a single stem,
Two butterflies upon one flower :--
O happy we who look on them.
Who look upon them hand in hand
Flushed in the rosy summer light ;
Who look upon them hand in hand
And never give a thought to night.
(No subject)