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I am at a loss at the moment. Life is full of surprises and things are constantly changing and evolving or devolving.
And if you decide to email me, please be polite and respectful I will be cruel to anyone who demands my submission. :)
So, having said that -- I am here to meet like minded people for conversation and possible friendship.
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I am done with CM. I will check email occassionally.
Hope everyone finds what they are looking for. |
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Into Twilight
William Butler Yeats
OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,
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| Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; |
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| Laugh heart again in the gray twilight, |
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| Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn. |
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| Your mother Eire is always young, |
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| Dew ever shining and twilight gray; |
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| Though hope fall from you and love decay, |
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| Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue. |
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| Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: |
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| For there the mystical brotherhood |
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| Of sun and moon and hollow and wood |
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| And river and stream work out their will; |
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| And God stands winding His lonely horn, |
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| And time and the world are ever in flight; |
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| And love is less kind than the gray twilight, |
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| And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn. | |
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Sometimes I lose track of where I am or even where I am going. I don't see myself so very clearly most of the time that it can become disruptive to everyone around me despite my effort to control the abyss of my mind. I try to be malleable to the ideas of who I want and long to be.
I have come though, to this point in my life, to understand that I have a strong attraction to the whimsy of romance. I perceive very clearly the danger of certain fantasies, the creation of perfection within the mind and its potential down falls. But you see, it is here, in this small space of my mind, that I find simple and true happiness. It is okay for me to have this perfection. I am not so consumed with the illusion to realize that there is a beautiful fragility to this perfection, for it has not fully materialized into a physical experience.
But you must realize, you must see, that this perfection is building a foundation for the physical experience. Do we not build fantasy when we are able to touch? Does it not enhance the experience?
I have tremendous hope for the physical experience. As much as the physical is important and needed it is purely empty without this perfection, without the fantasy of the mind. Therefore, leading a random girl on a leash, being spanked by a new friend to satiate a temporary need becomes problematic and misconstrues what is truly wanted or even needed. Hollow acts that will never match what is foreseen and built in the mind and eventually for a 'perfect' physical future experience. |
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The Golden Age of Love
Nichita Stanescu
My hands are in love,
alas, my mouth loves -
and see, I am suddenly aware
that things are so close to me
I can hardly walk among them
without suffering.
It is a sweet feeling
of waking, of dreaming,
and I am here now, without sleep -
I clearly see the ivory gods,
I take them in my hands and
thrust them, laughing, in the moon
up to their sculpted hilts -
the wheel of an ancient ship, adorned
and spun by sailors.
Jupiter is yellow, Hera
the magnificent shades to silver.
I strike the wheel with my left hand and it moves.
It is a dance of sentiments, my love,
many a goddess of the air, between the two of us.
And I, the sail of my soul
billowed with longing,
look for you everywhere, and things come
ever closer,
crowding my chest, hurting me.
From the book “Bas-Relief with Heroes”
english translation by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru. |
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. . . Learning to Breathe And Let Go . . . |
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. . . And I Want to Believe. . . |
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Love and Sleep
Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said--
I wist not what, saving one word--Delight.
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.
-- Algernon Charles Swinburne | |
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Behavior of Fish in an Egyptian Tea Garden
As a white stone draws down the fish
she on the seafloor of the afternoon
draws down men's glances and their cruel wish for love. Her red lip on the spoon
slips a morsel of ice-cream. Her hands white as a shell, are submarine fronds sinking with spread fingers, lean along the table, carmined at the ends.
A cotton magnate, an important fish
with great eyepouches and a golden mouth
through the frail reefs of furniture swims out
and idling, suspended, stays to watch
A crustacean old man, clamped to his chair
sits near her and might coldly see
her charms through fissures where the eyes should be; or else his teeth are parted in a stare
Captian on leave, a lean dark mackerel
lies in the offing, turns himself and looks through currents of sound. The flat-eyed flatfish sucks on a straw, staring from its repose, laxly.
And gallants in shoals swim up and lag
circling and passing near the white attraction;
sometimes pausing, opening a conversation: fish pause so to nibble or tug.
But now the ice-cream is finished, is paid for. The fish swim off on business and she sits alone at the table, a white stone useless except to a collector, a rich man.
-- Keith Douglas |
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"Every one of us, unconsciously, works out a personal philosophy of life, by which we are guided, inspired, and corrected, as time goes on. It is this philosophy by which we measure out our days, and by which we advertise to all about us the man, or woman, that we are. . . . It takes but a brief time to scent the life philosophy of anyone. It is defined in the conversation, in the look of the eye, and in the general mien of the person. It has no hiding place. It's like the perfume of the flower — unseen, but known almost instantly. It is the possession of the successful, and the happy. And it can be greatly embellished by the absorption of ideas and experiences of the useful of this earth."
-- George Matthew Adams
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Infinitely Me
KDavis ã 2009
I am me. A lapse in time. The essence of the future. A product of my generation. Raging pessimism and desperate for balance. Connected to the earth. Gold, rust and crimson velvet spilled over the world. Vibrating. Beating and pulsating through time. A companion in life. Swaying like the willow tree. I am me. Loving, loved, lovely. I am a glimpse of tomorrow but stuck in today. Curious to a fault. I am me. A moment of hope sprinkled with cynicism. Contagious. Eclectic in thought and extreme in motion. Beautiful me. Mindful lyric. A sonnet of the planets. Mercury, liquid sex. Epic. I am the breath, the words that you speak. The deepest secret and the shameful truth. I am written across fields of poppies. Searching for knowledge. A vile poet. Wisdom wrapped in a box. I am me. Proud. Sensual. I am expression. Euphoric in metal. The taste of submission cinched in leather. The echo of pleasure. Forgiveness. Seeded. Integrated. Crucified beautifully. I am me. I am faith, prayer and repentance. I am me. Honest. A child of adventure.
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I Carry Your Heart With Me
E.E. Cummings
I carry your heart with me
(I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it
(anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear no fate
(for you are my fate, my sweet)
I want no world
(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
And it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart
(I carry it in my heart) |
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Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and soul.
I love you as the plant that does not bloom and carries hidden within itself the light of those flowers, and thanks to your love, darkly in my body lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
(100 Love Sonnets, 1960 - Pablo Neruda) |
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Here is another of my favorite poems by Pablo Neruda.
I Crave Your Mouth
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
(100 Love Sonnets, 1960 - Pablo Neruda) |
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| Age: 49 |
| Dayton,
Ohio |
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