tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62800118178451074642024-03-04T22:31:16.731-08:00poudre d'or(powders of gold)mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-54794086821723103832013-07-28T22:54:00.002-07:002013-07-28T23:03:22.373-07:00march 1st. 2013<br />
<br />
i smelled you today. i thought maybe you were still on my shirt. you were not there. <br />
<br />
-sujey leemensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-51312844665647286572012-12-26T14:30:00.000-08:002013-01-12T12:28:23.513-08:00For the Bunnies. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghOUS_xfIMDOgB_rIzzzPP_WHLUQsmPqWr0LTSGwWeJ1E0XCTqVWJIrFXzAxJiUHARq8XP8DoyOj5Kff_S57MZZ_95uH8cV44FCMFzPaKeTv40ZBZUQiL2jaMvPbMkdrzyGE9GXixIGpE/s1600/IMG_20120825_140402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghOUS_xfIMDOgB_rIzzzPP_WHLUQsmPqWr0LTSGwWeJ1E0XCTqVWJIrFXzAxJiUHARq8XP8DoyOj5Kff_S57MZZ_95uH8cV44FCMFzPaKeTv40ZBZUQiL2jaMvPbMkdrzyGE9GXixIGpE/s400/IMG_20120825_140402.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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Look into these eyes... and get mezmorized! <br />
<br />
I have been raising these two dolls since they were barely a week old. So sick and so tiny. They fit in the palm of my hand and I have a small hand. I had to syring feed them milk and medicine three times a day. Their story is sad and not rare unfortunately. They were rescued from Santee Alley. A form of bunny trafficking...really. There are mother buns who are mated and pump out tiny babies who are then taken from their mothers as soon as they have fur...most of the bunnies have not even opened their eyes yet, but still are sold as "miniture bunnies." People will buy them, take them home and feed them carrots and lettuce only to have these beautiful babes die on them in about a week or so. This is happening now as you read this and it is not a pleasant death. I have seen that death and it is a memory I wish I could erase. To see a creature so small and so defenseless lose it's life for profit is horrible. Bunnies are a lot like human babies. They need milk for the first few months of their lives...they need their mothers...they need warmth...they need to build up their tiny little anitbodies and immune system before being taken away. They are delicate beings and it is unfortunate it is so easy to do this to them. So there it is. <br />
<br />
The good news is that these two bunnies have had the proper care they need to make it...and I am very happy to say they are getting bigger and bigger each day. But it takes a lot of work and funds which are running a bit low. I am currently fostering these two love buns, but they need to see a vet. They also need to get fixed which is not cheap. <br />
<br />
I am now reaching out...they need it. Please donate any amount you can so these two babes can make it to the vet, get fixed and get adopted! They deserve it. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I'll provide updates! And homemade greeting cards! Pictures and videos. They are so lovely so please help me help them. Thank you so much! Even if it was only to read about what is happening in Santee Alley. I appreciate it!<br />
<br />
Read about what is going on in Santee Alley <a href="http://www.nbclosangeles.com/investigations/series/get-garcia/Get-Garcia-Investigation-LA-Fashion-District-Santee-Alley-Rabbits-Bunnies-Pets-166072786.html
">HERE</a>. <br />
<br />
<br />
Please donate below! All donations will go into the bunny vet fund and if you leave your address I will mail you homemade greeting cards and treasures as a big THANK YOU for helping out. <br />
<br />
Thank you. <br />
<br />
<form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><input type="hidden" name="cmd" value="_s-xclick"><br />
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mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-14372231291435973592012-05-16T00:49:00.004-07:002012-05-16T00:49:37.279-07:00to get some good sleep tonight tiny bird you must sing soft and tuck in your wings.mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-35662795167280186182012-05-16T00:25:00.001-07:002012-05-16T00:46:24.931-07:00the ghost of a fawn.a fervent burst. with pockets of light reverberating against a suddenly soft gentle night. <br />
instant. like a tear. or coffee.<br />
the universe had spoken to me. in hushed whispers under thick blankets. a bubble under water.<br />
<br />
i had been unleashed so greatly out into the skies because i have seen her face.
<iframe width="100%" height="166" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" src="http://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F46544777&show_artwork=true"></iframe>mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-31120971044995091092012-01-22T17:12:00.000-08:002012-01-22T17:12:09.701-08:00.burning eyes kept shut due to a disturbance in the calm bed<br />
<br />
without this <br />
<br />
you think you would be unsafe but with this you are with constant bruises shaped as rings of love around your very visible long neck<br />
something bubbles under a brute and foolish blanket<br />
<br />
-Sujey Lee <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-bHnbGt9JI-14bQyVp0o1xLpGysOtnVo2j-wqxeyaFpb9GTuOs-WlJdEc4rcTraaYBVtPnKqSscpGMLmoanIv8Y4JbDCouF5RLXaR1mXHWFBkM_8vy4iGkybgMVON3FH2Dn4GGI_t_ak/s1600/Photo+68.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-bHnbGt9JI-14bQyVp0o1xLpGysOtnVo2j-wqxeyaFpb9GTuOs-WlJdEc4rcTraaYBVtPnKqSscpGMLmoanIv8Y4JbDCouF5RLXaR1mXHWFBkM_8vy4iGkybgMVON3FH2Dn4GGI_t_ak/s400/Photo+68.jpg" /></a></div>mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-69943880370239538572011-11-26T19:45:00.000-08:002011-11-26T19:45:01.650-08:00Collection of Reading PoetsMy day is filled with these and needed to share. <br />
<br />
Starting with my favorite of the day. already dedicated. <br />
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/_Uxv7djrcF8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
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<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/VRRoekj1lcY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
again anne sexton...<br />
<br />
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/UM6nWRXCQD8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
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<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/toU4FjohGxI" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
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<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/gcjk6jrPZnA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
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<br />
I hope this was enjoyed.mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-90216596377975522352011-11-26T14:06:00.000-08:002011-11-26T14:08:34.831-08:00November 19thNovember 19th was an anniversary I wish I did not have. I spent it alone in a hotel room in Kent,Ohio. <br />
<br />
I can not remember what I ate. I barely spoke to anyone. No one knew. <br />
<br />
In honor of that anniversary....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>McAllister St. </b><br />
<br />
“I am not ready for this,” I said looking like specks of dust on an over stuffed velvet chair. It is a deep crushing red, which makes us feel as if our eyes were smoking cigars. I have never smoked a cigar, but her smell seemed close enough. <br />
She laughed with such force her head would pull back in uncontrolled waves. I can remember calling her crying when I felt lonely, but now I can only grasp at these tiny, fleeting images like ashes before me, and vanishing in my hand. I have no number to dial.<br />
Separate, yet in the same strain she is string tangled around me and becoming legs. But my own legs have taken me running beside her through long belligerent hallways. Stopping in vacant rooms, breathing, and again towards the red light of the cold bathroom, towards the music from the broken record player. It was religious. Pasts and futures, mingling and heaving provided ghosts. We can still be found in the cracks along the floor and trapped in the newly painted walls. <br />
There is something about you, I must say. Finding me in parks, with screams of my name, and high shrills of …...I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you too. You created a thick, sweet film around my bones. <br />
In my dreams now your face looks like a collection of tiny shining points of light. I could color you in, in sections. Remember every hue. You have appeared as a mural on the side of a brick building, marvelously.<br />
<br />
-Sujey Lee <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVM2I-acim8f30Dngua0OlDHCQbM3lfZ-IVKFTdWhN1lfTsRiDwDvQ2NXb02ygMbLsN-OQmYkCWKeln5XaPKY5a6uEcznXSJkAxG4TWk1Cm-Vxyhp-rGqmnzgxOBwhVQytX0gtYKAiGl0/s1600/L1010502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVM2I-acim8f30Dngua0OlDHCQbM3lfZ-IVKFTdWhN1lfTsRiDwDvQ2NXb02ygMbLsN-OQmYkCWKeln5XaPKY5a6uEcznXSJkAxG4TWk1Cm-Vxyhp-rGqmnzgxOBwhVQytX0gtYKAiGl0/s400/L1010502.JPG" /></a></div>mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-33912566773973075592011-11-26T13:48:00.000-08:002011-11-26T13:48:06.311-08:00revisiting.i needed to revisit this today. and found this video. <br />
my favorite poem. trying to remember the last time i read this. and how i would recite it to myself when i felt a little mad. im feeling a little mad now but i realized i have forgotten the last few lines..may i never forget again. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/uWcuGo0rEFo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-46547293846778723932011-10-15T17:48:00.000-07:002011-10-15T17:48:40.086-07:00Allen Gingsberg<b>Please Master</b><br />
<br />
<br />
Please master can I touch your cheek<br />
please master can I kneel at your feet<br />
please master can I loosen your blue pants<br />
please master can I gaze at your golden haired belly<br />
please master can I gently take down your shorts<br />
please master can I have your thighs bare to my eyes<br />
please master can I take off your clothes below your chair<br />
please master can I kiss your ankles and soul<br />
please master can I touch lips to your muscle hairless thigh<br />
please master can I lay my ear pressed to your stomach<br />
please master can I wrap my arms around your white ass<br />
please master can I lick your groin curled with soft blond fur<br />
please master can I touch my tongue to your rosy asshole<br />
please master may I pass my face to your balls,<br />
please master, please look into my eyes,<br />
please master order me down on the floor,<br />
please master tell me to lick your thick shaft<br />
please master put your rough hands on my bald hairy skull<br />
please master press my mouth to your prick-heart<br />
please master press my face into your belly, pull me slowly strong thumbed<br />
till your dumb hardness fills my throat to the base<br />
till I swallow and taste your delicate flesh-hot prick barrel veined Please<br />
Master push my shoulders away and stare into my eye, & make me bend over the table<br />
please master grab my thighs and lift my ass to your waist<br />
please master your rough hand's stroke on my neck your palm down my backside<br />
please master push me up, my feet on chairs, till my hole feels the breath of your spit and your thumb stroke<br />
please master make me say Please Master Fuck me now Please<br />
Master grease my balls and hairmouth with sweet vaselines<br />
please master stroke your shaft with white creams<br />
please master touch your cock head to my wrinkled self-hole<br />
please master push it in gently, your elbows enwrapped around my breast<br />
your arms passing down to my belly, my penis you touch w/ your little fingers<br />
please master shove it in me a little, a little, a little,<br />
please master sink your droor thing down my behind<br />
& please master make me wiggle my rear to eat up the prick trunk<br />
till my asshalfs cuddle your thighs, my back bent over<br />
till I'm alone sticking out your sword stuck throbbing in me<br />
please master pull out and slowly roll into the bottom<br />
please master lunge it again, and withdraw to the tip<br />
please please master fuck me again with your self, please fuck me Please<br />
Master drive it down till it hurts me the softness the<br />
Softness please master make love to my ass, give body to center & fuck me for good like a girl,<br />
tenderly clasp me please master I take me to thee,<br />
& drive in my belly your selfsame sweet heat-rood<br />
your fingered in solitude Denver or Brooklyn or fucked in a maiden in Paris carlots<br />
please master drive me thy vehicle, body of love drops, sweat fuck<br />
body of tenderness, Give me your dog fuck faster<br />
please master make me go moan on the table<br />
Go moan O please master do fuck me like that<br />
in your rhythm thrill-plunge and pull-back bounce & push down<br />
till I loosen my asshole a dog on the table yelping with terror delight to be loved<br />
Please master call me a dog, an ass beast, a wet asshole<br />
& fuck me more violent, my eyes hid with your palms round my skull<br />
& plunge down in a brutal hard lash thru soft drip-fish<br />
& throb thru five seconds to spurt out your semen heat<br />
over & over, bamming it in while I cry out your name I do love you<br />
please Master. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisRWlNlYlt6eFapR7XqSmPp0MEgjVVlN6fKIWdmPE2CVqHktOXha6XWWKTPsY6V9PVrMDy6S10c_25XBuOlV_-A-0XhkDqlHV1ORtq8sZDSFHaQxFvzfiLumO1F_FSN2igsIB_YelHjX4/s1600/0288.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisRWlNlYlt6eFapR7XqSmPp0MEgjVVlN6fKIWdmPE2CVqHktOXha6XWWKTPsY6V9PVrMDy6S10c_25XBuOlV_-A-0XhkDqlHV1ORtq8sZDSFHaQxFvzfiLumO1F_FSN2igsIB_YelHjX4/s400/0288.jpg" /></a></div>Recording Blake songs at Apostolic Studios, New York City, June 1969.<br />
<br />
<br />
June 3, 1926 – April 5, 1997<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(This poem was the first poem I had ever read by Gingsberg. I was 13.)mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-19600727158314278152011-06-09T14:06:00.000-07:002011-06-09T14:06:35.250-07:00Judy Grahn<b>The most blonde woman in the world <br />
<b></b></b><br />
<br />
The most blonde woman in the world<br />
one day threw off her skin<br />
her hair, threw off her hair, declaring<br />
‘Whosoever chooses to love me<br />
chooses to love a bald woman<br />
with bleeding pores.’<br />
Those who came then as her lovers<br />
were small hard-bodied spiders<br />
with dark eyes and an excellent<br />
knowledge of weaving.<br />
They spun her blood into long strands,<br />
and altogether wove millions of red<br />
webs, webs red in the afternoon sun.<br />
‘Now,’ she said, ‘Now I am expertly loved,<br />
and now I am beautiful.’<br />
<br />
<br />
(from She Who, in love belongs to those who do the feeling<br />
<br />
Red Hen Press, 2008)<br />
<br />
<br />
To be redirected to Judy Grahn's official website please click on the blog title above. (Judy Grahn)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vn6knC-3v8P6n-ADMU8yK-KA-y4K4i8Bk6Wjq2Oc8htJIuy50m3K6pbmpUs4_a-PGw-QHOoPRGWPfkxHGbe8iN-USRQo2_tY5vq4fEZ5gYmxDo6_3mpUI584JAUBApcqr9PCuIqqiqU/s1600/koolish1-m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="400" width="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vn6knC-3v8P6n-ADMU8yK-KA-y4K4i8Bk6Wjq2Oc8htJIuy50m3K6pbmpUs4_a-PGw-QHOoPRGWPfkxHGbe8iN-USRQo2_tY5vq4fEZ5gYmxDo6_3mpUI584JAUBApcqr9PCuIqqiqU/s400/koolish1-m.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Judy Grahn, ca. 1972<br />
© Lynda Koolishmensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-67416455175824442762011-05-06T21:17:00.000-07:002011-05-06T21:17:03.069-07:00Turkish BathsReading the article below must happen. Enjoy! <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.nickelinthemachine.com/2011/04/the-turkish-baths-in-jermyn-street/">The Turkish Baths in Jermyn Street, St James.</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicre1FEmxh9On40VsARvnGdHofdPwsZrGwBTV3vOv-xDI4QIZjYeyLsEB91O5TmzKLbh-ieSrqh4kQE6VJYSrkgJG9L0I_k9j5XKJZM5HZr-DHDfELXfXiV6b6gylHVepMX6PL28r2Mf4/s1600/Gerome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="277" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicre1FEmxh9On40VsARvnGdHofdPwsZrGwBTV3vOv-xDI4QIZjYeyLsEB91O5TmzKLbh-ieSrqh4kQE6VJYSrkgJG9L0I_k9j5XKJZM5HZr-DHDfELXfXiV6b6gylHVepMX6PL28r2Mf4/s400/Gerome.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Jean-Leon Gerome <br />
The Grand Bath at Bursa, 1883mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-51385818342507439142011-05-06T18:29:00.000-07:002011-05-06T18:31:21.151-07:00Vladimir Mayakovsky<b>At the Top of My voice</b><br />
<br />
My most respected<br />
comrades of posterity!<br />
Rummaging among<br />
these days’ <br />
petrified crap,<br />
exploring the twilight of our times,<br />
you,<br />
possibly,<br />
will inquire about me too.<br />
<br />
And, possibly, your scholars<br />
will declare,<br />
with their erudition overwhelming<br />
a swarm of problems;<br />
once there lived<br />
a certain champion of boiled water,<br />
and inveterate enemy of raw water.<br />
<br />
Professor,<br />
take off your bicycle glasses!<br />
I myself will expound<br />
those times<br />
and myself.<br />
<br />
I, a latrine cleaner<br />
and water carrier,<br />
by the revolution<br />
mobilized and drafted,<br />
went off to the front<br />
from the aristocratic gardens <br />
of poetry - <br />
the capricious wench<br />
She planted a delicious garden,<br />
the daughter,<br />
cottage,<br />
pond<br />
and meadow.<br />
<br />
Myself a garden I did plant,<br />
myself with water sprinkled it.<br />
some pour their verse from water cans;<br />
others spit water<br />
from their mouth - <br />
the curly Macks,<br />
the clever jacks - <br />
but what the hell’s it all about!<br />
There’s no damming al this up - <br />
beneath the walls they mandoline:<br />
“Tara-tina, tara-tine,<br />
tw-a-n-g...” <br />
It’s no great honor, then,<br />
for my monuments<br />
to rise from such roses<br />
above the public squares,<br />
where consumption coughs,<br />
where whores, hooligans and syphilis<br />
walk.<br />
<br />
Agitprop<br />
sticks<br />
in my teeth too,<br />
and I’d rather<br />
compose<br />
romances for you - <br />
more profit in it<br />
and more charm.<br />
<br />
But I<br />
subdued<br />
myself,<br />
setting my heel<br />
on the throat<br />
of my own song.<br />
Listen,<br />
comrades of posterity,<br />
to the agitator<br />
the rabble-rouser.<br />
<br />
Stifling<br />
the torrents of poetry,<br />
I’ll skip<br />
the volumes of lyrics;<br />
as one alive,<br />
I’ll address the living.<br />
I’ll join you<br />
in the far communist future,<br />
I who am<br />
no Esenin super-hero.<br />
<br />
My verse will reach you<br />
across the peaks of ages,<br />
over the heads<br />
of governments and poets.<br />
<br />
My verse <br />
will reach you<br />
not as an arrow<br />
in a cupid-lyred chase,<br />
not as worn penny<br />
Reaches a numismatist,<br />
not as the light of dead stars reaches you.<br />
<br />
My verse<br />
by labor<br />
will break the mountain chain of years,<br />
and will present itself<br />
ponderous, <br />
crude,<br />
tangible,<br />
as an aqueduct,<br />
by slaves of Rome<br />
constructed,<br />
enters into our days.<br />
<br />
When in mounds of books,<br />
where verse lies buried,<br />
you discover by chance the iron filings of lines,<br />
touch them<br />
with respect,<br />
as you would<br />
some antique<br />
yet awesome weapon.<br />
<br />
It’s no habit of mine<br />
to caress<br />
the ear<br />
with words;<br />
a maiden’s ear<br />
curly-ringed<br />
will not crimson<br />
when flicked by smut.<br />
<br />
In parade deploying<br />
the armies of my pages,<br />
I shall inspect<br />
the regiments in line.<br />
<br />
Heavy as lead,<br />
my verses at attention stand,<br />
ready for death<br />
and for immortal fame.<br />
<br />
The poems are rigid,<br />
pressing muzzle<br />
to muzzle their gaping<br />
pointed titles.<br />
<br />
The favorite <br />
of all the armed forces<br />
the cavalry of witticisms<br />
ready<br />
to launch a wild hallooing charge,<br />
reins its chargers still,<br />
raising<br />
the pointed lances of the rhymes.<br />
and all<br />
these troops armed to the teeth,<br />
which have flashed by<br />
victoriously for twenty years,<br />
all these,<br />
to their very last page,<br />
I present to you,<br />
the planet’s proletarian.<br />
<br />
The enemy<br />
of the massed working class<br />
is my enemy too<br />
inveterate and of long standing.<br />
<br />
Years of trial<br />
and days of hunger<br />
ordered us<br />
to march <br />
under the red flag.<br />
<br />
We opened<br />
each volume<br />
of Marx<br />
as we would open<br />
the shutters<br />
in our own house;<br />
but we did not have to read<br />
to make up our minds<br />
which side to join,<br />
which side to fight on.<br />
<br />
Our dialectics<br />
were not learned<br />
from Hegel.<br />
In the roar of battle<br />
it erupted into verse,<br />
when,<br />
under fire,<br />
the bourgeois decamped<br />
as once we ourselves<br />
had fled<br />
from them.<br />
Let fame<br />
trudge<br />
after genius<br />
like an inconsolable widow<br />
to a funeral march - <br />
die then, my verse,<br />
die like a common soldier,<br />
like our men<br />
who nameless died attacking!<br />
I don’t care a spit<br />
for tons of bronze;<br />
I don’t care a spit<br />
for slimy marble.<br />
We’re men of kind,<br />
we’ll come to terms about our fame;<br />
let our<br />
common monument be<br />
socialism<br />
built<br />
in battle.<br />
Men of posterity<br />
examine the flotsam of dictionaries:<br />
out of Lethe<br />
will bob up<br />
the debris of such words<br />
as “prostitution,” <br />
“tuberculosis,” <br />
“blockade.” <br />
For you,<br />
who are now<br />
healthy and agile,<br />
the poet<br />
with the rough tongue<br />
of his posters,<br />
has licked away consumptives’ spittle.<br />
With the tail of my years behind me,<br />
I begin to resemble<br />
those monsters,<br />
excavated dinosaurs.<br />
Comrade life,<br />
let us<br />
march faster,<br />
march<br />
faster through what’s left<br />
of the five-year plan.<br />
My verse<br />
has brought me<br />
no rubles to spare:<br />
no craftsmen have made<br />
mahogany chairs for my house.<br />
In all conscience,<br />
I need nothing<br />
except<br />
a freshly laundered shirt.<br />
When I appear <br />
before the CCC<br />
of the coming<br />
bright years,<br />
by way of my Bolshevik party card,<br />
I’ll raise<br />
above the heads<br />
of a gang of self-seeking<br />
poets and rogues,<br />
all the hundred volumes<br />
of my <br />
communist-committed books.<br />
<br />
<br />
Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Past One O'Clock </b><br />
<br />
Past one o’clock. You must have gone to bed.<br />
The Milky Way streams silver through the night. <br />
I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegrams<br />
I have no cause to wake or trouble you. <br />
And, as they say, the incident is closed.<br />
Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind. <br />
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then<br />
To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts. <br />
Behold what quiet settles on the world. <br />
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.<br />
In hours like these, one rises to address <br />
The ages, history, and all creation.<br />
<br />
Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.<br />
<br />
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July 19,1893-April 14, 1930mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-20056926254325897702011-05-05T18:07:00.000-07:002011-05-06T18:31:59.250-07:00Anna Akhmatova<span style="font-weight:bold;">I Don't Know If You're Alive Or Dead</span><br />
<br />
I don't know if you're alive or dead.<br />
Can you on earth be sought,<br />
Or only when the sunsets fade<br />
Be mourned serenely in my thought?<br />
<br />
All is for you: the daily prayer,<br />
The sleepless heat at night,<br />
And of my verses, the white<br />
Flock, and of my eyes, the blue fire.<br />
<br />
No-one was more cherished, no-one tortured<br />
Me more, not<br />
Even the one who betrayed me to torture,<br />
Not even the one who caressed me and forgot.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">You Will Hear Thunder</span><br />
<br />
You will hear thunder and remember me,<br />
And think: she wanted storms. The rim<br />
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,<br />
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.<br />
<br />
That day in Moscow, it will all come true,<br />
when, for the last time, I take my leave,<br />
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,<br />
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>In Memory of M.B. </b><br />
<br />
Here is my gift, not roses on your grave, not sticks of burning incense. You lived aloof, maintaining to the end your magnificent disdain. You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes, and suffocated inside stifling walls. Alone you let the terrible stranger in, and stayed with her alone. Now you're gone, and nobody says a word about your troubled and exalted life. Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn at your dumb funeral feast. Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I, I, sick with grief for the buried past, I, smoldering on a slow fire, having lost everything and forgotten all, would be fated to commemorate a man so full of strength and will and bright inventions, who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me, hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Anna Andreevna Akhmatova (1924)<br />
June 23, 1889 – March 5, 1966<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>More Akhmatova Links</b>:<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.uvm.edu/~sgutman/Akhmatova.htm">http://www.uvm.edu/~sgutman/Akhmatova.htm</a><br />
Includes an audio presentation, poems in Russian, plus other interesting links<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/akhmatova/akhmatova_ind.html">http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/akhmatova/akhmatova_ind.html</a><br />
A wonderful selection of poems<br />
<br />
<a href="http://web.mmlc.northwestern.edu/~mdenner/Demo/poetpage/akhmatova.html">http://web.mmlc.northwestern.edu/~mdenner/Demo/poetpage/akhmatova.html</a> <br />
Great site with a time line of her lifemensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-43027372198218946342011-05-05T17:01:00.000-07:002011-05-06T19:16:26.586-07:00Arthur Rimbaud<b>SUN AND FLESH (CREDO IN UNAM)<br />
</b><br />
Birth of Venus<br />
I<br />
The Sun, the hearth of affection and life,<br />
Pours burning love on the delighted earth,<br />
And when you lie down in the valley, you can smell<br />
How the earth is nubile and very full-blooded;<br />
How its huge breast, heaved up by a soul,<br />
Is, like God, made of love, and, like woman, of flesh,<br />
And that it contains, big with sap and with sunlight,<br />
The vast pullulation of all embryos!<br />
And everything grows, and everything rises!<br />
<br />
- O Venus, O Goddess!<br />
I long for the days of antique youth,<br />
Of lascivious satyrs, and animal fauns,<br />
Gods who bit, mad with love, the bark of the boughs,<br />
And among water-lilies kissed the Nymph with fair hair!<br />
I long for the time when the sap of the world,<br />
River water, the rose-coloured blood of green trees<br />
Put into the veins of Pan a whole universe!<br />
When the earth trembled, green,beneath his goat-feet;<br />
When, softly kissing the fair Syrinx, his lips formed<br />
Under heaven the great hymn of love;<br />
When, standing on the plain, he heard round about him<br />
Living Nature answer his call;<br />
When the silent trees cradling the singing bird,<br />
Earth cradling mankind, and the whole blue Ocean,<br />
And all living creatures loved, loved in God!<br />
<br />
I long for the time of great Cybele,<br />
Who was said to travel, gigantically lovely,<br />
In a great bronze chariot, through splendid cities;<br />
Her twin breasts poured, through the vast deeps,<br />
The pure streams of infinite life.<br />
Mankind sucked joyfully at her blessed nipple,<br />
Like a small child playing on her knees.<br />
- Because he was strong, Man was gentle and chaste.<br />
<br />
Misfortune! Now he says: I understand things,<br />
And goes about with eyes shut and ears closed.<br />
- And again, no more gods! no more gods! Man is King,<br />
Man is God! But the great faith is Love!<br />
Oh! if only man still drew sustenance from your nipple,<br />
Great mother of gods and of men, Cybele;<br />
If only he had not forsaken immortal Astarte<br />
Who long ago, rising in the tremendous brightness<br />
Of blue waters, flower-flesh perfumed by the wave,<br />
Showed her rosy navel, towards which the foam came snowing<br />
And , being a goddess with the great conquering black eyes,<br />
Made the nightingale sing in the woods and love in men's hearts!<br />
<br />
The Birth of Venus<br />
<br />
<br />
II<br />
<br />
<br />
I believe! I believe in you! divine mother,<br />
Sea-born Aphrodite! - Oh! the path is bitter<br />
Since the other God harnessed us to his cross;<br />
Flesh, Marble, Flower, Venus, in you I believe!<br />
- yes, Man is sad and ugly, sad under the vast sky.<br />
He possesses clothes, because he is no longer chaste,<br />
Because he has defiled his proud, godlike head<br />
And because he has bent, like an idol in the furnace,<br />
His Olympian form towards base slaveries!<br />
Yes, even after death, in the form of pale skeletons<br />
He wishes to live and insult the original beauty!<br />
- And the Idol in whom you placed such maidenhood,<br />
Woman, in whom you rendered our clay divine,<br />
So that Man might bring light into his poor soul<br />
And slowly ascend, in unbounded love,<br />
From the earthly prison to the beauty of day,<br />
Woman no longer knows even how to be a Courtesan!<br />
- It's a fine farce! and the world snickers<br />
At the sweet and sacred name of great Venus!<br />
<br />
III<br />
<br />
<br />
If only the times which have come and gone might come again!<br />
- For Man is finished! Man has played all the parts!<br />
In the broad daylight, wearied with breaking idols<br />
He will revive, free of all his gods,<br />
And, since he is of heaven, he will scan the heavens!<br />
The Ideal, that eternal, invincible thought, which is<br />
All; The living god within his fleshly clay,<br />
Will rise, mount, burn beneath his brow!<br />
An when you see him plumbing the whole horizon,<br />
Despising old yokes, and free from all fear,<br />
You will come and give him holy Redemption!<br />
- Resplendent, radiant, from the bosom of the huge seas<br />
You will rise up and give to the vast Universe<br />
Infinite Love with its eternal smile!<br />
The World will vibrate like an immense lyre<br />
In the trembling of an infinite kiss!<br />
<br />
- The World thirsts for love: you will come and slake its thirst.<br />
<br />
....................................................<br />
<br />
O! Man has raised his free, proud head!<br />
And the sudden blaze of primordial beauty<br />
Makes the god quiver in the altar of the flesh!<br />
Happy in the present good, pale from the ill suffered,<br />
Man wishes to plumb all depths, - and know all things! Thought,<br />
So long a jade, and for so long oppressed,<br />
Springs from his forehead! She will know Why!...<br />
Let her but gallop free, and Man will find Faith!<br />
- Why the blue silence, unfathomable space?<br />
Why the golden stars, teeming like sands?<br />
If one ascended forever, what would one see up there?<br />
Does a sheperd drive this enormous flock<br />
Of worlds on a journey through this horror of space?<br />
And do all these worlds contained in the vast ether,<br />
tremble at the tones of an eternal voice?<br />
- And Man, can he see? can he say: I believe?<br />
Is the langage of thought anymore than a dream?<br />
If man is born so quickly, if life is so short<br />
Whence does he come? Does he sink into the deep Ocean<br />
Of Germs, of Foetuses, of Embryos, to the bottom<br />
of the huge Crucible where Nature the Mother<br />
Will resuscitate him, a living creature,<br />
To love in the rose and to grow in the corn?...<br />
<br />
We cannot know! - We are weighed down<br />
With a cloak of ignorance, hemmed in by chimaeras!<br />
Men like apes, dropped from our mothers' wombs,<br />
Our feeble reason hides the infinite from us!<br />
We wish to perceive: - and Doubt punishes us!<br />
Doubt, dismal bird, beat us down with its wing...<br />
- And the horizon rushes away in endless flight!...<br />
<br />
.......................................................<br />
<br />
The vast heaven is open! the mysteries lie dead<br />
Before erect Man, who folds his strong arms<br />
Among the vast splendour of abundant Nature!<br />
He sings... and the woods sing, the river murmurs<br />
A song full of happiness which rises towards the light!...<br />
- it is Redemption! it is love! it is love!...<br />
<br />
<br />
IV<br />
<br />
O splendour of flesh! O ideal splendour!<br />
O renewal of love, triumphal dawn<br />
When, prostrating the Gods and the Heroes,<br />
White Callipyge and little Eros<br />
Covered with the snow of rose petals, will caress<br />
Women and flowers beneath their lovely outstretched feet!<br />
- O great Ariadne who pour out your tears<br />
On the shore, as you see, out there on the waves,<br />
The sail of Theseus flying white under the sun,<br />
O sweet virgin child whom a night has broken,<br />
Be silent! On his golden chariot studded with black grapes,<br />
Lysios, who has been drawn through Phrygian fields<br />
By lascivious tigers and russet panthers,<br />
Reddens the dark mosses along the blue rivers.<br />
- Zeus, the Bull, cradles on his neck like a child<br />
The nude body of Europa who throws her white arm<br />
Round the God's muscular neck which shivers in the wave.<br />
Slowly he turns his dreamy eye towards her;<br />
She, droops her pale flowerlike cheek<br />
On the brow of Zeus; her eyes are closed; she is dying<br />
In a divine kiss, and the murmuring waters<br />
Strew the flowers of their golden foam on her hair.<br />
- Between the oleander and the gaudy lotus tree<br />
Slips amorously the great dreaming Swan<br />
Enfloding Leda in the whiteness of his wing;<br />
- And while Cypris goes by, strangely beautiful,<br />
And, arching the marvellous curves of her back,<br />
Proudly displays the golden vision of her big breasts<br />
And snowy belly embroidered with black moss,<br />
- Hercules, Tamer of beasts, in his Strength,<br />
Robes his huge body with the lion's skin as with glory<br />
And faces the horizons, his brow terrible and sweet!<br />
<br />
Vaguely lit by the summer moon,<br />
Erect, naked, dreaming in her pallor of gold<br />
Streaked by the heavy wave of her long blue hair,<br />
In the shadowy glade whenre stars spring in the moss,<br />
The Dryade gazes up at the silent sky...<br />
- White Selene, timidly, lets her veil float,<br />
Over the feet of beautiful Endymion,<br />
And throws him a kiss in a pale beam...<br />
- The Spring sobs far off in a long ectasy...<br />
Ii is the nymph who dreams with one elbow on her urn,<br />
Of the handsome white stripling her wave has pressed against.<br />
- A soft wind of love has passed in the night,<br />
And in the sacred woods, amid the standing hair of the great trees,<br />
Erect in majesty, the shadowly Marbles,<br />
The Gods, on whose brows the Bullfinch has his nest,<br />
- the Gods listen to Men, and to the infinite World! <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Original French</b><br />
<br />
Soleil et Chair<br />
I<br />
<br />
Le Soleil, le foyer de tendresse et de vie,<br />
Verse l'amour brûlant à la terre ravie,<br />
Et, quand on est couché sur la vallée, on sent<br />
Que la terre est nubile et déborde de sang ;<br />
Que son immense sein, soulevé par une âme,<br />
Est d'amour comme Dieu, de chair comme la femme,<br />
Et qu'il renferme, gros de sève et de rayons,<br />
Le grand fourmillement de tous les embryons !<br />
<br />
Et tout croît, et tout monte !<br />
<br />
spacespacespacespacespacespace- O Vénus, ô Déesse !<br />
Je regrette les temps de l'antique jeunesse,<br />
Des satyres lascifs, des faunes animaux,<br />
Dieux qui mordaient d'amour l'écorce des rameaux<br />
Et dans les nénuphars baisaient la Nymphe blonde !<br />
Je regrette les temps où la sève du monde,<br />
L'eau du fleuve, le sang rose des arbres verts<br />
Dans les veines de Pan mettaient un univers !.<br />
Où le sol palpitait, vert, sous ses pieds de chèvre ;<br />
Où, baisant mollement le clair syrinx, sa lèvre<br />
Modulait sous le ciel le grand hymne d'amour ;<br />
Où, debout sur la plaine, il entendait autour<br />
Répondre à son appel la Nature vivante ;<br />
Où les arbres muets, berçant l'oiseau qui chante,<br />
La terre berçant l'homme, et tout l'Océan bleu<br />
Et tous les animaux aimaient, aimaient en Dieu !<br />
<br />
Soleil et Chair, Suite<br />
<br />
<br />
Je regrette les temps de la grande Cybèle<br />
Qu'on disait parcourir, gigantesquement belle,<br />
Sur un grand char d'airain, les splendides cités ;<br />
Son double sein versait dans les immensités<br />
Le pur ruissellement de la vie infinie.<br />
L'Homme suçait, heureux, sa mamelle bénie,<br />
Comme un petit enfant, jouant sur ses genoux.<br />
- Parce qu'il était fort, l'Homme était chaste et doux.<br />
<br />
Misère ! Maintenant il dit : Je sais les choses,<br />
Et va, les yeux fermés et les oreille closes.<br />
- Et pourtant, plus de dieux ! plus de dieux ! l'Homme est Roi,<br />
L'Homme est Dieu ! Mais l'Amour, voilà la grande Foi !<br />
Oh ! si l'homme puisait encore à ta mamelle,<br />
Grande mère des dieux et des hommes, Cybèle ;<br />
S'il n'avait pas laissé l'immortelle Astarté<br />
Qui jadis, émergeant dans l'immense clarté<br />
Des flots bleus, fleur de chair que la vague parfume,<br />
Montra son nombril rose où vint neiger l'écume,<br />
Et fit chanter, Déesse aux grands yeux noirs vainqueurs,<br />
Le rossignol aux bois et l'amour dans les coeurs !<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
II<br />
<br />
<br />
Je crois en toi ! Je crois en toi ! divine mère,<br />
Aphrodite marine ! - Oh ! la route est amère<br />
Depuis que l'autre Dieu nous attelle à sa croix ;<br />
Chair, Marbre, Fleur, Vénus, c'est en toi que je crois !<br />
- Oui, l'Homme est triste et laid, triste sous le ciel vaste,<br />
Il a des vêtements, parce qu'il n'est plus chaste,<br />
Parce qu'il a sali son fier buste de Dieu,<br />
Et qu'il a rabougri, comme une idole au feu,<br />
Son corps Olympien aux servitudes sales !<br />
Oui, même après la mort, dans les squelettes pâles<br />
Il veut vivre, insultant la première beauté !<br />
- Et l'Idole où tu mis tant de virginité,<br />
Où tu divinisas notre argile, la Femme,<br />
Afin que l'Homme pût éclairer sa pauvre âme<br />
Et monter lentement, dans un immense amour,<br />
De la prison terrestre à la beauté du jour,<br />
La Femme ne sait plus même être Courtisane !<br />
- C'est une bonne farce ! et le monde ricane<br />
Au nom doux et sacré de la grande Vénus !<br />
<br />
III<br />
<br />
<br />
Si les temps revenaient, les temps qui sont venus !<br />
- Car l'Homme a fini ! l'Homme a joué tous les rôles !<br />
Au grand jour, fatigué de briser des idoles<br />
Il ressuscitera, libre de tous ses Dieux,<br />
Et, comme il est du ciel, il scrutera les cieux !<br />
L'idéal, la pensée invincible, éternelle,<br />
Tout ; le dieu qui vit, sous son argile charnelle,<br />
Montera, montera, brûlera sous son front !<br />
Et quand tu le verras sonder tout l'horizon,<br />
Contempteur des vieux jougs, libre de toute crainte,<br />
Tu viendras lui donner la Rédemption sainte !<br />
- Splendide, radieuse, au sein des grandes mers<br />
Tu surgiras, jetant sur le vaste Univers<br />
L'Amour infini dans un infini sourire !<br />
Le Monde vibrera comme une immense lyre<br />
Dans le frémissement d'un immense baiser<br />
<br />
- Le Monde a soif d'amour : tu viendras l'apaiser.<br />
<br />
<br />
IV<br />
<br />
<br />
O splendeur de la chair ! ô splendeur idéale !<br />
O renouveau d'amour, aurore triomphale<br />
Où, courbant à leurs pieds les Dieux et les Héros,<br />
Kallipyge la blanche et le petit Éros<br />
Effleureront, couverts de la neige des roses,<br />
Les femmes et les fleurs sous leurs beaux pieds écloses !<br />
- O grande Ariadné, qui jette tes sanglots<br />
Sur la rive, en voyant fuir là-bas sur les flots<br />
Blanche sous le soleil, la voile de Thésée,<br />
O douce vierge enfant qu'une nuit a brisée,<br />
Tais-toi ! Sur son char d'or brodé de noirs raisins,<br />
Lysios, promené dans les champs Phrygiens<br />
Par les tigres lascifs et les panthères rousses,<br />
Le long des fleuves bleus rougit les sombres mousses.<br />
- Zeus, Taureau, sur son cou berce comme une enfant<br />
Le corps nu d'Europé, qui jette son bras blanc<br />
Au cou nerveux du Dieu frissonnant dans la vague<br />
Il tourne lentement vers elle son oeil vague ;<br />
Elle, laisse traîner sa pâle joue en fleur<br />
Au front de Zeus ; ses yeux sont fermés ; elle meurt<br />
Dans un divin baiser, et le flot qui murmure<br />
De son écume d'or fleurit sa chevelure.<br />
- Entre le laurier-rose et le lotus jaseur<br />
Glisse amoureusement le grand Cygne rêveur<br />
Embrassant la Léda des blancheurs de son aile ;<br />
- Et tandis que Cypris passe, étrangement belle,<br />
Et, cambrant les rondeurs splendides de ses reins,<br />
Étale fièrement l'or de ses larges seins<br />
Et son ventre neigeux brodé de mousse noire,<br />
- Héraclès, le Dompteur, qui, comme d'une gloire<br />
Fort, ceint son vaste corps de la peau du lion,<br />
S'avance, front terrible et doux, à l'horizon !<br />
<br />
Par la lune d'été vaguement éclairée,<br />
Debout, nue, et rêvant dans sa pâleur dorée<br />
Que tache le flot lourd de ses longs cheveux bleus,<br />
Dans la clairière sombre, où la mousse s'étoile,<br />
La Dryade regarde au ciel silencieux....<br />
- La blanche Séléné laisse flotter son voile,<br />
Craintive, sur les pieds du bel Endymion,<br />
Et lui jette un baiser dans un pâle rayon...<br />
- La Source pleure au loin dans une longue extase...<br />
C'est la nymphe qui rêve, un coude sur son vase,<br />
Au beau jeune homme blanc que son onde a pressé.<br />
- Une brise d'amour dans la nuit a passé,<br />
Et, dans les bois sacrés, dans l'horreur des grands arbres,<br />
Majestueusement debout, les sombres Marbres,<br />
Les Dieux, au front desquels le Bouvreuil fait son nid,<br />
- Les Dieux écoutent l'homme et le Monde infini !<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBvgaUd9b5-QQoHPGA3tCjInYL-oQ7Ny3a4rZHkR3EYBSzUYwIZwpDVeDC2f0NKCTHy56GXrbPNVGKb44uzBZUAt0t1IbauDioGnnVVczFIecnhyphenhyphenHJbkzXl_jSngspbg3mxDCOiVCsdnE/s1600/Arthur-Rimbaud-006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="400" width="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBvgaUd9b5-QQoHPGA3tCjInYL-oQ7Ny3a4rZHkR3EYBSzUYwIZwpDVeDC2f0NKCTHy56GXrbPNVGKb44uzBZUAt0t1IbauDioGnnVVczFIecnhyphenhyphenHJbkzXl_jSngspbg3mxDCOiVCsdnE/s400/Arthur-Rimbaud-006.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Rimbaud age 17<br />
Photo taken by Étienne Carjat<br />
<br />
October 20,1854 – November 10,1891mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-9077554081799832562009-11-28T20:53:00.000-08:002011-05-06T19:17:53.435-07:00live journalDecember 8th, 2003<br />
<br />
11:42 am - i forgot about it here...sometimes i forget alot<br />
so....what happens now?<br />
<br />
here i am....myself again. almost at an instant.<br />
got off the plane and greeted by a shocking amount of voicemail and phone calls.<br />
<br />
<br />
got here safe>?<br />
<br />
home yet?<br />
<br />
when do i see you?<br />
<br />
how do you like the snow?<br />
<br />
ive missed you.<br />
<br />
smiles and smiles and smiles. more smiles as i stepped into puddles and slipped and slid all over the sidewalks.<br />
almost forgot how to walk in the snow. almost forgot how to cross the streets and on what street cinderella falafel was on.<br />
almost forgot how beautiful it is this time...and how amazing the people look.<br />
<br />
the smell of the subway..and the little mice found crawling in and out of the tracks.<br />
<br />
forgot the feeling of being crowded...always...but then you finding yourself on some cold and lonely street..and you are alone again...a walk through the park.<br />
<br />
a phone call saying he will be late....so where do you go? the L always takes a while. he is coming from greenpoint...i give him 30 mins.<br />
<br />
easy...that little bar on 7th st and 1st ave. the one by the market and the neon lights.<br />
<br />
she wasnt surprised to see me.<br />
her hair had gotten longer. she gave me that face she always does and took my hands. warmed them up real good.<br />
and kept on talking to that man. she is always talking to someone. and its always something interesting. and i just stood there looking at her the way i do.<br />
finally...i get to have my jojo.<br />
then a good kiss on the forehead and some talk.<br />
<br />
what will you be drinking.<br />
<br />
cranberry juice<br />
<br />
no way..i see san francisco has changed my lil susu<br />
<br />
no. im just trying not to drink too much..and its early jo.<br />
<br />
that face.<br />
a smile.<br />
and more talk.<br />
<br />
just move back.just move back. justmove back.<br />
damn it all...i dont know what to do.<br />
Current Mood: confused<br />
Current Music: brian eno...mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-43618259379209770812009-11-24T18:43:00.000-08:002009-11-24T19:25:27.792-08:00KP Poetry Journal Volume 1Kunstprojects "Oh, Don't Get Carried Away" is first of a series of Berlin Based Journals, compiled and edited by artist <a href="http://www.declanrooney.com">Declan Rooney</a> and featuring commissioned work from: <br /><br />Are Blytt<br />http://www.areblytt.org<br /> <br />Stefano Calligaro<br />http://www.hardfolk.it<br /><br />Hsiao Chen<br />http://www.worksfromthebalcony.com<br /> <br />Sujey Lee Colon<br />http://powdersofgold.blogspot.com/<br /><br />Drawing Guts<br />http://www.myspace.com/drawingguts<br /><br />Edward Eke<br />http://www.edwardeke.com<br /><br />Edvine Larssen <br /><br />Thurston Moore<br />http://www.ecstaticpeace.com<br />http://www.sonicyouth.com<br /><br />Donata Rigg<br /><br />Ama Saru<br />http://www.worksfromthebalcony.com<br /><br />Antonio Serna<br />http://www.resource.muserna.org<br /><br />Susanne Winterling<br />http://www.susannewinterling.de<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Limited Edition of 200<br />Black and White Photocopied Zine<br />29.5 x 21cms <br />5.00 euros (excluding postage and packaging)<br /><br />To order please contact: info@kunstprojects.commensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-83156949630637108692009-05-01T15:59:00.000-07:002011-05-06T19:08:34.170-07:00W.H. Auden<b>Cocaine Lil and Morphine Sue </b><br />
<br />
Did you ever hear about Cocaine Lil? <br />
She lived in Cocaine town on Cocaine hill, <br />
She had a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat, <br />
They fought all night with a cocaine rat. <br />
<br />
She had cocaine hair on her cocaine head. <br />
She had a cocaine dress that was poppy red: <br />
She wore a snowbird hat and sleigh-riding clothes, <br />
On her coat she wore a crimson, cocaine rose. <br />
<br />
Big gold chariots on the Milky Way, <br />
Snakes and elephants silver and gray. <br />
Oh the cocaine blues they make me sad, <br />
Oh the cocaine blues make me feel bad. <br />
<br />
Lil went to a snow party one cold night, <br />
And the way she sniffed was sure a fright. <br />
There was Hophead Mag with Dopey Slim, <br />
Kankakee Liz and Yen Shee Jim. <br />
<br />
There was Morphine Sue and the Poppy Face Kid, <br />
Climbed up snow ladders and down they skid; <br />
There was the Stepladder Kit, a good six feet, <br />
And the Sleigh-riding Sister who were hard to beat. <br />
<br />
Along in the morning about half past three <br />
They were all lit up like a Christmas tree; <br />
Lil got home and started for bed, <br />
Took another sniff and it knocked her dead. <br />
<br />
They laid her out in her cocaine clothes: <br />
She wore a snowbird hat with a crimson rose; <br />
On her headstone you’ll find this refrain: <br />
She died as she lived, sniffing cocaine<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagNz_GWYGA8pHs_r78RCE255IyaBpMtHebP-FvX0dN0d-YZZcGVefeLxZDavBW1nZMcAipsIzHYtAplXUU2Jehc0ilLgWz1bxJ6yIzMNz4GGKWRb2HQbGVq0i9Z6O962dBV4nzozlk_o/s1600/WH+Auden.png" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="400" width="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagNz_GWYGA8pHs_r78RCE255IyaBpMtHebP-FvX0dN0d-YZZcGVefeLxZDavBW1nZMcAipsIzHYtAplXUU2Jehc0ilLgWz1bxJ6yIzMNz4GGKWRb2HQbGVq0i9Z6O962dBV4nzozlk_o/s400/WH+Auden.png" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Feburary 21, 1907 – September 29, 1973<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Some images from my recent trip to Puerto Rico. Pool side at my aunts. Enjoy. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2h_Widtkl43Vd7kj7StQyvh-4mPyC_7nIqf2IMobMCaX5_pi2hjUyUh1clr9kEsxmmzUB2WIymN22NAdoHSZFL__1zA1fbn4FT3_lrT-OSOMnLFSnppGxskGBVtBHGiTq4Zw-qkYNNY4/s1600-h/L1000218.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2h_Widtkl43Vd7kj7StQyvh-4mPyC_7nIqf2IMobMCaX5_pi2hjUyUh1clr9kEsxmmzUB2WIymN22NAdoHSZFL__1zA1fbn4FT3_lrT-OSOMnLFSnppGxskGBVtBHGiTq4Zw-qkYNNY4/s400/L1000218.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330995888756035906" /></a><br />
<br />
© Sujey Lee<br />
<br />
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHCPu9TDIcaH8MyT_2WSs4XX6nZYoKaqLE_45yqT-G_SJQqQeU2H2c_EyX9AjUazRiDtCMedJWbJQwV71cju6flWgAPnhBt4iDArjXs5cU2vIZumujQhbNmtIhhrv4c2Svg6tE3dh8Aow/s1600-h/L1000219.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHCPu9TDIcaH8MyT_2WSs4XX6nZYoKaqLE_45yqT-G_SJQqQeU2H2c_EyX9AjUazRiDtCMedJWbJQwV71cju6flWgAPnhBt4iDArjXs5cU2vIZumujQhbNmtIhhrv4c2Svg6tE3dh8Aow/s400/L1000219.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330995632312560258" /></a><br />
<br />
© Sujey Lee<br />
<br />
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb_qx2s0FIqv5v3X7Knu0R34VYv6L8t-_wq7r_3Xzo0LcAXXz_16f8_PR6tey6wn68XvrF5uTNXqrRGrqYG74XUuluBxmLIqiDnLDsqGzT_B-wDV4JEYsLSUh6xSx8KpV-X8HpWGbIzHs/s1600-h/L1000217.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb_qx2s0FIqv5v3X7Knu0R34VYv6L8t-_wq7r_3Xzo0LcAXXz_16f8_PR6tey6wn68XvrF5uTNXqrRGrqYG74XUuluBxmLIqiDnLDsqGzT_B-wDV4JEYsLSUh6xSx8KpV-X8HpWGbIzHs/s400/L1000217.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330995627713874098" /></a><br />
<br />
© Sujey Lee<br />
<br />
indeed.mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-22494465344688249192009-04-10T16:46:00.000-07:002009-04-10T16:51:01.259-07:00Louise Bogan<span style="font-weight:bold;">Words For Departure</span><br /> <br />Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten.<br />When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements,<br />The window-sills were wet from rain in the night,<br />Birds scattered and settled over chimneypots<br />As among grotesque trees.<br /><br />Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond.<br />Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour,<br />The afternoon sifted coolness<br />And people drew together in streets becoming deserted.<br />There was a moon, and light in a shop-front,<br />And dusk falling like precipitous water.<br /><br />Hand clasped hand<br />Forehead still bowed to forehead--<br />Nothing was lost, nothing possessed<br />There was no gift nor denial.<br /><br />2<br />I have remembered you.<br />You were not the town visited once,<br />Nor the road falling behind running feet.<br /><br />You were as awkward as flesh<br />And lighter than frost or ashes.<br /><br />You were the rind,<br />And the white-juiced apple,<br />The song, and the words waiting for music.<br /><br />3<br />You have learned the beginning;<br />Go from mine to the other.<br /><br />Be together; eat, dance, despair,<br />Sleep, be threatened, endure.<br />You will know the way of that.<br /><br />But at the end, be insolent;<br />Be absurd--strike the thing short off;<br />Be mad--only do not let talk<br />Wear the bloom from silence.<br /><br />And go away without fire or lantern<br />Let there be some uncertainty about your departure.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.gpaulbishop.com/GPB%20History/GPB%20Archive/Section%20-%202/L.%20Bogan/bogan_l_01.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 430px; height: 550px;" src="http://www.gpaulbishop.com/GPB%20History/GPB%20Archive/Section%20-%202/L.%20Bogan/bogan_l_01.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />August 11, 1897 - February 4, 1970mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-58121429777771371672009-04-10T16:19:00.000-07:002009-04-10T16:32:45.645-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJkgsHVwTLSqtPFOWU7WYzpxIn6la-VF5Jz5JCqlsayXXyVJXYJxNqLh5In03h9HWFBf_qeNz4T0VZpcvoPweOr406P9sify-IVMX_HHqeFquucbggRiOa0g8cZvgqrHb7nFtuEtWPa40/s1600-h/L1000136.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJkgsHVwTLSqtPFOWU7WYzpxIn6la-VF5Jz5JCqlsayXXyVJXYJxNqLh5In03h9HWFBf_qeNz4T0VZpcvoPweOr406P9sify-IVMX_HHqeFquucbggRiOa0g8cZvgqrHb7nFtuEtWPa40/s400/L1000136.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323209534659372082" /></a><br />©sujeylee<br /><br />im sick. cough cough.mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-83865178506644971742009-04-03T11:21:00.000-07:002011-05-06T19:18:58.577-07:00Walt WhitmanAnd now a little collection of poems by Walt Whitman........enjoy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">Hast Never Come to Thee an Hour.</span> <br />
<br />
HAST never come to thee an hour, <br />
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth? <br />
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours, <br />
To utter nothingness?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">Ah Poverties, Wincings and Sulky Retreats. </span><br />
<br />
AH poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats! <br />
Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me! <br />
(For what is my life, or any man’s life, but a conflict with foes—the old, the<br />
incessant<br />
war?) <br />
You degradations—you tussle with passions and appetites; <br />
You smarts from dissatisfied friendships, (ah wounds, the sharpest of all;)<br />
You toil of painful and choked articulations—you meannesses; <br />
You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my tongue the shallowest of any;) <br />
You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you smother’d ennuis; <br />
Ah, think not you finally triumph—My real self has yet to come forth; <br />
It shall yet march forth o’ermastering, till all lies beneath me;<br />
It shall yet stand up the soldier of unquestion’d victory.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">As At Thy Portals Also Death.</span> <br />
<br />
AS at thy portals also death, <br />
Entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds, <br />
To memories of my mother, to the divine blending, maternity, <br />
To her, buried and gone, yet buried not, gone not from me, <br />
(I see again the calm benignant face fresh and beautiful still,<br />
I sit by the form in the coffin, <br />
I kiss and kiss convulsively again the sweet old lips, the cheeks, the closed eyes in the<br />
coffin;) <br />
To her, the ideal woman, practical, spiritual, of all of earth, life, love, to me the<br />
best, <br />
I grave a monumental line, before I go, amid these songs, <br />
And set a tombstone here.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">Whoever You are, Holding Me now in Hand. </span><br />
<br />
WHOEVER you are, holding me now in hand, <br />
Without one thing, all will be useless, <br />
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further, <br />
I am not what you supposed, but far different. <br />
<br />
Who is he that would become my follower?<br />
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections? <br />
<br />
The way is suspicious—the result uncertain, perhaps destructive; <br />
You would have to give up all else—I alone would expect to be your God, sole and<br />
exclusive, <br />
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting, <br />
The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around you, would have<br />
to<br />
be<br />
abandon’d;<br />
Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further—Let go your hand from my<br />
shoulders, <br />
Put me down, and depart on your way. <br />
<br />
Or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial, <br />
Or back of a rock, in the open air, <br />
(For in any roof’d room of a house I emerge not—nor in company,<br />
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,) <br />
But just possibly with you on a high hill—first watching lest any person, for miles<br />
around,<br />
approach unawares, <br />
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or some quiet island, <br />
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you, <br />
With the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss, or the new husband’s kiss,<br />
For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade. <br />
<br />
Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing, <br />
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip, <br />
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea; <br />
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—is best,<br />
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and be carried eternally. <br />
<br />
But these leaves conning, you con at peril, <br />
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand, <br />
They will elude you at first, and still more afterward—I will certainly elude you, <br />
Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold!<br />
Already you see I have escaped from you. <br />
<br />
For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book, <br />
Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it, <br />
Nor do those know me best who admire me, and vauntingly praise me, <br />
Nor will the candidates for my love, (unless at most a very few,) prove victorious,<br />
Nor will my poems do good only—they will do just as much evil, perhaps more; <br />
For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit—that which I<br />
hinted<br />
at; <br />
Therefore release me, and depart on your way.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">For Him I Sing. </span><br />
<br />
FOR him I sing, <br />
(As some perennial tree, out of its roots, the present on the past:) <br />
With time and space I him dilate—and fuse the immortal laws, <br />
To make himself, by them, the law unto himself.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.loc.gov/rr/hispanic/1898/img/whitman.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px; height: 652px;" src="http://www.loc.gov/rr/hispanic/1898/img/whitman.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />
Walter Whitman <br />
May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-53293970070304063822009-04-02T12:08:00.000-07:002011-05-06T19:20:12.664-07:00Rumi<span style="font-weight:bold;">We Three<br />
</span><br />
<br />
My love wanders the rooms, melodious, <br />
flute notes, plucked wires,<br />
full of wine the Magi drank<br />
on the way to Bethlehem.<br />
<br />
We are three. The moon comes <br />
from its quiet corner, puts a pitcher of water <br />
down in the center. The circle<br />
of surface flames. <br />
<br />
One of us knees to kiss the threshold. <br />
<br />
One drinks, with the wine-flames playing over his face. <br />
<br />
One watches the gathering, and says to any cold onlookers,<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style:italic;">This dance is the joy of existence. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I am filled with you. <br />
Skin, blood, bones, brain, and soul.<br />
There's no room for lack of trust, or trust.<br />
Nothing in this existence but that existence. <br />
<br />
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.rumibook.info/image/Rumi%20Meditatinh=g%20KIT.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 505px; height: 499px;" src="http://www.rumibook.info/image/Rumi%20Meditatinh=g%20KIT.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />
<br />
Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī (مولانا جلال الدین محمد بلخى), also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī (جلالالدین محمد رومی), but known as Rumi. <br />
<br />
September 30,1207 – December 17,1273mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-7314958654765848552009-04-01T17:48:00.000-07:002009-04-01T17:54:04.612-07:00cats<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil893jJu39R3A9AiJbrifpU25tKOzyHO41Usz-AN9jvyb0AaCTaATEq4_mWutNgB7KmZqCQEAq1O_aKitpIQRSoUvaQGCELfBMCuEDjlYhIbbWC19r31BZmh-H5EdUhj46ElLRVMCFVG8/s1600-h/P1020455.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil893jJu39R3A9AiJbrifpU25tKOzyHO41Usz-AN9jvyb0AaCTaATEq4_mWutNgB7KmZqCQEAq1O_aKitpIQRSoUvaQGCELfBMCuEDjlYhIbbWC19r31BZmh-H5EdUhj46ElLRVMCFVG8/s400/P1020455.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319890471325518226" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMrhHkUyaWB4naIeb_25ZckKBAhT0Abxrpvt_iBYoCRKP_jDf2keSceytZKy7x-HWLHyDrLpi7xQYk53_y-NRWaiHzG2ROCwgoY2nJd3o3y9IN2CkRrsJPdbRB2LrpUkrgMkdHXpruioI/s1600-h/L1000123.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMrhHkUyaWB4naIeb_25ZckKBAhT0Abxrpvt_iBYoCRKP_jDf2keSceytZKy7x-HWLHyDrLpi7xQYk53_y-NRWaiHzG2ROCwgoY2nJd3o3y9IN2CkRrsJPdbRB2LrpUkrgMkdHXpruioI/s400/L1000123.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319890471442859538" /></a><br /><br />i really like them.mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-76733980820302702292009-04-01T16:13:00.000-07:002011-05-06T19:24:46.366-07:00Sylvia PlathToday someone remarked...."who is sylvia plath?" had me thinking. <br />
<br />
well i think this is only appropriate. and let us not forgot APRIL IS NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">Mad Girl's Love Song</span><br />
<br />
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;<br />
I lift my lids and all is born again.<br />
(I think I made you up inside my head.)<br />
<br />
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,<br />
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:<br />
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.<br />
<br />
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed<br />
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.<br />
(I think I made you up inside my head.)<br />
<br />
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:<br />
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:<br />
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.<br />
<br />
I fancied you'd return the way you said,<br />
But I grow old and I forget your name.<br />
(I think I made you up inside my head.)<br />
<br />
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;<br />
At least when spring comes they roar back again.<br />
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.<br />
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">Admonition</span><br />
<br />
If you dissect a bird<br />
To diagram the tongue<br />
You'll cut the chord<br />
Articulating song.<br />
If you flay a beast<br />
To marvel at the mane<br />
You'll wreck the rest<br />
From which the fur began.<br />
<br />
If you pluck out the heart<br />
To find what makes it move,<br />
You'll halt the clock<br />
That syncopates our love.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">Aquatic Nocturne</span><br />
<br />
deep in liquid<br />
turquoise slivers<br />
of dilute light<br />
<br />
quiver in thin streaks<br />
of bright tinfoil<br />
on mobile jet:<br />
<br />
pale flounder<br />
waver by<br />
tilting silver:<br />
<br />
in the shallows<br />
agile minnows<br />
flicker gilt:<br />
<br />
grapeblue mussels<br />
dilate lithe and<br />
pliant valves:<br />
<br />
dull lunar globes<br />
of blubous jellyfish<br />
glow milkgreen:<br />
<br />
eels twirl<br />
in wily spirals<br />
on elusive tails:<br />
<br />
adroir lobsters <br />
amble darkly olive<br />
on shrewd claws:<br />
<br />
down where sound<br />
comes blunt and wan<br />
like the bronze tone<br />
of a sunken gong.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">Words heard, by accident, over the phone</span><br />
<br />
O mud, mud, how fluid! ---<br />
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.<br />
Speak, speak! Who is it?<br />
It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.<br />
It is he who has achieved these syllables.<br />
<br />
What are these words, these words?<br />
They are plopping like mud.<br />
O god, how shall I ever clean the phone table?<br />
They are pressing out of the many-holed earpiece, they are looking for a <br />
listener.<br />
Is he here?<br />
<br />
Now the room is ahiss. The instrument<br />
Withdraws its tentacle.<br />
But the spawn percolate in my heart. They are fertile.<br />
Muck funnel, muck funnel --<br />
You are too big. They must take you back!<br />
<br />
<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6hHjctqSBwM&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6hHjctqSBwM&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />
<br />
<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/esBLxyTFDxE&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/esBLxyTFDxE&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />
<br />
Interview with Peter Orr <br />
October 30, 1962<br />
<br />
<iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/OjjV0QTrtbg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<br />
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.smith.edu/newssmith/winter2004/images/sylvia.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 493px; height: 377px;" src="http://www.smith.edu/newssmith/winter2004/images/sylvia.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />
<br />
October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-18650304659557130562009-03-31T13:43:00.000-07:002009-03-31T13:58:39.978-07:00Today I am thinking about Klaus Nomi<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://mog.com/images/users/0000/0000/2148/images/1183342700.jpeg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 293px;" src="http://mog.com/images/users/0000/0000/2148/images/1183342700.jpeg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I do not know why, but I am. <br /><br />Nomi Song<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/uKYpepxGkyY&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/uKYpepxGkyY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Klaus on TV Party <br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/oZaHpc-KgPk&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/oZaHpc-KgPk&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Lighting Strikes. <br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gma5IUNMTn0&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gma5IUNMTn0&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><br />http://www.thenomisong.com/mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6280011817845107464.post-61855719714299199272009-03-29T17:18:00.000-07:002009-03-29T17:43:18.926-07:00san juan bautista, californiaCoordinates 36° 50′ 42.3″ N, 121° 32′ 9.2″ W<br />Decimal 36.845083, -121.535889<br />Title Mission San Juan Bautista <br />UTM 4078687 630539 10S <br />Type landmark<br />Region US-CA <br />Scale ± 1:2000<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSLnjl8u94G_cKqYyBKEpOND0PpDAKxCPi7GztRyHeTQhkTlJTdZ0Pro5RXJltXz9OCH9lANevBlUICGpKx1WCGHOq89EbZVWzyECx-HsqSE02eu-NYSreN8FrDt9HP91Fl5qUFHDsDM/s1600-h/L1000114.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSLnjl8u94G_cKqYyBKEpOND0PpDAKxCPi7GztRyHeTQhkTlJTdZ0Pro5RXJltXz9OCH9lANevBlUICGpKx1WCGHOq89EbZVWzyECx-HsqSE02eu-NYSreN8FrDt9HP91Fl5qUFHDsDM/s400/L1000114.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318772688991029490" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIRueZF5_y9FauAo7AdBC7jQcy31kUuQNLRFBUPGbOtCdwY6Wfulphz1Wm4lTZtlWJsW_WgQP5HU9CfyVIckjO84C_YBob9EF5sSDfd3XIeVRioxP730XJDEsWDW32sRuNAZ7sCFjES40/s1600-h/L1000116.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIRueZF5_y9FauAo7AdBC7jQcy31kUuQNLRFBUPGbOtCdwY6Wfulphz1Wm4lTZtlWJsW_WgQP5HU9CfyVIckjO84C_YBob9EF5sSDfd3XIeVRioxP730XJDEsWDW32sRuNAZ7sCFjES40/s400/L1000116.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318772684712684322" /></a><br /> © sujeylee<br /><br /><br />we took a long drive and ended up in a small town by the san andreas fault. lots of stray cats and a questionable motel room. <br />' i adore you so"mensonges d'araignée, sujeyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964616749753655872noreply@blogger.com0