I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping, another 75 of what you think staring out a window. I don’t care about the plot although I suppose there will have to be one, the usual separation of the lovers, turbulent seas, danger of decommission in spite of constant war, time in gulps and glitches passing, squibs of threnody, a fallen nest, speckled eggs somehow uncrushed, the sled outracing the wolves on the steppes, the huge glittering ball where all that matters is a kiss at the end of a dark hall. At dawn the officers ride back to the garrison, one without a glove, the entire last chapter about a necklace that couldn’t be worn inherited by a great-niece along with the love letters bound in silk.
You were so small, and the blue of your eyes, and the sun, and the minnows that leaped in the water as though they, too, wished to hear the story, and the laughter we laughed together. Just that, just those, again and again, those memories, and the others gradually fade …
Tell me, are you purposely robbing me of solace?
And then I think, Perhaps this is how you slowly habituate me to the ebbing of pain? Perhaps, with remarkable tenderness, with your persistent wisdom, you are preparing me slowly for it - I mean, for the separation?
"The curtain white in folds,
She walks two steps and turns,
The curtain still, the light
Staggers in her eyes.
The lamps are golden.
Afternoon leans, silently.
She dances in my life.
The white day burns."
— Harold Pinter’s “Paris,” a poem for Antonia Fraser.
May Lost be all you hoped for with answers swift and sound; May the hours ripen quickly and joyfulness abound. May Juliet not have died in vain with the pounding of her rock Let Sawyer live free of pain and survive the coming shock. May Jack and Kate deal with the things that frustrate us so much And Sun and Jin share a time that allows them love’s fine touch. Provide us with more moments that shine on Daniel’s mind Oftentimes these are the clues the viewers need to find. May Hurley break the ”curse” that follows him around, Let his spirit salve the cuts our Losties may have found. Give Sayid a solid peace he so desperately desires Shield him from the evil plans that Ben tried to inspire. Let us know where Claire has gone and how she stayed alive And lead her back to Aaron’s life so motherhood survives. Help us to remember Charlie’s sacrifice Let it have more meaning than simply tumbling dice. Give us a bright future for Desmond and his Penn If a reboot is in store, let them find their way again. Protect our dearest friends, the lovely Bernard and Rose, Explain the young Walt’s powers before the end of shows. Know we have a special place for Vincent in our hearts Keep in mind our knees are weak from all the stops and starts. Tie up the big loose ends like what happened to John Locke Let us know what happens to the shepherd’s misled flock. Inform us on the feud that has stained the beach’s soil, Is Jacob the white light or just the loophole’s foil? Does the Man-in-Black represent all that is so evil Or does he just protect the island from upheaval? But all these questions pale to one from our Lost designers Are the eyes of Richard A. really natural or guy-liner?
"We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit."
When the world ends, I will be in a red dress. When the world ends, I will be in a smoky bar …..on Friday night. When the world ends, I will be a thought-cloud. When the world ends, I will be steam in a tea kettle. When the world ends, I will be a sunbeam through …..a lead window, And I will shake like the …..semis on the interstate, And I will shake like the tree …..kissed by lightning, And I will move; the earth will move …..too, And I will move; the cities will move …..too, And I will move, with the remains of …..my last paycheck in my pocket. It will be Friday night And I will be in a red dress, My feet relieved of duty, My body in free-fall, Loose as a ballerina …..in zero gravity, Equal at last with feathers …..and dust, As the world faints and tumbles …..down the stairs, The jukebox is overtaken at last, And the cicadas, under the eaves, …..warm up their legs.
Centre of equal daughters, equal sons, All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old, Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich, Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love, A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother, Chair’d in the adamant of Time.
"It is his [the poet’s, the writer’s] privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail."
— William Faulkner in his speech upon receiving the Nobel Prize of Literature (December 10th, 1950) (via predatorywaspobserver)
"O to have life henceforth a poem of new joys! To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on! To be a sailor of the world bound for all ports, A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air,) A swift and swelling ship full of rich words, full of joys.”