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March 17 2013

The Quiet World
By Jeffrey McDaniel

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred   
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear   
without saying hello. In the restaurant   
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,   
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.   
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,   
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line   
and listen to each other breathe.
The Quiet World by Jeffrey McDaniel : The Poetry Foundation
Reposted byMagnolia11 Magnolia11

March 04 2013


I meant to do my work to-day-
But a brown bird sang in the apple-tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.

And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand-
So what could I do but laugh and go?

Richard Le Gallienne, I Meant to Do My Work To-Day
Reposted fromcelaeno celaeno
Sponsored post

February 28 2013


February 16 2013

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart, —
And I wish somebody’d shoot him.
— Dorothy Parker

February 08 2013


Palabras para Julia / Words for Julia

José Agustín Goytisolo wrote this poem to his daughter and in memory of his mother, as the encouragement that he could not find at the end. Paco Ibañez transformed it in a very popular song, cherished by many women incarcelated during Latin-American dictatorships. It gave them the strenght to survive.


Tú no puedes volver atrás
porque la vida ya te empuja
como un aullido interminable.

Hija mía es mejor vivir
con la alegría de los hombres
que llorar ante el muro ciego.

Te sentirás acorralada
te sentirás perdida o sola
tal vez querrás no haber nacido.

Yo sé muy bien que te dirán
que la vida no tiene objeto
que es un asunto desgraciado.

Entonces siempre acuérdate
de lo que un día yo escribí
pensando en ti como ahora pienso.

La vida es bella, ya verás
como a pesar de los pesares
tendrás amigos, tendrás amor.

Un hombre solo, una mujer
así tomados, de uno en uno
son como polvo, no son nada.

Pero yo cuando te hablo a ti
cuando te escribo estas palabras
pienso también en otra gente.

Tu destino está en los demás
tu futuro es tu propia vida
tu dignidad es la de todos.

Otros esperan que resistas
que les ayude tu alegría
tu canción entre sus canciones.

Entonces siempre acuérdate
de lo que un día yo escribí
pensando en ti como ahora pienso.

Nunca te entregues ni te apartes
junto al camino, nunca digas
no puedo más y aquí me quedo.

La vida es bella, tú verás
como a pesar de los pesares
tendrás amor, tendrás amigos.

Por lo demás no hay elección
y este mundo tal como es
será todo tu patrimonio.

Perdóname no sé decirte
nada más pero tú comprende
que yo aún estoy en el camino.

Y siempre siempre acuérdate
de lo que un día yo escribí
pensando en ti como ahora pienso.


You can't go back
because life is already pushing you
with an interminable howl.

My daughter, it’s better to live
with the joy of people
than to cry in front of the blind wall.

You will feel trapped
you will feel lost or alone
sometimes you will wish you had not been born.

I know well what they'll tell you
that life has no point
that it's a wretched affair.

Then remember always
what I wrote you one day
thinking of you as I think of you now.

Life is beautiful, you'll see
despite its sorrow,
you will have love, you will have friends.

A man alone, a woman,
thus, taken one by one,
are like dust, are nothing.

But when I talk to you
when I write this words for you
I'm thinking of other people as well.

Your destiny is in the others
your future is your own life
your dignity is that of all of us.

Others hope you will resist
that your joy may help them
your song among their songs.

Then remember always
what I wrote you one day
thinking of you as I think of you now.

Never give up nor fall
by the wayside, never say
I can't do more, enough.

Life is beautiful, you'll see
despite its sorrow,
you will have love, you will have friends.

As for the rest there's no choice
and this world, just a it is
will be all of your patrimony.

Forgive me I know not what to tell you
nothing more but you, understand
that I am still on the road.

And always always remember
that which one day I wrote you
thinking of you as I think of you now.

February 07 2013

Kindness · Naomi Shihab Nye
before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
what you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
how you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
you must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. 
you must wake up with sorrow.
you must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is i you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
kindness | naomi shihab nye | you shall love your crooked neighbor
(Dedications) · Adrienne Rich
i know you are reading this poem 
late, before leaving your office 
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window 
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet 
long after rush-hour. i know you are reading this poem 
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean 
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven 
across the plains’ enormous spaces around you. 
i know you are reading this poem 
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear 
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed 
and the open valise speaks of flight 
but you cannot leave yet. i know you are reading this poem 
as the underground train loses momentum and before running 
up the stairs 
toward a new kind of love 
your life has never allowed. 
i know you are reading this poem by the light 
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide 
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada. 
i know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room 
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers. 
i know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light 
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out, 
count themselves out, at too early an age. i know 
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick 
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on 
because even the alphabet is precious. 
i know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove 
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your 
because life is short and you too are thirsty. 
i know you are reading this poem which is not in your language 
guessing at some words while others keep you reading 
and i want to know which words they are. 
i know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn 
between bitterness and hope 
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse. 
i know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else 
left to read 
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.
(dedications) | adrienne rich | you shall love your crooked neighbor
If there is something to desire, 17 · Vera Pavlova
why is the word yes so brief?
it should be
the longest,
the hardest,
so that you could not decide in an instant to say it,
so that upon reflection you could stop
in the middle of saying it.
if there is something to desire, 17 | vera pavlova | you shall love your crooked neighbor

February 01 2013

but afterwards i couldn’t stop crying at how close that underworld still is,
and how clearly i remember the taste of dirt in my mouth. and how the
predilection for sadness is embedded within me, an obsidian arrow lodged
in the heart, no matter how tight your good arms are around me, or how
much sunlight i stand in, or how far i’ve traveled away from the dark.
No matter how much sunlight, Alison Townsend.

January 31 2013


nobody can save you but
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
to make you submit, quit and/or die quietly

nobody can save you but
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don't, don't, don't.
just watch them.
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
do you want to experience
death before death?

nobody can save you but
and you're worth saving.
it's a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it.

think about it.

nobody but you by Charles Bukowski
Reposted fromcelaeno celaeno

January 29 2013

Joan Bauer, Almost Home.
Reposted byewusiaq84Cannonballcelaenomuvielldrusill-aonion-waitforitlexxieimmuffdominoagowaMoonTideTeereaMissTakeciarkamaja95Porcelainwelcometowonderlandoutkapanothingiseverythingi-the-wildpsychobabblesiriusminervaabracadabraab-foolishthtwins4everthe-catTaihoumarch18hitominaiwnieheythereivana

January 04 2013

From the pages of Album trailer. Poetry of Jorge Díaz Martínez. Direction by Pablo Diartínez and Erik Parys.

January 03 2013


Little girls, this seems to say
Never stop upon the way.
Never trust a stranger friend
No-one knows where it may end.
As you're pretty, so be wise
Wolves may lurk in every guise.
Now as then, 'tis simple truth:
Sweetest tongue has sharpest tooth.

The company of wolves (1984).

Illustration: Little Red Riding Hood by Amanda Gray.

December 29 2012

Vachel lindsay, “the spider and the ghost of the fly”
Vachel Lindsay, The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly.
A Sea of Quotes // Vachel Lindsay, “The Spider and the Ghost of the...

December 25 2012


Il pleut doucement sur la ville

(Arthur Rimbaud)

Il pleure dans mon cœur
Comme il pleut sur la ville,
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon cœur ?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits !
Pour un cœur qui s'ennuie
Ô le chant de la pluie !

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce cœur qui s'écœure.
Quoi ! nulle trahison ?
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C’est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi,
Sans amour et sans haine,
Mon cœur a tant de peine !

- Paul Verlaine

« Il pleure dans mon cœur » - Wikisource

December 22 2012

A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.

A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.

And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.

He will die as figs die in Autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.
— Yehuda Amichai, The Selected Poetry.

December 13 2012

from “tonight i can write”

from “Tonight I Can Write”

#Cats+Neruda Oh, Internet! You still wonder me!

Neruda Cats

December 04 2012


Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never

saw before.

Say "please" before you open the latch,

go through,

walk down the path.

A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted

front door,

as a knocker,

do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.

Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat


However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,

feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty,

clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,

if you can,

ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the

wild wood.

The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's


there is another land at the bottom of it.

If you turn around here,

you can walk back, safely;

you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the


The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-


Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She

may ask for something;

give it to her. She

will point the way to the castle.

Inside it are three princesses.

Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.

In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve

months sit about a fire,

warming their feet, exchanging tales.

They may do favors for you, if you are polite.

You may pick strawberries in December's frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where

you are going.

The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-

man will take you.

(The answer to his question is this:

If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to

leave the boat.

Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.

Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that

witches are often betrayed by their appetites;

dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;

hearts can be well-hidden,

and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.

Know that diamonds and roses

are as uncomfortable when they tumble from

one's lips as toads and frogs:

colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.

Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped

to help you in their turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.

Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.

Do not look back.

Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).

Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).

Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is

why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your

journey started,

you will recognize it, although it will seem

much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate

you never saw before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

And rest.

Neil Gaiman
Reposted fromcelaeno celaeno

November 14 2012

Déjame en paz, amor tirano

Sung by Paco Ibañez.
Based on a poem by Luis de Góngora y Argote.

Album En el Olympia.

Below a slaughter (i.e. poor translation) without the rhyme, the play on words and other great stylistic devices (a good reason to learn Spanish!):

Leave me alone, oh tyrannical love!

Blind [being] who aims and hits,
senile god and kid.
Blindfolded who sold me out
and child of age.
For the soul of your mother,
who died being immortal,
from envious of my lady,
not chase me more,
not chase me more.
Leave me alone, oh tyrannical love,
leave me alone.

Unlucky lovers
who follow such militia,
tell me what good guide
can you get from a blind [being],
from a bird, what strength,
what hope from a kid,
what award from a naked [being]
from a tyrant, what mercy?
from a tyrant, what mercy?
Leave me alone, oh tyrannical love,
leave me alone.

Ten years I wasted,
the prime of my life,
being farmer of love
at my fortune's expense.
As I plowed and sowed, I picked,
I plowed a shaking sea,
I sowed an infertile sand,
I picked shame and desire,
I picked shame and desire.
Leave me alone, oh tyrannical love,
leave me alone.

Unlucky lovers
who follow such militia,
tell me what good guide
can you get from a blind [being],
from a bird, what strength,
what hope from a kid,
what award from a naked [being]
from a tyrant, what mercy?
from a tyrant, what mercy?
from a tyrant, what mercy?
Leave me alone, oh tyrannical love,
leave me alone.

Source of the song.

November 12 2012


Nocturno by Gabriela Mistral

Padre Nuestro que estás en los cielos,
¡por qué te has olvidado de mí!
Te acordaste del fruto en febrero,
al llagarse su pulpa rubí.
¡Llevo abierto también mi costado,
y no quieres mirar hacia mí!

Te acordaste del negro racimo,
y lo diste al lagar carmesí;
y aventaste las hojas del álamo,
con tu aliento, en el aire sutil.
¡Y en el ancho lagar de la muerte
aun no quieres mi pecho oprimir!

Caminando vi abrir las violetas;
el falerno del viento bebí,
y he bajado, amarillos mis párpados,
por no ver más enero ni abril.

Y he apretado la boca, anegada
de la estrofa que no he de exprimir.
¡Has herido la nube de otoño
y no quieres volverte hacia mí!

Me vendió el que besó mi mejilla;
me negó por la túnica ruin.
Yo en mis versos el rostro con sangre,
como Tú sobre el paño, le di.
Y en mi noche del Huerto, me han sido
Juan cobarde y el Ángel hostil.

Ha venido el cansancio infinito
a clavarse en mis ojos, al fin:
el cansancio del día que muere
y el del alba que debe venir;
¡el cansancio del cielo de estaño
y el cansancio del cielo de añil!

Ahora suelto la mártir sandalia
y las trenzas pidiendo dormir.
Y perdida en la noche, levanto
el clamor aprendido de Ti:
¡Padre Nuestro que estás en los cielos,
por qué te has olvidado de mí!


#Why should we keep teaching poetry in the schools? Because we will need it, as doing additions or knowing the capital of our country. When life gets too heavy, when there is nothing left, the verses will come to your mouth. And that would be the only place where you will find some comfort. Plus a huge bottle of alcohol, let's not forget the classics.

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