Thursday, January 31, 2008

Vote Democrat . . . No Matter What!

This is the man right here! <--- click there.
Can you imagine walking into voting booth
and finding him on the ballot?

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

۝ Fare Thee Well Heath Ledger ۝

۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩

First Fig
By Edna St.Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.


All Things Will Die
By Alfred Lord Tennyson

All things will die

Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing

Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing

Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this

May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;

Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
For all things must die.
All things must die.Spring will come never more.
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call’d–we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
O, misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,
Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro’ eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.

۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩ ♥ ۩

Monday, January 07, 2008

۝۝۝۝ Octavio Paz ۝۝۝۝


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

If you are the amber mare
………..I am the road of blood
If you are the first snow
………..I am he who lights the hearth of dawn
If you are the tower of night
………..I am the spike burning in your mind
If you are the morning tide
………..I am the first bird's cry
If you are the basket of oranges
………..I am the knife of the sun
If you are the stone altar
………..I am the sacrilegious hand
If you are the sleeping land
………..I am the green cane
If you are the wind's leap
………..I am the buried fire
If you are the water's mouth
………..I am the mouth of moss
If you are the forest of the clouds
.……….I am the axe that parts it
If you are the profaned city
………..I am the rain of consecration
If you are the yellow mountain
………..I am the red arms of lichen
If you are the rising sun
………..I am the road of blood

Translated by Eliot Weinberger



……………not on the branch
in the air
……………Not in the airin the moment

Translated by Eliot Weinberger


Between Going And Staying
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.

Translator Unknown



My hands
open the curtains of your being
clothe you in a further nudity
uncover the bodies of your body
My hands
invent another body for your body

Translator Unknown

۝ Snakecharmer ۝


By Sylvia Plath

As the gods began one world, and man another,
So the snakecharmer begins a snaky sphere
With moon-eye, mouth-pipe. He pipes. Pipes green. Pipes water.

Pipes water green until green waters waver
With reedy lengths and necks and undulatings.
And as his notes twine green, the green river

Shapes its images around his songs.
He pipes a place to stand on, but no rocks,
No floor: a wave of flickering grass tongues

Supports his foot. He pipes a world of snakes,
Of sways and coilings, from the snake-rooted bottom
Of his mind. And now nothing but snakes

Is visible. The snake-scales have become
Leaf, become eyelid; snake-bodies, bough, breast
Of tree and human. And he within this snakedom

Rules the writhings which make manifest
His snakehood and his might with pliant tunes
From his thin pipe. Out of this green nest

As out of Eden's navel twist the lines
Of snaky generations: let there be snakes!
And snakes there were, are, will be--till yawns

Consume this piper and he tires of music
And pipes the world back to the simple fabric
Of snake-warp, snake-weft. Pipes the cloth of snakes

To a melting of green waters, till no snake
Shows its head, and those green waters back to
Water, to green, to nothing like a snake.
Puts up his pipe, and lids his moony eye.