ANGELINA13 October 2005 at 10:57pmPosts: 29 (0 today)Status: offline
what great compny of musical interests are here,i love these thoughts.If you catch me running along by the sea, with bare feet in the sand, then you'll know I am dreaming my life out in a way you won't understand. I'm slipping right out of your mind, this I know, and I accept the fact lazily, for I must go into the next field, where grass is green and I'll find peace. Let me sleep! Let me dream! Let me be! Re-awakening isn't easy when you're tired. Don't push me: I was taught self-expression when I was a child, and so I know the best way to go is slow. Sometimes, when skies are cloud-grey, and trouble's hanging heavy on your mind, I advise you: curl up, slide away and dream your life out, as I am. Re-awakening isn't easy when you're tired. Don't push me: I was taught self-expression when I was a child, and so I see the best way to be's asleep. Re-awakening isn't easy when you're tired. ~PH
ANGELINA13 October 2005 at 11:23pmPosts: 29 (0 today)Status: offline
She has watched herself move beyond sadinto the realm of desperation,where her need snarls against his.She has moved beyond rememberingher former necessities:mid-afternoons framed in poetry, gardenia air and tousled half-finished sentences grabbing.Now there is only the scramblefor new ground. Time short,her unspoken depths slowly being filled up.Like a sea lion who divesinto her familiar pool,to find the clutter of someone else's worldfast descending, muting her waves,the rubber tire, plastic pipe, diaper, old shoe.At first something she can swim through,then around, then day by day around is all there is. Gone the clear blue. Gone the clear blue.
ANGELINA14 October 2005 at 1:01amPosts: 29 (0 today)Status: offline
As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green,To the billows of foam-crested blue,Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen,Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue:Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the sprayAs the chaff in the stroke of the flail;Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her way,The sun gleaming bright on her sail.Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,--Of breakers that whiten and roar;How little he cares, if in shadow or sunThey see him who gaze from the shore!He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef,To the rock that is under his lee,As he drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf,O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea.Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted cavesWhere life and its ventures are laid,The dreamers who gaze while we battle the wavesMay see us in sunshine or shade;Yet true to our course, though the shadows grow dark,We'll trim our broad sail as before,And stand by the rudder that governs the bark,Nor ask how we look from the shore!
varda14 October 2005 at 5:03amPosts: 10 (0 today)Status: offline
Living?we walk upon the unstable stems of lifeforgetting, remembering,loving and hating the very existence of our beingIn dread and hope we wait for a new life to suddenly sprout upand deliver us from ourselveswe dream that one day our spirits will be freeto recognize the full majesty of our souls.varda 10/13/05
Paul Cronin14 October 2005 at 9:14pmPosts: 109 (0 today)Status: offline
and now a word from our sponsersMy heart will be lifted.The Lighthouse of love.Far away in your arms I feel secureBetween the struggles of our imaginary love a dream arisesHoping for sympathy I beg you to light that torch it burns with your lightI step into your circle and the fire it growsIt is your lighthouse of loveSave me from the uncertainShine for me and bring me home to your heartHelp me avoid this uncertain seaHelp me see the good in meI long for the days when we thought nothing could harm USNow the boundaries I have set have overtaken my shoresSend me a beacon to guide my feetAs I walk this lonely street a home glows It is your lighthouse of loveSave me from the darknessI reach out to you for a guideBring my mind to that quiet placeThe place where you areMy tears drown my fearsFallen we all have but I hope to be your knightPlease don?t leave me driftwood on your shoreI will bring the hope we both can shareBecause I know that you truly care.Paul Cronin 2005
moving along14 October 2005 at 10:22pmPosts: 32 (0 today)Status: offline
I dont ever remember ever getting goose pimples from reading something, I just got it here Paul. ....amorarse:>
ANGELINA14 October 2005 at 10:27pmPosts: 29 (0 today)Status: offline
ANGELINA15 October 2005 at 12:30amPosts: 29 (0 today)Status: offline
PAUL,I PRINTED IT OUT AND TAPED IT TO MY KITCHEN CUP BOARD AND SHARED WITH MY FRIENDS ON E-MAIL,HOPE YOU DONT MIND ME SO IN DOING? THIS IS INSPIRED ME TO DO MORE WRITING MYSELF,THANKS FOR THE BOOST PAUL!"To be not loved is the human condition,"and lay like a stature in her bed.Then once,by terrible chance,love took her in his big boatand she shoveled the oceanin a scalding joy.Then,slowly,love seeped away,the boat turned into paperand she knew her fate,at last.Turn where you belong,into a deaf mutethat metal house,let him drill you into no one.AS
ANGELINA15 October 2005 at 12:41amPosts: 29 (0 today)Status: offline
Floating I said some nonsense or other to themand they mocked back, "but we're your one design,"or "you're our one design"--which was it?The pen slipped and capered on the page, escorted by ripplings in the atmospherelike breeze with nothing to blow against."We wear no form or figure of our own--a wisp, a thread, a twig, a shred of smoke--to tell us from the motions of the air.We'd love to live in even a bubble,to wrap around its glossy diaphanous,reaching and rounding, as slinkily realas a morning stretch or a dance in a field.But we know only this air, and memory,once, or several times, removed and turned,the pang of a once-had, a maybe-again,that shifting half-light, our home and habitat,those hours, soft-toned, windless, that favor passage, the usual relay of twilights. And, how often a century? The sun eclipsed,that 'created' half-light, not dusk or dawn:us glowing through, our light, our element,in which we show best, glow best, what we are.Yesterday some snowflakes slipped through us, refreshing kisses passing through our heat.Ah, we wanted to say. If we could have,we'd have laughed right out from sheer surprise."And what else? "We've got you to stand for us."And I have you, I said, to float for me. Côte d'Azur Out of the blue, one of them lipped to me:"A handful of days can hold a whole life,sunlight dazzling on a blue foaming sea,the touch of a body and nothing more,one whisper which was the very whisperfor which you had waited hour after hour,maybe not the same words, not the same voice,all those words other and voice still other,the ring of unknown words, those were the ones."The hand that held my pen began to shine:"How sad are those who borrow their solacefrom several days never to return,some incident of passion or promise,some glimpse..." "Oh yes, but sadder still are thosewho never bask on even that brief beach."How blue the sea looked; it shone and they shone;now they glittered with an utter glitter,now they beamed, for this was their greatest yes."The special few are those who live full joys,not a day, a week or a mooncyclebut an extension of years, or a life.""Chimera on the surface of the sea,haze that lies heavy on a salty sea,haze hovering over a summer sea,despite the scintillations of the sun.""Where will all this lead? It will lead nowhere.Nowhere at all is where we want to go.A blue nowhere made up of blue nothing,a moment of bliss lasting a moment,long enough for life, that long and no more."SA
ANGELINA15 October 2005 at 12:46amPosts: 29 (0 today)Status: offline
See how the first dark takes the city in its armsand carries it into what yesterday we called the future.O, the dying are such acrobats.Here you must take a boat from one day to the next,or clutch the girders of the bridge, hand over hand.But they are sailing like a pendulum between eternity and evening,diving, recovering, balancing the air.
ANGELINA15 October 2005 at 1:06amPosts: 29 (0 today)Status: offline
A Rainbow over the SeineNoiseless at first, a sprayof mist in the face, a nose-gay of moisture never destined to be a downpour. Until the sodden cloud banks suddenly empty into the Seine with a loud clap, then a falling ovation for the undrenchable sun--which goes on shining our shoes while they're filling like open boats and the sails of our newspaper hats are flagging, and seeing that nobody thought to bring an umbrella, puts up a rainbow instead. A rainbow over the Seine, perfectly wrought as a draw- bridge dreamed by a child in crayon, and by the law of dreams the connection once made can only be lost; not being children we stand above the grate of the Metro we're not taking, thunder underfoot, and soak up what we know: the triumph of this arc- en-ciel, the dazzle of this monumental prism cut by drizzle, is that it vanishes.
ANGELINA15 October 2005 at 1:56amPosts: 29 (0 today)Status: offline
All over Genoayou see them: windows with open shutters.Then the illusion shatters.But that?s not true. You knewthe shutters were merely painted on.You knew it time and again.The claim of the painted shutterthat it ever shuts the eyeof the window is an open lie.You find its shadow-latches strikethe wall at a single angle,like the stuck hands of a clock. Who needs to be correctmore often than twice a day?Who needs real shadow more than play?Inside the house, an endlesssupply of clothes to wash.On an outer wall it?s freshpaint hung out to dry?shirttails flapping on a friezeunruffled by any breeze,like the words pinned to this line.And the foreign word is a lie:that second ?l? in ?l?oeil?which only looks like an ?l,? and is silent. A Kind of MusicWhen consciousness begins to add diversity to its intensity, its value is no longer absolute and inexpressible. The felt variations in its tone are attached to the observed movement of its objects; in these objects its values are embedded. A world loaded with dramatic values may thus arise in imagination; terrible and delightful presences may chase one another across the void; life will be a kind of music made by all the senses together. Many animals probably have this kind of experience.--SantayanaIrrelevance characterizes the behavior of our puppy. In the middle of the night he decides that he wants to play, runs off when he's called, when petted is liable to pee, cowers at a twig and barks at his shadow or a tree, grins at intruders and bites us in the leg suddenly.No justification we humans have been able to see applies to his actions. While we go by the time of day, or the rules, or the notion of purpose or consistency, he follows from moment to moment a sensuous medley that keeps him both totally subject and totally free.I'll have to admit, though, we've never been tempted to say that he jumps up to greet us or puts his head on our knee or licks us or lies at our feet irrelevantly. When it comes to loving, we find ourselves forced to agree all responses are reasons and no reason is necessary. SpringingIn a skiff on a sunrisen lake we are watchers.Swimming aimlessly is luxury, just as walkingLoudly up a shallow stream is.As we lean over the deep well, we whisper.Friends at hearths are drawn to the one warm air;stranger meet on beaches drawn to the one wet sea.What wd it be to be water, one body of water(what water is is another mystery). (We arewater divided.) It wd be a self without walls, with surface tension, specific gravity, a local exchange between bedrock and cloud of falling and rising,rising to fall, falling to rise. "I'm moving from Grief Street.Taxes are high herethough the mortgage's cheap.The house is well built.With stuff to protect, thatmattered to me,the security.These things that I mind,you know, aren't mine.I mind minding them.They weigh on my mind.I don't mind them well.I haven't got the knackof kindly minding.I say Take them backbut you never do.When I throw them outit may frighten youand maybe me too. Maybeit will empty metoo emptilyand keep me hereasleep, at seaunder the guilt quilt,under the you tree." Rising in perilous hope12728What can I hold in my hands this morningthat will not flow through my fingers?What words can I say that will catchin your mind like burrs, chiggers that burrow?If my touch could heal, I would lay my handson your bent head and bellow prayers.If my words could change the weatheror the government or the way the worldtwists and guts us, fast or slow,what could I do but what I do now?I fit words together and say them;it is a given like the color of my eyes.I hope it makes a small difference, asI hope the drought will break and the morningcome rising out of the ocean wearinga cloak of clean sweet mist and swirling terns. Wherever we cry, it's far from home. -At Sandwich, our son pointedpersistently to sea.I followed his infant gaze,expecting a bird or a boatbut there was nothing.How unnerving,as if he could see youon the horizon, knew where you were exactly:at the edge of the world.-You unloaded the ship at Lytteltonand repacked her:"thirty-five dogsfive tons of dog foodfifteen poniesthirty-two tons of pony fodderthree motor-sledgesfour hundred and sixty tons of coalcollapsible hutsan acetylene plantthirty-five thousand cigarsone guinea pigone fantail pigeonthree rabbitsone cat with its own hammock, blanket and pillowone hundred and sixty-two carcasses of mutton andan ice house."-Men returned from warwithout faces, with noses lostdiscretely as antique statues.accurately as if eaten by frostbite.In clay I shaped theirflesh, sometimesretrieving a likenessfrom photographs.Then the surgeons copiednose, ears, jawwith molten wax and metal platesand horsehair stiches;with borrowed cartilage,from the soldiers' own ribs,leftovers stored under the skin of the abdomen. I held the men downuntil the morphiaslid into them.I was only sickafterwards.Working the clay, I remembered mornings in Rodin's studio,his drawfuls of tiny hands and feet,like a mechanic's tool box. I imagined my mother in her blindness before she died, touching my face,as if she still couldbuild me with her body,.At night, in the studioI took your face in my hands and your finearms and long legs, your small waist,and loved you into stone.The men returned from Franceto Ellerman's Hospital. Their courage was beautiful.I understood the work at once:To use scar tissue to advantage.To construct through art,one's face to the world.Sculpt what's missing.-You reached furthest south,then you went futher.In neither of those forsaken placesdid you forsake us.-At Lyttelton the hills unrolled,a Japanese scroll painting;we opened the landscape with our bare feet.So much leaned by observation.We took in brainfuls of New Zealand airon the blue climb over the falls.Our last night together we slept not in the big house butin the Kinsey's garden.Belonging only to each other.Guests of the earth.-Mid sea, a month our of range of the wireless;on my way to you. Floatingbetween landfalls,between one hemisphere and another.Between the words"wife" and "widow."- Newspapers, politiciansscavenged your journals.But your wordsnever lost their way.-We mourn in a place no one knows;it's right that our grief be unseen.I love you as if you'll returnafter years of absence.As if we'd inventedmoonlight.-Still I dream of your arrival. Close PathWhat have I trained forwhathave the years ofwhatever I didduring them made meready to take onif the tears are tostream coldlylike long streaks of rain down the light brick of the storehouseand I becomeafraid to looklest the paintravelwith my breathingits pathnear enoughto disappear down A Child Banishes the DarknessThe child presides over our lives like theBlinding presence of tall white pines. In theLow room she hovers; she is the dark un-tamed place, like a thicket in a neglect-ed wood where I fall to after each newloss, the unforgotten dream buried like a small toy under layers of frozenun-raked leaves. She is the hidden secret we don?t talk about because there is noth-ing left to say. So much snow on the roofsof tall buildings, along the cobbled streets,in the eaves, and on the narrow bridge andin the quiet palm of the newborn trees.Nothing left to fear. All the earth is calm. SubterraneanShe did not know when it would happenor how it would overtake heror whether she would allow herself.All I know is that she could not take it anymorelying day after day underneath the hollow tree, waiting,consumed by a kind of fire,wondering if there is a type of lovethat saves us or whether there was moreto the world than the familiar paradiseof her mother's complicated and vivid garden.She smelled nectar in the labored-overchrysanthemum and amaryllis,but could not taste it.I know if it were a flower it would have bloomedin the cumulus overheadvoid of volition and sin,translucent as the filmy underside of a leaf.If it were an animal she would have followed it,but it was amorphous as feeling, weightless as dust,turbulent as an entire undisclosed universeradiating from the inner core beneath the earthand, still, she longed for it.Restless, she wandered from the elmto the school-yard to smother an intensityshe could not squelch or simmer.The wind swooned. Cement cracked. Deep into the underbellylight traveled, no one in sight but his immense shadow,and then a figure appeared out of the imagined dreamand matched it. So powerful, not for who he wasbut for how her mind had magnified himlike a bug underneath cool glass,every antenna and tentacle aquiver.No sign of where she had beenor who she came from. Only knowledgethat it would never be re-createdexcept by this: putting words down on a pageand that she had forever compromisedthe joy of summer for a dismal, endless winter.And as the field of force gathered,raping every last silvery bough,tantalizing each limb,she forgot even the feel of herself.When it was over she felt moisture. Rain. THE SUN UNDERFOOT AMONG THE SUNDEWSAn ingenuity too astonishingto be quite fortuitous isthis bog full of sundews, sphagnum-lined and shaped like a teacup.A stepdown and you're into it; awilderness swallows you up:ankle-, then knee-, then midriff-to-shoulder-deep in wetfootedunderstory, an overheadspruce-tamarack horizon hintingyou'll never get out of here.But the sunamong the sundews, down there,is so bright, an underfootwebwork of carnivorous rubies,a star-swarm thick as the gnatsthey're set to catch, delectabledouble-faced cockleburs, eachhair-tip a sticky mirrorafire with sunlight, a millionof them and again a million,each mirror a trap set tounhand unbelieving,that eithera First Cause said once, "Let therebe sundews," and there were, or they'vemade their way here unaidedother than by that backhand, round-about refusal to assume responsibilityknown as Natural Selection.But the sununderfoot is so dazzlingdown there among the sundews,there is so much lightin the cup that, looking,you start to fall upward. A HERMIT THRUSHNothing's certain. Crossing, on this longest day,the low-tide-uncovered isthmus, scrambling upthe scree-slope of what at high tidewill be again an island,to where, a decade since well-being stakedthe slender, unpremeditated claim that brings usback, year after year, lugging themakings of another picnic--the cucumber sandwiches, the sea-air-sanctifiedfig newtons--there's no knowing what the slammingseas, the gales of yet another wintermay have done. Still there,the gust-beleaguered single spruce tree,the ant-thronged, root-snelled moss, grassand clover tuffet underneath it,edges frazzled rawbut, like our own prolonged attachment, holding.Whatever moral lesson might commend itself,there's no use drawing one,there's nothing hereto seize on as exemplifying any so-called virtue(holding on despite adversity, perhaps) orany no-more-than-human tendency--stubborn adherence, say,to a wholly wrongheaded tenet. Though tohold on in any case means taking less and lessfor granted, some few things seem nearlycertain, as that the longest daywill come again, will seem to hold its breath,the months-long exhalation of diminishmentagain begin. Last night you woke mefor a look at Jupiter,that vast cinder wheeled unblinkingin a bath of galaxies. Watching, we traveledtoward an apprehension all but impossibleto be held onto--that no point is fixed, that there's no footholdbut roams untethered save by such snells,such sailor's knots, such staysand guy wires as aremainly of our own devising. From such anempyrean, aloof seraphic mentors urge usto look down on all attachment,on any bonding, asin the end untenable. Base as it is, fromyear to year the earth's sore surfacemends and rebinds itself, howeverand as best it can, withthread of cinquefoil, tendril of the magentabeach pea, trammel of bramble; with easings,mulchings, fragrances, the gray-greenbayberry's cool poultice--and what can't finally be mended, the salt airproceeds to buff and rarefy: the lopped carnageof the seaward spruce clump weatherslustrous, to wood-silver.Little is certain, other than the tide thatcircumscribes us, that still sets its termto every picnic--today we stayed too longagain, and got our feet wet--and all attachment may prove at best, perhaps,a broken, a much-mended thing. Watchingthe longest day take cover undera monk's-cowl overcast,with thunder, rain and wind, then waiting,we drop everything to listen as ahermit thrush distills its fragmentary,hesitant, in the endunbroken music. From what source (beyond us, orthe wells within?) such links perceived arrive--diminished sequences so uninsistinglynot even human--there'shardly a vocabulary left to wonder, uncertainas we are of so much in this existence, thisbotched, cumbersome, much-mended,not unsatisfactory thing. tHANKS AGAIN PAUL,PEACE~A Fragment 22 ] ]work ]face ] ] if not, winter ]no pain ]]I bid you singof Gongyla, Abanthis, taking upyour lyre as (now again) longing floats around you,you beauty. For her dress when you saw itstirred you. And I rejoice.In fact she herself once blamed me Kyprogeneiabecause I prayedthis word:I wantFragment 47 Eros shook mymind like a mountain wind falling on oak treesFragment 52I would not think to touch the sky with two armsFragment 56not one girl I think who looks on the light of the sun will ever have wisdom like thisFragment 147someone will remember us I say even in another timeFragment 162with what eyes?
mb41115 October 2005 at 5:18amPosts: 3 (0 today)Status: offline
moving along15 October 2005 at 1:08pmPosts: 32 (0 today)Status: offline
A Rainbow over the SeineA Kind of MusicAll over GenoaWherever we cry, it's far from home.Rising in perilous hopeSubterraneanA Rainbow over the SeineAngelina , This is a great way to start the day¡, the above are my favourites, a wonderful gift of expression you have and a beautiful way you see the world, thanks for helping draw back the blinds this morning.
Synnie15 October 2005 at 8:58pmPosts: 4169 (0 today)Status: offline
treasures of an autumn day,(just impressions)colourfull male mandarine ducks playing who is the boss, looks somewhat spanish, heads thrown back and hissings, funny noises, chasing each other, floating like ships in full sail in a water under some bamboo bushes, a woman passes by and laughs...sunspots on the leaves that float around themwet autumn smell makes you stop and breathelittle bird with a black long stripepicks up food from the stem of a tree, slowly running upwards, not afraid of some runners along that path, nor a watching me...Something white, soft an woolley all over the meadow under some trees, no seed anymore, but this tender subtle touch..and a young couple wonders and passes on a small paperbag...smiling after touching what I've got for something I don't know yet...An Einstein-Symposium in the Urania tries to find out about travelling further into Einstein's time-univers...they pause under a tree outside the place, for a short second I wonder, if I should sit beside them, they look very friendly.The sun is shining...Its one of these autumn days...in Berlin
Paul Cronin17 October 2005 at 2:38amPosts: 109 (0 today)Status: offline
such nice words you all say - I am just a watcher in your arena.have fun but remember to give honor to the things that inspire you - the simple things.more please
Paul Cronin17 October 2005 at 2:41amPosts: 109 (0 today)Status: offline
oh also some words from the Shuman Brothers GG.The RunawayHe is the runaway, Lie low the wanted manMask his elusive face, Soon he will getaway and free is hisfuture no more aimless time to spendAnd evading, he's escapingFour dirty walls and a bed in a cage his home no more.Run in the underwood, Cover and hide the trailSenses like sharpened sword, Guards for the shadow on histail.And yet his joy is empty and sad.All thoughts are scarred with the prison cell and freedomseems like freedom's hellHopes stained with strange regret, His dreams are dreamsfor that he cannot get.And yet his joy is empty and sad.Lose all identity, Vanish in own denialSeeks only lies and hide, Truth never brought to trial.And caught in his own net, he looks to find endless life andevading, he's escapingFour dirty walls and a bed in a cage his home no more.Run in the underwood, Cover and hide the trailSenses like sharpened sword, Guards for the shadow on histail.Brilliant they were
mb41117 October 2005 at 3:44amPosts: 3 (0 today)Status: offline
Paul Cronin17 October 2005 at 5:05pmPosts: 109 (0 today)Status: offline
Tricky is the path -watch your step.She guards the gate to my feelingsWith the touch of her hand I see with my heartAn outline, a silhouette, a single line that divides my skin from the worldThose eyes, eyes that are a reflection of what I have always said.I am the world the world is me You bring those good things out in meYou help me when I doubtIt?s a heavy weight for you but you walk on airThe wind from your wingsCauses those strings to vibrateMy skin it begins to quiverAs I ride the river from the heat of your skinThe magic mind beginsThe sheets are still warm from your bodyA cloud of steam pours from the doorI wait in my bed of satin roses for the kiss of your dreamGive me what I want and you will tighten the stringsHigh run the emotions of devotion and determinationI will try my best to get the lava to flowUntil the whistle on the tea pot begins to blowThe wind from your wingsStir the dust from the emotionCovered I am with the lotion of frictionThe screams quite now I close the gateNo closer could our parts beI hope to never be free of thee.Paul Cronin 2005