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Quotation/Poetry

Discussion in 'Social Discussion' started by Vanyanka, Jul 29, 2016.

  1. Vanyanka

    Vanyanka
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    Cold-Blooded Damsel

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  2. redtokyoboxers

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    the güero you cannot sweat-o

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    one of my favorites, recorded this for the music room

    somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
    any experience,your eyes have their silence:
    in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
    or which i cannot touch because they are too near

    your slightest look easily will unclose me
    though i have closed myself as fingers,
    you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
    (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

    or if your wish be to close me,i and
    my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
    as when the heart of this flower imagines
    the snow carefully everywhere descending;

    nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
    the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
    compels me with the colour of its countries,
    rendering death and forever with each breathing

    (i do not know what it is about you that closes
    and opens;only something in me understands
    the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
    nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

    - e e cummings
     
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  3. Vanyanka

    Vanyanka
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    Cold-Blooded Damsel

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    Nice recording. :) ee cummings is one of my favorite poets.
     
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  4. Vanyanka

    Vanyanka
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    Cold-Blooded Damsel

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    WalkingEmphasis and TQueen like this.
  5. Vanyanka

    Vanyanka
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    Cold-Blooded Damsel

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    [​IMG]
     
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  6. ItsAmyTee

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    Corgo

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    I first read this poem a decade ago and became somewhat obsessed with making osso buco. It wasn't until tonight that I had the space, time, materials, and confidence to give it a try. It came out perfectly. Thanks, Billy.

    Osso Buco

    I love the sound of the bone against the plate
    and the fortress-like look of it
    lying before me in a moat of risotto,
    the meat soft as the leg of an angel
    who has lived a purely airborne existence.
    And best of all, the secret marrow,
    the invaded privacy of the animal
    prized out with a knife and swallowed down
    with cold, exhilarating wine.

    I am swaying now in the hour after dinner,
    a citizen tilted back on his chair,
    a creature with a full stomach–
    something you don’t hear much about in poetry,
    that sanctuary of hunger and deprivation.
    you know: the driving rain, the boots by the door,
    small birds searching for berries in winter.

    But tonight, the lion of contentment
    has placed a warm heavy paw on my chest,
    and I can only close my eyes and listen
    to the drums of woe throbbing in the distance
    and the sound of my wife’s laughter
    on the telephone in the next room,
    the woman who cooked the savory osso buco,
    who pointed to show the butcher the ones she wanted.
    She who talks to her faraway friend
    while I linger here at the table
    with a hot, companionable cup of tea,
    feeling like one of the friendly natives,
    a reliable guide, maybe even the chief’s favorite son.

    Somewhere, a man is crawling up a rocky hillside
    on bleeding knees and palms, an Irish penitent
    carrying the stone of the world in his stomach;
    and elsewhere people of all nations stare
    at one another across a long, empty table.

    But here, the candles give off their warm glow,
    the same light that Shakespeare and Izaac Walton wrote by,
    the light that lit and shadowed the faces of history.
    Only now it plays on the blue plates,
    the crumpled napkins, the crossed knife and fork.

    In a while, one of us will go up to bed
    and the other will follow.
    Then we will slip below the surface of the night
    into miles of water, drifting down and down
    to the dark, soundless bottom
    until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still,
    below the shale and layered rock,
    beneath the strata of hunger and pleasure,
    into the broken bones of the earth itself,
    into the marrow of the only place we know.

    Billy Collins,The Art of Drowning
     
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  7. Vanyanka

    Vanyanka
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    Cold-Blooded Damsel

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    Would you know why there's death, and tears, and blood,
    And wrenching hearts out by their shrieking roots


    ----------------------------------------------------

    I will spunge out the sweetness of my heart,
    And suck up horror; woman's thoughts I'll kill,
    And leave their bodies rotting in my mind,
    Hoping their worms will sting; although not man,
    Yet will I out of hate engender much,—
    I'll be the father of a world of ghosts,
    And get the grave with a carcase.
    -Thomas Lovell Beddoes

    This is part of a MUCH longer poem if you're interested in reading more.

    http://www.poetryexplorer.net/poem.php?id=10037468
     
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    #67 Vanyanka, Mar 27, 2017
    Last edited: Mar 27, 2017
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  8. jan

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  9. DorthyZbornak

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    Golden

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    I know you posted this forever ago, but I didn't realize there was a poetry forum. This is one of my favorite Billy Collins poems, read in the sweetest way. I love Billy, but my heart belongs to Ted Kooser, whom I love almost as much as this...

     
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  10. ItsAmyTee

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    Corgo

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    This is the CUTEST THING!!! <3 <3 <3
     
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  11. jan

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  12. themildone

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    the real Jaded

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    my 2 favorite poems ever.
    Trying to remember you
    is like carrying water
    in my hands a long distance
    across sand. Somewhere people are waiting.
    They have drunk nothing for days.

    Your name was the food I lived on;
    now my mouth is full of dirt and ash.
    To say your name was to be surrounded
    by feathers and silk; now, reaching out,
    I touch glass and barbed wire.
    Your name was the thread connecting my life;
    now I am fragments on a tailor's floor.

    I was dancing when I
    learned of your death; may
    my feet be severed from my body.
    Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

    Write, for example,'The night is shattered
    and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

    The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

    Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
    I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

    Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
    I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

    She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
    How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

    Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
    To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

    To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
    And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

    What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
    The night is shattered and she is not with me.

    This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
    My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

    My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
    My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

    The same night whitening the same trees.
    We, of that time, are no longer the same.

    I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
    My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

    Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
    Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

    I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
    Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

    Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
    my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.

    Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
    and these the last verses that I write for her.
     
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