Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Time will say nothing but I told you so Time only knows the price we have to pay; If I could tell you I would let you know. If we should weep when clowns put on their show, If we should stumble when musicians play, Time will say nothing but I told you so. There are no fortunes to be told, although, Because I love you more than I can say, If I could tell you I would let you know. The winds must come from somewhere when they blow, There must be reason why the leaves decay; Time will say nothing but I told you so. Perhaps the roses really want to grow, The vision seriously intends to stay; If I could tell you I would let you know. Suppose the lions all get up and go, And the brooks and soldiers run away; Will Time say nothing but I told you so? If I could tell you I would let you know.
White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field by Mary Oliver Coming down out of the freezing sky with its depths of light, like an angel, or a Buddha with wings, it was beautiful, and accurate, striking the snow and whatever was there with a force that left the imprint of the tips of its wings — five feet apart — and the grabbing thrust of its feet, and the indentation of what had been running through the white valleys of the snow — and then it rose, gracefully, and flew back to the frozen marshes to lurk there, like a little lighthouse, in the blue shadows — so I thought: maybe death isn't darkness, after all, but so much light wrapping itself around us
as soft as feathers — that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes, not without amazement, and let ourselves be carried, as through the translucence of mica, to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow, that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light — in which we are washed and washed out of our bones.
Something Beautiful by Mary Oliver It doesn't have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don't try to make them elaborate, this isn't a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.
Here, one must learn that light cannot be understood by skin. It does not push back, as surfaces do. It is edgeless; it cannot sing. I am only a transistor: the signal is created elsewhere. If I spoke of the wine-dark sea it would be more sense than sight, more tenor than color. Light cannot rhyme; it is all glances. And color is the syntax that declaims without meaning, the distant echo of a trap snapping shut in the trees. One sleepwalks through darkened anterooms, while fingers of light through the window speak.
/8:25 PM
SingPoWriMoDay09
Across the bay evening dips into the water, a leg over the lip of the bath. A corpse in the bath is worth two in the hand. Who said that? Probably someone who tired of birds, of cupping a heart attack between palms. Though that seems to be the way people want to go, a fistfight in an alley and dust in the eyes. Love, war and a back-alley scuffle: pick two and make them vehicle and tenor. Metaphor is, after all, a man in the bath, dead, and all the doors in the house left open.
vanessa. boring and inscrutable. satirical and opinionated. sardonic but innocuous.
enigmatic and taciturn. pococurante but caring. neurotic but with equanimity. you wouldn't get me at all,
cause I wouldn't let you.
quote
"Let me tell you this: Some of life's questions you have to answer, some you just have to dance your face off and scream "no comment."" --- John Mayer