• 08/15/09

    Ago 16 2009, 2:51

    oṃ pūrṇamadaḥ pūrṇamidam pūrṇāt pūrṇamudacyate

    pūrṇasya pūrṇamādāya pūrṇamevāvaśiṣyate

    oṃ śāntiḥ śāntiḥ śāntiḥ
  • Nemirovsky

    Apr 7 2009, 15:29

    She looked at him. "You're strange, Maurice. You've seen people at their most cynical, their most disillusioned, and at the same time you're not unhappy, I mean, not really unhappy inside! Am I wrong?"
    "So what makes it all right, then?"
    "My certainty that deep down I'm a free man," he said, after thinking for a moment. "It's a constant, precious possession, and whether I keep it or lose it is up to me and no one else. I desperately want the insanity we're living through to end. I desperately want what has begun to finish. In a word, I desperately want this tragedy to be over and for us to try to survive, that's all. What's important is to live: Primum vivere. One day at a time. To survive, to wait, to hope."
    She listened to him without saying a word. Suddenly, she got up and grabbed her hat from the mantelpiece. He looked at her in astonishment. "And what I say," she replied, "is 'Heaven helps those who help themselves.'"
  • Yeats

    Ago 4 2008, 21:53

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again; but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
  • Wallace

    Ago 3 2008, 4:36

    The woman in this poem
    lives in the suburbs
    with her husband and two children
    each day she waits for the mail and
    once a week receives
    a letter from her lover
    who lives in another city
    writes of roses warm patches
    of sunlight on his bed
    'Come to me' he pleads
    'I need you' and the woman
    reaches for the phone
    to dial the airport
    she will leave this afternoon
    her suitcase packed
    with a few light clothes

    But as she is dialing
    the woman in this poem
    remembers the pot-roast
    and the fact that it is Thursday
    she thinks of how her husband's face
    will look when he reads her note
    his body curling sadly toward
    the empty side of the bed

    She stops dialing and begins
    to chop onions for the pot-roast
    but behind her back the phone
    shapes itself insistently
    the number for airline reservations
    chants in her head
    in an hour her children will be
    home from school and after that
    her husband will arrive
    to kiss the back of her neck
    while she thickens the gravy
    and she knows that
    all through dinner
    her mouth will laugh and chatter
    while she walks with her lover
    on a beach somewhere

    She puts the onions in the pot
    and turns toward the phone
    but even as she reaches
    she is thinking of
    her daughter's piano lessons
    her son's dental appointment

    Her arms fall to her side
    and as she stands there
    in the middle of her spotless kitchen
    we can see her growing
    old like this
    and wish for something anything
    to happen we could have her go
    mad perhaps and lock herself
    in the closet crouch there
    for days her dresses withering
    around her like cast-off skins
    or maybe she could take
    to cruising the streets at night
    in her husband's car
    picking up teenage boys
    and fucking them in the back seat
    we can even imagine
    finding her body
    dumped in a ditch somewhere
    on the edge of town

    The woman in this poem offends us
    with her useless phone and the persistent
    smell of onions we regard her as we do
    the poorly calculated overdose
    who lies in a bed somewhere
    not knowing how her life drops
    through her drop by measured drop

    we want to think of death
    as something sudden
    stroke or leap
    that carries us over the railing
    of the bridge in one determined arc
    the pistol aimed precisely
    at the right part of the brain
    we want to hate this woman

    but mostly we hate knowing
    that for us too it is
    moments like this
    our thoughts stiff fingers
    tear at again and again
    when we stop in the middle
    of an ordinary day and
    like the woman in this poem
    begin to feel
    our own deaths
    rising slow within us