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The Starred Coverlet
A difficult achievement for true lovers
Is to lie mute, without embrace or kiss,
Without a rustle or a sigh,
Basking in the other's glory.
Let us not undervalue lips or arms
As reassurance of constancy,
Or speech as necessary communication
When troubled hearts go groping through the dusk;
Yet lovers who have learned this last refinement -
To lie apart, yet sleep and dream together
Motionless under their starred coverlet -
Crown love with wreaths of myrtle.
~ Robert Graves
Is to lie mute, without embrace or kiss,
Without a rustle or a sigh,
Basking in the other's glory.
Let us not undervalue lips or arms
As reassurance of constancy,
Or speech as necessary communication
When troubled hearts go groping through the dusk;
Yet lovers who have learned this last refinement -
To lie apart, yet sleep and dream together
Motionless under their starred coverlet -
Crown love with wreaths of myrtle.
~ Robert Graves
Polarities
Like light through an oriel window in a room of yellow wood;
Sometimes she is the colour of lions, of sand in the fire of noon,
Sometimes as bruised with shadows as the afternoon.
Sometimes she moves like rivers, sometimes like trees;
Or tranced and fixed like South Pole silences;
Sometimes she is beauty, sometimes fury, sometimes neither,
Sometimes nothing, drained of meaning, null as water.
Sometimes, when she makes me pea-soup or plays me Schumann,
I love her one way; sometimes I love her another
More disturbing way when she opens her mouth in the dark;
Sometimes I like her with camellias, sometimes with a parsley-stalk,
Sometimes I like her swimming in a mirror on the wall;
Sometimes I don't like her at all.
~ Kenneth Siessor
Nice Poerty About LOve
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
- e.e. cummings
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
- e.e. cummings
night song
late at night
when the fire in my belly
becomes unbearable
i invite you
into that secret space
where essence of desire
is distilled into brilliant form
of taste and touch
and fluid layers
and currents of lust
vibrating
pulsating
in rhythmic tides
and my skin glows
hyper-saturated
with colors
that escaped from a longing
that is ripe and full and fierce
every sinew in my body
throbbing
and the wild drumming
of my heart
blatantly palpable
openly flagrant
candidly tangible
woven through
with different textures of
clarity
and breathing
ragged with elation
late at night
when the pulse of my blood
propels my passion
into a liquid blast
i hum you
like a song
when the fire in my belly
becomes unbearable
i invite you
into that secret space
where essence of desire
is distilled into brilliant form
of taste and touch
and fluid layers
and currents of lust
vibrating
pulsating
in rhythmic tides
and my skin glows
hyper-saturated
with colors
that escaped from a longing
that is ripe and full and fierce
every sinew in my body
throbbing
and the wild drumming
of my heart
blatantly palpable
openly flagrant
candidly tangible
woven through
with different textures of
clarity
and breathing
ragged with elation
late at night
when the pulse of my blood
propels my passion
into a liquid blast
i hum you
like a song
10 Things Writers Can Learn from a Brick
1. A brick is skilled at staying on task. Put one in front of a computer, it will sit there for hours.
2. A brick doesn’t jump in front of a truck when it gets a rejection letter.
3. A brick understands the importance of structure.
4. A brick rarely complains on Twitter and Facebook about the unfairness of bricklayers.
5. A brick isn’t jealous of other bricks. (Except those at J. K. Rowling’s house.)
6. A brick doesn’t stress over its Amazon.com ranking.
7. A brick can build a bridge or start a revolution.
8. A brick isn’t perfect. It’s okay with that.
9. With a little help, a brick can fly.
10. Bricks never waste your time with “10 Things…” posts.
A Life it`s own
It begins as an idea in your head.
Wait, back up. That’s not entirely accurate. It starts long before that.
It begins as a childhood daydream, as a parade of clouds, as a balance-beam walk along a railroad track. It begins with rock-skipping, dirt-digging, butterfly-following.
It begins in beautiful words and hard words. In complaint and compliance. In monsters hiding under the bed. In hiding under the bed from monsters.
It begins in the infinite space after the yes and before the kiss. In the thrill of discovery, the fear of begin discovered. The uncertainty of one moment and the certainty of another.
It begins five minutes or two decades ago, when all it means is what it is.
And then in a flash it becomes something else. It becomes an idea for a story.
Stories have roots and tendrils in our experiences, our memories, our histories, our waking and sleeping dreams. Everything – the good the bad the great the sad the dangerous the stupid the ugly the learned the imagined – is seed or sapling for a writer.
When it becomes an idea in your head, you have a choice: ignore it or embrace the arduous thrill of writing it down.
In your head, the story has a shape, a color, and perhaps not much more. But once you begin to write, the words the story gives you (and the ones it withholds) change that shape, that color.
Somewhere between the idea and the page, a good story begins to assert itself. It declares with suggestion or silence that it’s not just about your brilliance and your typing fingers. The maturation of a story happens in concert with the chorus of real-life experiences and relationships that shaped you. To ignore the wisdom of the chorus is to risk telling lies that no one will believe.
So you write and rewrite until the story tells you to stop. Eventually, you add “final draft” to the file name, but that’s not entirely accurate. Because the moment you give a story away, it changes again. The reader’s chorus pulls it like taffy, reshaping it a little or a lot. Your true final draft is co-authored by the reader.
Yes, it’s still your story. You captured it after it captured you. You wrote it down. But it’s bigger than you. It always was.
Good stories have a life of their own. There is curious comfort in this.
And probably good reason to be terrified.
Wait, back up. That’s not entirely accurate. It starts long before that.
It begins as a childhood daydream, as a parade of clouds, as a balance-beam walk along a railroad track. It begins with rock-skipping, dirt-digging, butterfly-following.
It begins in beautiful words and hard words. In complaint and compliance. In monsters hiding under the bed. In hiding under the bed from monsters.
It begins in the infinite space after the yes and before the kiss. In the thrill of discovery, the fear of begin discovered. The uncertainty of one moment and the certainty of another.
It begins five minutes or two decades ago, when all it means is what it is.
And then in a flash it becomes something else. It becomes an idea for a story.
Stories have roots and tendrils in our experiences, our memories, our histories, our waking and sleeping dreams. Everything – the good the bad the great the sad the dangerous the stupid the ugly the learned the imagined – is seed or sapling for a writer.
When it becomes an idea in your head, you have a choice: ignore it or embrace the arduous thrill of writing it down.
In your head, the story has a shape, a color, and perhaps not much more. But once you begin to write, the words the story gives you (and the ones it withholds) change that shape, that color.
Somewhere between the idea and the page, a good story begins to assert itself. It declares with suggestion or silence that it’s not just about your brilliance and your typing fingers. The maturation of a story happens in concert with the chorus of real-life experiences and relationships that shaped you. To ignore the wisdom of the chorus is to risk telling lies that no one will believe.
So you write and rewrite until the story tells you to stop. Eventually, you add “final draft” to the file name, but that’s not entirely accurate. Because the moment you give a story away, it changes again. The reader’s chorus pulls it like taffy, reshaping it a little or a lot. Your true final draft is co-authored by the reader.
Yes, it’s still your story. You captured it after it captured you. You wrote it down. But it’s bigger than you. It always was.
Good stories have a life of their own. There is curious comfort in this.
And probably good reason to be terrified.
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