Sometimes I think of the world
as made of glass -
everything I touch resonates
and sets in motion ripples
and echoes of sound, doubling
back to me.
All the world is sounding, adding, composing
a co-written symphony,
reacting off one another.
Everyone the melody passes through
changes it, and is changed.
A beautiful and terrible thing, that music
- it transforms some, and shatters others.
But in any case, there is magic
in setting in motion such a powerful thing
with the brush of a finger, the hum of a word.
Pour soulever un poids si lourd,
Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!
Bien qu’on ait du coeur à l’ouvrage,
L’Art est long et le Temps est court.
Loin des sépultures célèbres,
Vers un cimetière isolé,
Mon coeur, comme un tambour voilé,
Va battant des marches funèbres.
— Maint joyau dort enseveli
Dans les ténèbres et l’oubli,
Bien loin des pioches et des sondes;
Mainte fleur épanche à regret
Son parfum doux comme un secret
Dans les solitudes profondes.
— Charles Baudelaire
To lift a weight so heavy,
Would take your courage, Sisyphus!
Although one’s heart is in the work,
Art is long and Time is short.
Far from famous sepulchers
Toward a lonely cemetery
My heart, like muffled drums,
Goes beating funeral marches.
Many a jewel lies buried
In darkness and oblivion,
Far, far away from picks and drills;
Many a flower regretfully
Exhales perfume soft as secrets
In a profound solitude.
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
I am not a poet.
Poets go out into the world
Survive to write the tale.
I’m just a coward with a pen
Hiding in a room
Waiting for life to break down the door.
"You’re always haunted by the idea you’re wasting your life."-I’m not only haunted by the idea, I know that it’s true. I’m wasting the best time of my life, I’m fucking wasting my youth. I hate this, why do i do that? (via kissofaghost)
I cannot imagine feeling so strongly about another person and making myself so dependent on them. Maybe I’m emotionally deficient.
Sometimes my own heartbeat scares me
The way it’s so predictable, dependable, and yet
Will fail me.
(written around noon on the tram)
"No matter what, I am romantic enough or sentimental enough to wish to contribute something to life’s fabric, to the world’s beauty… Simply to live does not justify existence, for life is a mere gesture on the surface of the earth, and death a return to that from which we had never been wholly separated; but oh to leave a trace, no matter how faint, of that brief gesture! For someone, some day, may find it beautiful!"-Frank O’Hara, Journal (1948)
I hate being busy. Sometimes I have whole lines of poetry in my head but no time to write them down, and then they’re gone. Then there are the short story and two novels I’ve started, and the finished novel I have to revise and edit…
I wish I could quit 2 of my 3 jobs and get one well-paid one instead while still working on my Master’s degree on the side. Preferably so I still have time to write, because that’s what I really want to do with my life.
I love that moment when a band sort of ‘goes off’ in your head and you just click with them. When you totally fall for their music and can’t listen to anything else anymore. When you hear their songs in your head even when you are not actually listening to music at all. When in a very short time, they come to mean so much and you can’t rationally explain why.
I haven’t fallen in love or had a serious crush in two years, and now I see all these spring couples sprouting out of what seems like nowhere…