poem
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My coworker just published a book—take a look if you’re interested.
NAOMIE ANOMIE
A Biography of Infinite Desire
Jennifer Hasegawa
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Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —
— Emily Dickinson
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My Foolish Dream
In the distance of time hear the sound
Of those who believe they have found
The light in the dark through the beat of a heart
And the vision of freedom to come
We live in a time of despair
Where the cries of the people lie bare
Generations have passed, heard the slogans enmasse
So when will we be free at last?
While the strain of new voices spread far
Drowning light from a delicate star
But I hold in my heart a dream that I guard
It’s secrets sung by the caged dove
There’s a beautiful sound that I hear
It’s the sound of true freedom for we
And it whispers to me,
“Take my hand and you’ll see
That the dream lives for all who believe”
Let your tears wash away all the fears
Mother nature proved over the years
That for those who turn their back will never know they lack
The song of true freedom I hear
My only foolish dream
An innocent dream
— United Future Organization – My Foolish Dream – Feat. Monday Michiru
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“Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.”
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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“A boy I don’t like told me to write from the heart. I didn’t know what that meant because I never knew I had one, I never knew I had a heart till you kissed a boy I haven’t met, then I knew I had a heart, because I thought it might stop. And when I thought my heart might stop beating, I realized it had always been there but it didn’t know how to feel until I thought about losing you. I knew we wouldn’t last forever, I was waiting for this day, but I hope we can fix things, and if we can’t, I will always thank you for showing me I have a heart.”
-Adam Groff, Sex Education (03×08)
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»the solution« by anatol knotek
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“The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
― Robert Frost
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Bad Religion – The Streets Of America
The Streets of America
Desolate and without purpose
Radiating from so many septic sources
Forming the fabric of a wayward people
Disappearing as the vestiges of our past
Scratched like tartan into virgin soil
A substrate for progress and disarray
A spreading network of broken dreams
Searching for a thoroughfare to take us away
Just a little tale from the streets of America (say a little prayer)
Sparkled promises paved with pathos and hysteria
Trenchant, weary native sons
Step back
And see the damage done
Meander to the horizon (shoot straight to the horizon)
The streets of America
Black, tarred concrete
Pine for me
Lying dormant
For you and country
Hardened surface
Cracked within
Catch the sweat
From off the chin
Of men and women
Senior and child
Who look to you
And your sterile miles
And in their stares
Is bald dismay
For what you promised
Led them astray
Hard-cracked, daunting, lifeless veins
False hope corridors to greener pastures is all that remains
ถนนของอเมริกา
อ้างว้างและไร้เป้าหมาย
แผ่ออกมาจากแหล่งบำบัดน้ำเสียมากมาย
สร้างโครงสร้างของคนที่เอาแต่ใจ
หายไปเป็นร่องรอยของอดีตของเรา
ขูดเหมือนผ้าตาหมากรุกในดินบริสุทธิ์
รากฐานสำหรับความก้าวหน้าและความระส่ำระสาย
เครือข่ายกระจายความฝันที่แตกสลาย
ค้นหาทางสัญจรที่จะพาเราไป
เรื่องเล่าเล็กๆ น้อยๆ จากท้องถนนในอเมริกา (อธิษฐานสักนิด)
คำสัญญาที่เปล่งประกายเต็มไปด้วยสิ่งที่น่าสมเพชและฮิสทีเรีย
ลูกชายชาวพื้นเมืองที่เบื่อหน่าย
ถอยหลัง
และดูความเสียหายที่เกิดขึ้น
คดเคี้ยวไปที่ขอบฟ้า (ยิงตรงไปที่ขอบฟ้า)
ถนนในอเมริกา
คอนกรีตเคลือบดินดำ
ต้นสนสำหรับฉัน
นอนอยู่เฉยๆ
สำหรับคุณและประเทศ
พื้นผิวแข็ง
แตกข้างใน
จับเหงื่อ
จากคาง
ของชายและหญิง
ผู้สูงอายุและเด็ก
ใครมองคุณ
และไมล์ปลอดเชื้อของคุณ
และในสายตาของพวกเขา
เป็นคนหัวโล้น
สำหรับสิ่งที่คุณสัญญา
ทำให้พวกเขาหลงทาง
เส้นเลือดที่แตกร้าว น่ากลัว ไร้ชีวิตชีวา
ทางเดินแห่งความหวังเท็จสู่ทุ่งหญ้าสีเขียวคือสิ่งที่เหลืออยู่
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Mensagem, first edition, 1934 by Fernando Pessoa
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I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
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Venus In Furs by The Velvet Underground & NIco
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Free Dirt
My house is mine:
the choice of menu,
the radio and television,
the unpolished floors,
the rumpled sheets.
It’s like being inside
a rolltop desk. I have
no maid who takes care
of me. Sometimes,
during breakfast,
I speak French with
a taxidermied wren.
There is no debt
between us. We listen
to language tapes:
Viens-tu du ciel profound (Baudelaire)?
Always, I hear a little oratorio
inside my head. Moths
have carried away my carpets,
like invisible pallbearers.
I like invisibleness,
except in the moon’s strong,
broad rays. Some nights,
I ask her paleness, Will I be okay?
I am weak and fruitless at night,
like a piece of meat with eyes,
but in the morning optimistic again,
like a snowflake that has traveled
many miles and many years
to be admired on the kitchen pane.
Alone, I guzzle
and litter and urinate
and shout. Please do not
wake me from this dream,
making meals from discrete
objects—a sweet potato,
a jar of marmalade,
a bottle of sauvignon blanc.
Today, I saw a sign
in majuscule for FREE DIRT
and thought, We all have
chapters we’d rather keep
unpublished, in which we
get down with the swirl.
The little wren perched on my
finger weighs almost nothing,
just nails and beak. But it
gives me tiny moments—
here at my kitchen table—
like a diaphanous chorus
mewling something
about love, or the haze
of love, a haze that makes
me squint-eyed and sick
if I think too much about it.
What am I but this flensed
syntax, sight and sound,
in which my heart, not
insulated yet, makes
ripple effects down the line?
—Henri Cole