I wanted to want something

I wanted to want something as much as people wanted these plants, but it isn't part of my constitution. I think people my age are embarrassed by too much enthusiasm and believe that too much passion about anything is naive. I suppose I do have one un-embarrassing passion- I want to know what it feels like to care about something passionately.

The Orchid Thief
Susan Orlean

I don't know any other way

I love you without knowing how, when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don't know any other way
to love...

One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII [excerpt]
Pablo Neruda

How It Ends

You already know how this will end. 

How It Ends

DeVotchKa

here.

It's a thin line 'tween heaven and here.

-Bubbles

borrowed for SEW

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the
floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . .I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

T.S. Eliot 

in our inexplicable ways

On a summer morning

I sat down

on a hillside

to think about God - 

a worthy pastime. 

Near me, I saw a single cricket;

it was moving the grains of

the hillside this way and that way.

How great was its energy,

how humble its effort.

Let us hope

it will always be like this,

each of us going on

in our inexplicable ways

building the universe.

Song of the Builders

Mary Oliver

The Panic Bird

just flew inside my chest. Some

days it lights inside my brain,

but today it's in my bonehouse,

rattling ribs like a birdcage.

If I saw it coming, I'd fend it

off with machete or baseball bat.

Or grab its scrawny hackled neck,

wring it like a wet dish rag.

But it approaches from behind.

Too late I sense it at my back --

carrion, garbage, excrement.

Once inside me it preens, roosts,

vulture on a public utility pole.

Next it flaps, it cries, it gares, 

it rages, it struts, it thrusts

its clacking beak into my liver,

my guts, my heart, rips off strips.

I fill with black blood, black bile.

This may last minutes or days.

Then it lifts sickle-shaped wings,

rises, is gone, leaving a residue --

foul breath, droppings, molted midnight

feathers. And life continues.

And then I'm prey to panic again.

The Panic Bird

Robert Phillips

perfect in every moment of its existence

There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence... Its nature is satisfied and it satisfies nature in all moments alike.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

her eyes

her eyes were the color of faraway love

Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks [excerpt]

Pablo Neruda

Art is a wicked thing.

Art is a wicked thing. It is what we are. 

Georgia O'Keefe

The Ivy Crown

The whole process is a lie, 

unless, 

crowned by excess, 

it break forcefully,

one way or another,

from its confinement-

or find a deeper well.

Antony and Cleopatra

were right;

they have shown

the way. I love you

or I do not live

at all.

Daffodil time

is past. This is

summer, summer!

the heart says,

and not even the full of it. 

No doubts

are permitted – 

though they will come

and may

before our time

overwhelm us.

We are only mortal

but being mortal

can defy our fate.

We may

by an outside chance

even win! We do not

look to see

jonquils and violets

come again

but there are,

still,

the roses!

Romance has no part in it.

The business of love is

cruelty which,

by our wills,

we transform

to live together.
It has its seasons,

for and against,

whatever the heart

fumbles in the dark

to assert

toward the end of May.

Just as the nature of briars

is to tear flesh,

I have proceeded

through them.

Keep

the briars out,

they say.

You cannot live

and keep free of

briars.

Children pick flowers.

Let them.

Though having them

in hand

they have no further use for them

but leave them crumpled

at the curb’s edge.

At our age the imagination

across the sorry facts

lifts us

to make roses

stand before thorns.

Sure

love is cruel

and selfish 

and totally obtuse- 

at least, blinded by the light,

young love is.

But we are older,

I to love

and you to be loved,

we have,

no matter how,

by our wills survived

to keep

the jeweled prize

always

at our finger tips.

We will it so

and so it is

past all accident.

The Ivy Crown

William Carlos Williams

where nothing much happens now

When I remember your love,

I weep, and when I hear people 

talking of you, 

something in my chest,

where nothing much happens now,

moves as in sleep.

Send The Chaperones Away [excerpt]

Rumi

Just a day like any other, the sun not even shining,

You were into your Black Period,
as you called it, saying,
If Picasso could have a Blue one,
then why can't I have black?
You said it made dressing easy for you:
black shoes, black stockings, black dress,
black shawl, eye shadow, and your hair dyed black.

You said it made shopping easy.
You said you never tired of asking,
Do you have it in black?
You were always ready for funerals.
You said you'd never get married,
but if you did you'd already picked out
the color of your dress.

At first I couldn't believe my eyes:
a red streak in your hair,
gold earrings,
socks peeking out from your black skirt
that might be, just might be, red.
And that jacket, a deep blue, perhaps?

Next time there was yellow.
Just a day like any other, the sun not even shining,
not even spring, but your tee-shirt
canary yellow, gaudy as an egg yolk
splashed across a black iron pan.

You said it just happened.
You said you couldn't explain it.
But it was, you said, like
waking at midnight,
opening the curtains
and finding nothing but light.

Yellow
Brian Daldorph - The University of Kansas

Il Pleut

It’s Raining

It’s raining women’s voices as if they had died even in

memory

And it’s raining you as well marvellous encounters of my

life O little

drops

Those rearing clouds begin to neigh a whole universe of

auricular cities

Listen if it rains while regret and disdain weep to an

ancient music

Listen to the bonds fall off which hold you above and

below

Il Pleut

Guillaume Apollinaire

She was gone

She was gone and the coldness of it was her final gift.

The Road
Cormac McCarthy

She knew her beauty’s power.

The goddess threw her snow-white arms around him
as he held back, caressing him here and there,
and suddenly he caught fire — the same old story,
the flame he knew by heart went running through him,
melting him to the marrow of his bones…
...she knew her beauty’s power.

The Aeneid [excerpt]
Virgil

Do You Have Any Advice For Those of Us Just Starting Out?

Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave
your house or apartment. Go out into the world.

It's all right to carry a notebook but a cheap
one is best, with pages the color of weak tea
and on the front a kitten or a space ship.

Avoid any enclosed space where more than
three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware
any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks
across the muffled tennis courts.

Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.
And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle
where a child a year or two old is playing as his
mother browses the ranks of the dead.

Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.
The title, the author's name, the brooding photo
on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray
book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher
it gets, the wider he grins.

You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower
falls, be like that child. Laugh so loud everybody
in the world frowns and says, "Shhhh."

Then start again.


Do You Have Any Advice For Those of Us Just Starting Out?
Ron Koertge

so Edgar didn't rush off

If age teaches you anything, then one of the lessons is certainly not to hurry if you're already late...

Day Watch
Sergei Lukyanenko

I dont belong here.

I want you to notice
When I'm not around

Creep
Radiohead

welcome baby peters!

What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;

Romeo and Juliet
Act II Scene 2

In the end,

In the end, it wasn’t death that surprised her but the stubbornness of life.

The Virgin Suicides
Jeffrey Eugenides

fall in love with the sadness of another

The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning

as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.

He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,

how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.

Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,

except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,

you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another

The First Dream
Billy Collins

a second chance

She closed the door behind him but he didn't hear it lock.

Cold Pursuit

T. Jefferson Parker

Tegan Olivia 8lbs 13oz

Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.

Elizabeth Stone

Before She Died

When I look at the sky now, I look at it for you.
As if with enough attention, I could take it in for you.

Before She Died [excerpt]
Karen Chase

the vehicle that drove my spirit forward

...my father used to say, "If you are alive, there is hope for a better day and something good to happen. If there is nothing good left in the destiny of a person, he or she will die." I thought about these words during my journey, and they kept me moving even when I didn't know where I was going.

A Long Way Gone
Ishmael Beah

technology vs simplicity

borrowed from the woman in the elevator:

"Sometimes, instant is too soon."

So you could be with me?

And then later in the darkness: Can I ask you something?
Yes. Of course you can.
What would you do if I died?
If you died I would want to die too.
So you could be with me?
Yes. So I could be with you.
Okay.

The Road
Cormac McCarthy

Introduction To Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Introduction to Poetry
Billy Collins

Nicole's new tat.

invoke your angels

interior rules

...for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires...

The Great Gatsby
F. Scott Fitzgerald

hopelessly I should add

All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh...

Lolita
Vladimir Nabokov

California Syrah

It felt good to step into darkness. Even the sunshine was getting to me. The bartender stared at my forehead with the sunken eyes of a defrocked priest. I reached up and winced. My hand came away red with blood. I asked for a towel and a drink but not in that order. The towel came first. Some days nothing goes right.

Speakeasy
Red Car Wine

a woman's name?

A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

Sacred Emily [excerpt]
Gertrude Stein

I love the recklessness of faith.

First you leap and then you grow wings.

Credo
William Sloane Coffin

Clare:

Everything seems simple until you think about it.

The Time Traveler's Wife
Audrey Niffenegger

in themselves

Detachment is a rare virtue, and very few people find it lovable, either in themselves or others.

Gaudy Night
Dorothy Sayers

facts

Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.

Carl W. Buechner

With a flush on its petal tips;

The red rose whispers of passion,
  And the white rose breathes of love;
O, the red rose is a falcon,
  And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud
  With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
  Has a kiss of desire on the lips

A White Rose
John Boyle O'Reilly

Moonlight Sonata

The less we say about it the better

Home – is where I want to be
But I guess I'm already there
I come home – she lifted up her wings
Guess that this must be the place
I can't tell one from another
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time before we were born
If someone asks, this where I'll be… where I'll be

This Must Be The Place [excerpt]
Talking Heads

I have

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Acquainted With the Night
Robert Frost

I was like Shutupandreadit

I was like Read this poem
He was like You must be joking
I was like Pleeease
He was like Fancy a drink?

I was like Get lost
He was like I really like you
I was like Read this poem then
He was like Do I have to?

I was like Yes
He was like Omigod she means it
I was like Shutupandreadit
He was like Gimme the poem

I was like Did you like it?
He was like What was that about?
I was like What did you think?
He was like It was like, like . . .

I was like That's the point
He was shocked, like.

Like
Helena Nelson

leave them.

As soon as you meet someone, you know the reasons why you will leave them.

Taxi Driver Wisdom

why?

I hadn't so much forgot as I couldn't bring myself to remember.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Maya Angelou

aka Alexander Supertramp

Happiness only real when shared.

Christopher McCandless

it's not about you.

I've got reservations
about so many things
but not about you

Reservations [excerpt]
Wilco

outside. now.

The air smelled like rain waiting to happen.

From the Corner of His Eye
Dean Koontz