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Political image is like mixing cement. When it's wet, you can move it around and shape it, but at some point it hardens and there's almost nothing you can do to reshape it.

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Come What May

(cynthia weil, tom snow)
When she looks at me
I know the girl sees things
Nobody else can see
All of the secret fears inside
And all the craziness I hide
She looks into my soul
And reads me like nobody can
And she doesnt judge the man
She just takes me as I am
Come what may, she believes
And that faith is something
Ive never known before
Come what may, she loves me
And that love has helped me open a door
Making me love myself a little more
When I turn away
She knows those are the times
Theres nothing she can say
Nothing that anyone can do
And so she lets me live it through
And when Im in my darkest hour of uncertainty
She just simply lets me be
And goes right on loving me
And when it seems my dreams
Have all slipped through my fingers
When they just cant be found
I turn around and there they are
Shining in her eyes
(repeat chorus)

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Here Only Image Plays Like Puppet!

Diving deep into own,
eyes learn to look into far,
beyond the horizon into cosmos,
matter from several galaxies,
light from several stars,
filtered by earth and air
keep you alive here,
several celestial bodies,
working silently to fill breath in your life,
look your form is in cosmos,
here only image plays like puppet,
for the divine unknown, working!

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Patrick White

Not A Black Wind On A Blue Day

Not a black wind on a blue day
but definitely grey.
Enter image of a slumping gas pump
with red paint flaking off it
and a coca cola sign just as old
hanging lop-sided
above an abandoned grocery store
across a small wooden bridge on a dirt road
beside an old stone mill with a seized waterwheel
that stopped turning in the flow of the river a long time ago.
Now take it a step further
and try to imagine a black pot-belly stove
in the middle of the wooden-floored grocery store
with people warming their hands around it
like petals turned toward
this black sun that shines at midnight
almost cast iron cherry red when its stoked
with two year old red oak
and it's snowing thick and heavy outside
as if someone got into a pillow fight with swans
and there's an orange-apricot glow
ripening on the drifts under the storefront windows,
that tints the blue snow
towards its complementary violet
and everything looks like a picture-perfect oil painting
on a nineteen-fifties Christmas card.
And there are people inside. Can you see them?
They look like dark, habitable planets transiting the light
of another star seventy-one light years from here.
Silhouettes of men who are always wiping their hands on a rag
as if they just finished fixing something,
farm wives asking the grocery clerk
who cooked which pie
and whose were selling the most,
kids as impatient as snowballs
waiting for their skates to be sharpened
that expect you to use your imagination
to fill in the negative spaces
and give them the benefit of the doubt as to the rest.
The river that runs beside the mill
isn't all that wide but it canters
over a Stonehenge of creek stones
like a blue-black anthracite horse
with a white mane
that's no longer harnessed
to the tyranny of equinoctial wheels.
And I'd expect to see more trucks
than cars parked outside
and feel that everybody
took a secret pride in being trusted enough
to pump their own gas
and have their word taken for the amount.
And stepping inside out of the cold
through a doorway that triggered a bell
to call someone out of a dark backroom
to greet you like a friend they've been meaning
to ask about cutting swamp wood
when the ice grows thicker
and your brother's hauled in
enough to spare the Clydesdales
before they ask you what they can help you with
as they're already pulling
what they know you want
off the shelves and piling it on the counter,
I can smell the wet wool
as the snow melts on their shoulders,
smoke and ashes of acrid oak,
kerosene, gas, metallic sorrows
everyone stores in the corners of their mind
and seldom talks about
like the wreck of a tractor
that turned over on their father and crushed him
trying to pull off the road up a slope
into that first year's planting of cattle corn,
and even though it's been tarred and feathered
by years of pigeon shit and straw
one day they're going to fix it
as soon as the part that's missing like their father
they've put on order comes in.
Sitting like owls on the counter
to keep the pigeons away
two fat, unconcerned farm cats
who hunt the deer mice and river rats
through the badlands of the bags of grain
slumped like corpses on top of one another
in the storage sheds out back.
The smell of wet sawdust, savaged wood,
and a confidence in the air like pipe smoke
or the billowing chimney
of a lone farmhouse in the distance
on a cold, dark night
where a man steps out onto the porch
in his work shirt
and looks long and hard at the stars
like someone who knows tools
and doesn't doubt
if you keep the big questions in life
close to home in a clearing among the trees
there's not much
that can't be reasonably resolved
by a fan-belt, a new timing chain,
a fifty-two Ford pick-up and a timber-mill
that was always thumbs up about the future
in a tried and trued way you could count on
like the number of fingers you had left.
Patti Page, Frank Sinatra, Hank Williams,
McCarthy, the Red Scare, Korea,
and the uprooted stumps of the farmboy vets
not even a decade back from World War II,
still learning what they can do
without this arm or that leg
if you wanted to look at it in a historical context.
John Diefenbaker was the prime minister of Canada,
but basically political opinions were undergarments
you kept to yourself for fear of offending
your neighbour's sensibilities
as they sloshed the crabapple wine
for a second time over the rim of your glass.
But that's not to say there wasn't the occasional bad ass
looking for a casus belli to start a brawl
in the Friday night hotel
where his son was the bouncer
and the cop who came into stop it, his cousin.
Pigeon-holed doves of mail in envelope tuxedos
that knew how to write an address
as beautifully and clearly
as someone who knew how to tie
a double Windsor knot properly.
And it's not hard to imagine
what was conveyed by fountain pens
that slipped quietly through the local news
like loons and birch bark canoes
like the MacLeans' Method of Hand Writing
with inkwells and nibs,
the tentative proposals of an epistolary romance,
the shock of sudden deaths
on the periphery of tribal families
and the grandmothers that aged like shamans
who saw to the funeral arrangements
and remembered the childhoods of the deceased
long after anyone else could
and what songs and wildflowers they liked the most.
The intimate up close business of the cell
attending to its own farm-sized affairs
that could tell by the light through the trees at night
it's got a neighbour, and both belong to a bigger body
though it's the elephant in the dark for most
and everyone's opinion is shaped
by the part they're holding on to the hardest.
Now the lights go out.
The people disappear like breath on air.
The kids have grown and some of their kids
still live around here on potluck crannies of land
and some, like the last son to leave, have inherited the farm,
but most have moved into town or the city
to save the long drive to take their kids
to dance and judo lessons, hockey games
and left the fields unrocked in the spring
and bridges, gas pumps,
waterwheels, and grocery stores
to the spiders and mice and birds
that stayed for the winter,
to collapse under the weight of snow on the roof,
as the sun and rain warp the grey boards
into insurrections against the old fashioned nails
that kept things together awhile
like bridges and grocery stores
with only three flavours of ice-cream,
vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry,
and lives that were no longer tenable
once the fruit stopped dropping
close to the tree in their dream.
And the thick heavy snow
buried them like seldom-used bridges
on the back roads of the unpeopled silence
that takes their absence for granted.

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When I think of you

When I think of you
I turn into superglue
And stick to my bed
Until my pant becomes wet
No one seems sexy like you

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When I will have you with me again

When we talk on the cell phone
I drag out conversations
drawing them out long
as if like this
I can keep you with me.

How much I miss you
and about my love
by now
I haven’t got to tell
more than you already know

and still I wonder
when I will have you
with me again?

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Twinkling stars

Twinkling stars
Twinkling stars are always inspiring for me.
They are watching me in the nights
as my father did.
I find the image of my father in these stars.
Today my father is away from me like stars.
So when I miss my father
I always recall stars in the nights.
They provide some satisfaction
& relief from my grief.

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When I Think of You

Fireflies freely roam
Around these verdant trees
They always bring me home
Thoughts beautiful as these.

Moonbeams and soft lights
With little cricket sounds
And coolness of the night
Like Love you give surrounds.

And when I think of you
There's flight to your embrace
Dreamed happiness comes true
My lips have touched your face.

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When I am with you

When I am with you,
I am happy,
All the feeling in my stomach rumbles but it crumbles when you are gone,
I am alone once more,
Know one never knew I was happy with you,
Until you was gone,
When I am with you I am complete,
When you are gone I am incomplete,
The happiest moment I ever had was with you,
You were the one that wash away my tears,
I open my heart,
Widen my eyes,
I trusted you,
I wanted you,
All that was gone in a heart beat,
When I am with you,
You make me smile it feels like I can walk a mile to be here sitting with you,
Never knew this was going to happen,
Now that you are gone.

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When I First Kissed You

New york city can be so pretty
]from a birds eye view
Because up there
Yeah, thats where I first kissed you
A modern day romance
A perfect performance
Acting like two fools
Saying silly things
Whisper sweet nothings
Live young lovers only do
I was shaking
You were breathtaking
Like the empire state
My voice was so far
Not quite sinatra
Singing songs so great
The clock struck one
The night still very young
In the city that never sleeps
Then a whirlwind blew
When I first kissed you
Nearly swept me
Swept me off my feet
When I first kissed you
Thats when I knew
I was in love
Because up there
Yeah, thats where
I first kissed you

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When I'm With You, O Lord Jesus

When I'm with you, O Lord Jesus,
All my worries disappear like dusts.
By your grace and love,
My life is so complete.

When I'm alone in the dark,
I call upon your name, O Most Loving God.
It's only then I find happiness and peace
In my heart, soul and mind.

When Your Holy Spirit guides me,
My soul glides high in the mountains.
I need you by my side, O Lord Jesus,
I can't live without you in my life.

My God, I can feel the joy in my heart.
Now my life seems perfect and right.
O Lord Jesus,
You are behind these diamond smiles.

When I'm with you, my Lord Jesus,
Your love is my source of strength & hope.
You protect me from pain and sufferings.
You shelter me from the heartache of life.

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When I'm With You

Vs.1 No one knows just how I feel.
I never thought this could be real.
But you've proved me wrong, you see.
I know that you're perfect for me.
There's no one else that makes me feel this way.
No one else that believes in what I say.
Only you can understand the way I think.
My heart can't sink when I'm with you.
Vs.2 Everyday I seem to think about
What my life would be like without
You right there by my side.
Boy, when you're with me I feel alive.
Bridge: No more heartbreak, no more fear.
No more worries with you here.
I know that you won't cause me harm.
I feel safe when I'm in your arms.
(chorus) x 2
Yeah, only you can understand the way I think,
And I know my heart will never sink.. When I'm with you. :)

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When I Talk To You

Remember me
Feels like forever
Since the days
When we were friends
I don't understand
All these changes
I'm still the same
No need to pretend

Where'd it go..?
Do you know..?
Maybe it just doesn't matter

'Cause when i try to talk to you
I feel like I'm not getting through you
Where did we go wrong
It's hard to be strong
When I talk...
When I talk to you

There were times
In the beginning
When you were there
When I needed you most
We'd sit and talk
About the future
And laugh about
Us getting old

Do you know
How it feels
I hope that you know that it matters

But when i try to talk to you
I feel like I'm not getting through you
Where did we go wrong
It's hard to be strong

When I talk to you
I want you to know everything that I am
Don't want to know what life would be without you

When i try to talk to you
I feel like I'm not getting through you
Where did we go wrong
It's hard to be strong
When I talk...
When I talk to you

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When It Was Over, You Did Not Tell Me Where It Really Ended

you show me a scar
in your heart,
you assure yourself it was once the wound
of things that ended
years ago

of the wound
that i inflicted

you had anger and
now when we meet again
you are smiling
you now
have happiness beside him and your children

i look deeper inside your eyes
showing you also my scars
in my own way of telling you about
my loneliness for years
accumulating like layers of mud and

this loneliness
that never ends like doors that always open
to the night skies
without stars

on the surface of my skin
lies a wound that never heals
you caused it too
but i did not tell you

let them believe that i am the guilty party
the fault of your earth
the murderer convicted but was never heard

i smile at you this day
i am happy on this casual meeting

it will be the last
i am dressed but i am not prepared to go anywhere
on the surface
how can you see what is on this deep
sinking eyes?

the sharks, the pointed rock, the deaths on the ocean floors
the corpses there rotting
unearthed unnamed.

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To Caroline: When I Hear That You Express An Affection So Warm

When I hear that you express an affection so warm,
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.

Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear;
That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear;

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.

'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my features,
Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree,
Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which will one day deprive you of me.

Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us,
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low,-

Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow;
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.


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Dumb Like That

i think i've seen every star in the sky tonight
the move from the city lights
have never seemed so bright
i know i shouldn't believe a word you say
i do anyway
'cause i'm dumb like that
in all the words i've given to you
when you smiled
i thought that it ment some thing else
you were just being yourself
being nice, your always poite to me
you let me down again
you ignored the things i've said to you
if i was scared of you
then maybe i could leave
but if i walked away right now
there would be nothing left for me to lose but doubt
i never fell so far for anyone before
never again i swore, if you know, it was restored
made me feel like i've been torn apart, i don't like that at all
i've lost contorl
in all the words i've given to you i poured my heart into an empty coffee cup
you drank it up, left me here to drown, in it all
you left me down again you ignored the things i said to you
if iwas scared of you then maybe i could leave
cause if i walked away right now
there would be nothing left for me to lose but,
i can't lose you, i can't lose you
i htink i've seen every star there can see
but i don't want to leave
it hurts when you so deceave
i know i shouldn't believe a word you say
i do any way
czuse i'm dumb like that
in all the words i've given to you when you smiled i thought that it ment something else
you were just being yourself being nice
you were always nice to me
you left me down again you ignored the things i sadi to yo
if i was scared of you then maybe i could leave
but if i left right now there would be nothing eft for me to lsoe but doubt, but doubt, but doubt
theres nothign left theres nothing left
for me to lose but doubt (x3)

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Like You Do

Kelly price f/ method man
[method man]
Hey love, hey love
Hey love, whoo, hmm-hmm-hmm
Yo hey love youre the girl that I adore
Every time I go on tour
I want you more and more
Ma I am yours, mi amor
My ghetto zsa zsa gabor
Dont be snitching to the law
Or ever give up my draws
Youre fly robin fly
That apple of my eye
Crooked eye this is what it sounds like when thugs cry
Baby youre like the silent kind
That can tell a good joke, my funny valentine
Roll an l and still smoke it at the same time
Blow your spine I aint got to ask whose - is this
You know its mine forever
Stop the regrets and baby lets get it together
Taking these vows for worst or better
And if so I got you
Holding you down like your pops do
You were the pants Ill were the crown
Aint nobody gon love you this way
And aint nobody gon f- like jolly j
I had enough of love
Was tired of the lying and the game
I told myself that men were all the same
Then suddenly my world began to change
Cause thats when I found you
Aint nobody
Loving me like you do baby
Cant nobody
Make me feel the way Im feeling
Aint nobody
Loving me like you do baby
No one for me like you baby
Now I can smile again baby
Cause lonely days are gone since you are here
Erase the pain and changed the way I feel
Now I believe that love can be for real
I pray that you never leave
Aint nobody
Loving me like you do baby
Cant nobody
Make me feel the way Im feeling
Aint nobody
Loving me like you do baby
No one for me like you baby
Dont mean to brag
But its the things you do
Dont mean to talk
But its the way you love me
Feels like its heaven when Im here with you
The way you love me makes me happy
[method man]
Yo now aint no woman like the one I got
She floss hot to trot keep my manhood rock
Real deal when she give me something I can feel
And still jumpin out the bed to cook a meal
For her boo, we share like sonny and cher
I got you babe and Ill be there
You aint got to have a care in the world
The scenario when boy meets girl
Ill give you dough to fix your curl
The birds and the bees, the flowers and the trees
Me and you bucking naked all out the sheets
All I wanna do is make ya happy
Just ask me
Ill give you the world if I can fit it through the door
Im like the love boat all aboard
Docking in your seashore I give it to you raw like
Voulevo, cuse, aver ma
Excusame, quet quet menagetois
Aint nobody
Loving me like you do baby
Cant nobody
Make me feel the way Im feeling
Aint nobody
Loving me like you do baby
No one for me like you baby

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0218 Paradise Known

O God - or may I call you Lord? –
I remember when I was a child,
You were my best friend, one who knew me
better than I knew myself;
and so I talked to You all the time,
especially when I’d been naughty;
then later on, it was taught me
that I’m made in Your image – that feels good…

I know, just as all children do,
what Paradise is, and where:
when the sun is out,
its in that wood beyond the field,
where I feel most myself;
but not quite out of sight of home;
and lots of other places just like that;
then when the sun goes in, I go in too,
and Paradise is - when I’m tired and fed,
and then all nice and read to, tucked up in bed;
and Paradise is in my head.

And then, I read in Genesis
how, out of Your immortal bliss,
the way You did it all;
and so, since we’re good friends
and I’m made in Your image,
I have some questions: You did a brilliant job
with fields and woods and animals
and human beings – well, some of them, the ones I like
and it makes good sense
to have Adam there to look after it all, and to enjoy it;
and a nice idea too to have Eve as his companion –
who else could do the cooking while he’s out at work,
or remind him of the jobs to do around the house?
and if Adam had to have the babies too,
he wouldn’t then be able to go out and work as well…

But why couldn’t You have left it just like that?
you must have guessed that when grown-ups say
You’re not to eat the apples on that tree! ’
then you want to do just that,
not for the apples but
because you want to know
just why you shouldn’t do that anyway?
I mean, its human, isn’t it?

And if You don’t mind my saying this,
throwing them out of Paradise,
that seems a bit severe for such a crime?
couldn’t You have let them off, first time?

My teacher says ‘its all symbolic’ – that the message is
just to be ourselves, and not divide the world
into the ‘good’ and ‘bad’,
or always split our mind in two
or to think we know too much–
(did you tell my teacher that?) :
and that there are some of Your laws
which we must keep, which have just cause;
well, I’ll go along with that;
I never wanted – afterwards – to be naughty, anyway;
I’ve talked toYou about this often, and explained…

I’d like to think that when Adam and Eve
realised what they’d lost, and then said sorry,
they didn’t have to go around in guilt and sin
(Like miserable old Auntie Min..)
and, if Paradise is lost by us, but yet that’s known,
we can then return to what we own?
And they all lived happily ever after’
is what the old storybooks all tell me…
or is there perhaps some hidden clue,
like, we often ‘grow up’ and forget about You? …


My teacher says I’ve ‘simplified’ –
but didn’t You say, ‘Be as a child’?

Well, Lord, that’s how it seems to me;
and I’m Your child; would You agree?

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Patrick White

When Grief Grows Savage And There's Nothing To Hunt

When grief grows savage and there's nothing to hunt
and all your mandalas are turning back into cave paintings
running down a limestone wall like spears
in the tears of weeping shamans, and you want
to tear your heart out and eat it to nourish your emptiness
but you're not sure if it's still the noble enemy it used to be,
or if the power of its sympathetic magic has past
the expiry date, and you think you might be
the last of the big mammals to go extinct in the ice-age,
time to sit down on the ground and have a good laugh
at how the things we take most seriously in life
make sacred clowns of us all in the last analysis
just before enlightenment. Put your lifemask on again,
coax a star or a firefly out of the tinder of that nebula
you're blowing on until you've got a good blaze going
then throw all your grave goods on it as if
you were sending them on ahead of you
while you danced the pain away like the sky burial
of the ghost of another age that's been haunting you
like a glacier that's slowly beginning to wash itself clean of itself
as the numbness in your heart thaws like a baby mammoth
that fell into a crevasse of ice, and your fingertips
are melting like elk horn candelabra at a native exorcism.

And, yes, it stings for a while just as things are starting
to warm up, but that too will pass like a wet snowfall in April,
when your blood will begin to flow again
as if it were teaching the wild columbine and gypsy poppies
to waltz to the picture-music of the wind without banshees
howling and scratching at your eyes like dead branches
as if they were raking their fingernails against the glass
of a cold, crystal skull disappearing like an ice-cube in a night cap.
Sit down on the ground and have a good laugh
on the tab of everything that's ever wounded you
and you just watch how easy it is to wipe
that gruesome grin off the face of the moon
like the sabre-toothed Smilodon that mauled you
and replace it with the smile of a Chesire cat
that just ate the canary in a coal mine of fossilized constellations
because grief can intensify the darkness into diamonds
that can see through the translucency of the tears in your eyes
new stars breaking out all over like waterlilies in the night skies
waiting for you to name them and give them myths of origin
derived like starmaps from the legends of your own shining.

Eventually the jesters of crazy wisdom will come to us all
and wipe the tears from our eyes and paint stars in their stead
we can point out to the cloaked ones
under the covers of their death beds
as if the deeper and darker the night the better to see
trillions of fireflies flung off the wheeling
of the celestial spheres like compassionate insights
into what we suffer for, what we lose whenever
we try to possess forever by trying to pour
the universe out of the universe like a waterclock in Aquarius
when we're already swimming through eternity
like Pisces and there's never a moment that passes in life
that isn't a vernal equinox in a locket we hold close to our hearts
that doesn't bloom in the fires of enlightenment
like star seeds hidden under the eyelids
of last year's dolorous windfall of pine cones
because however the wind screams
through the broken wishbones and harps
of our shattered limbs, our torn dreams,
the eighth time we get up from our seventh time down
we get up and stand our ground like evergreens in the starfields.

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Pygmalion And The Statue

PYGMALION loathing their lascivious Life,
Abhorred all Womankind, but most a Wife:
So single chose to live, and shunned to wed,
Well pleased to want a Consort of his Bed.
Yet fearing Idleness, the Nurse of Ill,
In Sculpture exercised his happy Skill;
And carved in Ivory such a Maid, so fair,
As Nature could not with his Art compare,
Were she to work; but in her own Defence,
Must take her Pattern here, and copy hence.
Pleased with his Idol, he commends, admires,
Adores; and last, the Thing adored, desires.
A very Virgin in her Face was seen,
And she had moved, a living Maid had been:
One would have thought she could have stirred; but strove
With Modesty, and was ashamed to move.
Art hid with Art, so well performed the Cheat,
It caught the Carver with his own Deceit:
He knows 'tis Madness, yet he must adore,
And still the more he knows it, loves the more:
The Flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,
Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft.
Fired with his Thought, at once he strained the Breast,
And on the Lips a burning Kiss impressed.
'Tis true, the hardened Breast resists the Gripe,
And the cold Lips return a Kiss unripe:
But when, retiring back, he looked again,
To think it Ivory, was a thought too mean:
So would believe she kissed, and courting more,
Again embraced her naked Body o'er;
And straining hard the Statue, was afraid
His Hands had made a Dint, and hurt his Maid:
Explored her, Limb by Limb, and feared to find
So rude a Gripe had left a livid Mark behind
With Flatt'ry now he seeks her Mind to move,
And now with Gifts (the powerful bribe of Love):
He furnishes her Closet first; and fills
The crowded Shelves with Rarities of Shells;
Adds Orient Pearls, which from the Conches he drew,
And all the sparkling Stones of various Hue:
And Parrots, imitating Human Tongue,
And singing-birds in Silver Cages hung;
And ev'ry fragrant Flower, and odorous Green,
Were sorted well, with Lumps of Amber laid between:
Rich, fashionable Robes her person Deck:
Pendants her Ears, and Pearls adorn her neck:
Her tapered Fingers too With Rings are graced,
And an embroidered Zone surrounds her slender Waist.
Thus like a Queen arrayed, so richly dressed,
Beauteous she shewed, but naked shewed the best.
Then, from the Floor, he raised a Royal Bed,
With Cov'rings of Sydonian Purple spread:
The Solemn Rites performed, he calls her Bride,
With Blandishments invites her to his Side,
And as she were with Vital Sense possessed,
Her Head did on a plumy Pillow rest.
The Feast of Venus came, a Solemn Day,
To which the Cypriots due Devotion pay;
With gilded Horns the milk-white Heifers led,
Slaughtered before the sacred Altars, bled:
Pygmalion offering, first approached the Shrine,
And then with Pray'rs implored the Powers Divine:
Almighty Gods, if all we Mortals want,
If all we can require, be yours to grant;
Make this fair Statue mine, he would have said,
But changed his Words for shame; and only prayed,
Give me the likeness of my Ivory Maid.
The Golden Goddess, present at the Prayer,
Well knew he meant th' inanimated Fair,
And gave the Sign of granting his Desire;
For thrice in cheerful Flames ascends the Fire.
The Youth, returning to his Mistress, hies,
And, impudent in Hope, with ardent Eyes,
And beating Breast, by the dear Statue lies.
He kisses her white Lips, renews the Bliss,
And looks and thinks they redden at the Kiss:
He thought them warm before: Nor longer stays,
But next his Hand on her hard Bosom lays:
Hard as it was, beginning to relent,
It seemed, the Breast beneath his Fingers bent;
He felt again, his Fingers made a Print,
'Twas Flesh, but Flesh so firm, it rose against the Dint:
The pleasing Task he fails not to renew;
Soft, and more soft at every Touch it grew;
Like pliant Wax, when chafing Hands reduce
The former Mass to Form, and frame for Use
He would believe, but yet is still in pain,
And tries his Argument of Sense again,
Presses the Pulse, and feels the leaping Vein.
Convinced, o'erjoyed, his studied Thanks and Praise,
To her who made the Miracle, he pays:
Then Lips to Lips he joined; now freed from Fear,
He found the Savour of the Kiss sincere:
At this the wakened image oped her Eyes,
And viewed at once the Light and Lover, with surprise.
The Goddess present at the Match she made,
So blessed the Bed, such Fruitfulness conveyed,
That e'er ten Moons had sharpened either Horn,
To crown their Bliss, a lovely Boy was born;
Paphos his Name, who, grown to manhood, walled
The City Paphos, from the Founder called.

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Patrick White

If You Had Any Compassion For Yourself

If you had any compassion for yourself,
others wouldn't have to suffer for you
and the world wouldn't show you
such a sad, woeful, wounded face.
You wouldn't see the withering leaves
and petals of the rose in autumn
as merely the scar tissue of its thorns.
In winter, mend your severance.
In spring, attend to your joys.
Like fishing nets and snow fences.
Like delphiniums in a garden bed
that's beginning to bloom like a starmap.

And you know that stranger inside
that's always witnessing everything we do
like a perfectly clear mirror, even in dreams?
Take another look, you might be surprised
at whose face you see at a meeting of eyes.

It's important not to pass judgement on yourself
for fear of condemning the world.
Show me a mirage that isn't a friend to water
or a wishing-well that resents a rainbow
for the pot of gold at the end, though
no one ever knows which end at the time.

Be kind to your delusive paradigms of life,
as you would an old skin you shed like the moon
when your serpent-fire could no longer contain itself
and broke out of its sacred chrysalis like a dragonfly
that had made itself a house of life out of matchsticks
and went up in flames like a snake with wings.

If you could see your life for what it is,
a teaching device for mentoring your own enlightenment
you might read the books of all the sages
rooted and flowering in you like the wisdom of a seed,
or the star in the ore of a panspermic universe
that was planted in you like the garden you've been from birth.

You might think that the wildflowers
are looking up at the stars to understand themselves
but, in truth, they're looking up at their roots
like rain reveres the lightning that engenders it.

You don't need to convince the wind of your freedom,
you've just got to ride it out to the end,
a friend to yourself, a worthy companion,
the intimate familiar of a cloud with a clear blue sky
or a subliminal lover of the darkness
love mushrooms up in like a moonrise.

If you knew how to nurture yourself
by breaking bread with the spirit of life within you
there wouldn't be millions of children
all over the world who will go hungry tonight.
They'd be licking the spoon with stealthy laughter
like cookie-batter out of the begging bowl of your heart.

Enlightenment isn't going to add one ray of light
or a single star to the night you're already shining in,
and whatever wavelength you're on, regardless
of the mystic polarities your potential flows between,
like dark matter and light, whether the journey you're on
is orange or infrared or the blue white violet of the Pleiades,
absorption or emission spectrum alike, no wave
of thought or mind, light, heart or water
is discontinuous with the oceanic consciousness
they rise upon, so why turn back to the source
like a solar flare to ask for directions from a starmap
that sent you out like a bubble in the multiverse to look for land.
You know, if you were more of an explorer
without a preconceived destination, more
of a space probe leaving the solar system periodically,
the rest of us wouldn't feel so lost or out of place at your table.

And even if you've made a vehicle
of the wheel of birth and death
and think you have a firm grasp on things
with your arm out the window in the driver's seat,
enjoying the passing view with the wind in your hair
without clinging to anything along the way
it still might be a good idea to learn how
to come down off your throne like a pauper
and change a flat tire now and again.

Your life is not an untimely interruption of eternity.
The eternal sky does not inhibit the flight of the white clouds,
and it even bends down sometimes toward the earth
to pick up Venus like a lost earring in the sunset.
It's your point of view that turns your back on yourself
like the retrograde motion of Mars, not
the planet itself playing rope tricks with your spinal cord.

Why go looking for your mind
like a lighthouse with a flashlight,
a flame for the source of the fire
or a star for the constellation it belongs to,
or the homeless for a home when everyone's
the foundation stone of their own habitation
wherever they are at the moment.

If you chase the wind, it will be you
that loses its breath like the atmosphere of the moon.
And when you run out of air, breathe light, breathe space,
and don't try to fix an expanding universe
to your nostrils like a bicycle pump
to get you back on the road again.
Or you'll find you're swimming out of your depths
to run to the rescue of an empty lifeboat
that's already unloaded its contents ashore.

If you don't want to go blind as a starless night
it's prescient to eclipse your blazing from time to time,
turn the lights down low, snuff the candle,
and learn to see in the dark there's just as much reflected
in the depths of the dark abundance
of a black mirror, though it takes time to focus,
than there is in the expansiveness
of the bright vacancy of the white
that takes things in at a glance.
The seed of a every glimpse of insight contains
the whole of the vision in advance,
and at the core of the apple of the issue
is a green star with dark auburn eyes
on the nightshift of the maternity wards of spring.

And o come on now, how long can you hang on
to being this box kite on a string
watching another phoenix ride your thermals
like inspiration on the wing, without feeling
like the premature ghost of yourself at the onset of spring,
all smoke, and no fire, your flightfeathers smouldering
like a pyre of wet maple leaves who haven't got the courage
to break into flames and flap their wings and rise above it all.
Better to be a weather balloon losing altitude like Icarus
or even a candling parachute taking the fall for all of us,
as daring said feathers and falling took flight,
than not risk falling through the black holes of life to paradise?

And what if I were to tell you're they're just the pupils
the light enters through like your eyes into your imagination
to be transformed from a visual into a vision,
the visible form into the invisible shining of the spirit
that raises everything in the known and unknown multiverse,
and the trees and the stars, the rocks and the clouds
are all counting on you to do this for them,
because this is what you're here for,
if you've ever wondered,
to raise them up to eye-level
with a human who knows the names of things
like parents know the names of their own children
running toward them down the street. It's how
we were meant to meet and greet the universe.

So if once, just once, for my sake, your sake, the sake
of the forsaken with their elbows on the windows of the world tonight
watching it all go by like stars on the firewalks beneath their noses,
that are not embedded in cement like a mausoleum
of movie-stars that refused to become fossils
before their shining was spent,
you took a chance, and that's all it would take,
one step forward with no return address,
to risk falling down at the dance,
and seven times down, eight times up,
such is life, get up on your own two good feet again
and discover you've got wings and spurs on your heels
the rest of us wouldn't feel so lame
when we came over to your place
like a riot of erratic fireflies to celebrate
the lightning moves of the rain that's dancing on our graves
where the dead lie down like the corpses of candles
knowing they'll be reincarnated
as wildflowers and Luna moths
because nothing that's ever given its life up
to this business of shining on everything alike
from a first magnitude star, to the night light in the hall
that shoos the ghosts away from their portraits on the wall
so the whole world can bloom in the tears of your eyes,
the fire in your heart, and in the human divinity
of the spirit of your imagination, can ever be put out
because every shadow of doubt
leads back the light that cast it
in love and sorrow, time and space
like the life and death mask of your own face.

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