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The cult of individuality and personality, which promotes painters and poets only to promote itself, is really a business. The greater the 'genius' of the personage, the greater the profit.

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The Poet Writes Of Poems And Poets And Poetry


The poet writes of poems and poets and poetry,
And the world goes by
And nothing is done.

And the sky- the sky.
Is it still above?
And Love and Kindness
Are they still deep in us,
Words or not?

Without Poetry the world does not exist for the poet-
But for others,
Dreams have other names,
And Music plays on,
And singing and laughter
Go on as the Beauty of Light.

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You and I, Only in dreams

You and I sail our boats across the sea
As the wind whistled in their soft symphony
Just like love songs that I heard in my dreams
And swaying our body to the tune of wave
You squeeze me tighter closer to you, then
I see your eyes glistened like water from a blue.

Then I remember our first embrace
The smile flickers on a salty water of glee
On where we’re watching the sea birds fly.
And gaze the gloaming day at the shingle.
Those sweet memories reflect on my mind
Painted in my heart, etched in my soul

Even if, it was only seen in my dreams
Like building a castle that made of sand.
As a stroke of wave, our love will vanish along.
Is it a dream of mine that end?
Like missing you in the midst of the shore
Where my heart was left in the tide of solitude

You and I travel on the wings of love
Fly as the bird higher than high
Until we drowned in the ocean of love
Until we found the pearl of affection
That captivates each other senses
That more than our heart could ever say

But then, this love is just an illusion
That you and I is only in dreams
That can be forgotten until the morning dawn
That can be buried in the shadow of water dance.
You, and I, only in my dreams
That can be blown by winds from shore

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Writers and Poets

Here I sit
At a desk dimly lit.
Holding an unsharpened pencil
Over a piece of old, faded paper,
In my mind lingers a vague intention
Within the unformed idea
Of somehow writing something.
With no clear idea, theme or plan.
Only the restless desire to write.

It's raining. Again.
It seems to rain often.
Not the weather.
Interior drops fall,
Like flower pedals sacrificed.
Beautys death, the ransom price.
My desire lives in poetic rhythms,
Not in serious writers cadences.
I am not a writer.
- I hope to be a poet-
There is a difference? one may ask;
Oh yes, I believe so.
I'll attempt to express why.
In poetry words flow,
Like living waters.
In writing ideas are built within words.
The writer builds something,
Like a dam, to hold and control the way of the water,
To cause it to go somewhere precisely.
Writers form canals to move readers
To certain places.
Poets open up the dark clouds over life
Pouring out necessary wonders onto human souls;
Thirst quenching beauties that all
-in one way or another-
Are in great need of.
Writers, thankfully, take people
To places where they are able
To realize their own thirst.
Poets give them the drink.
The taste towards fulfilling life's true longings.

Writers and poets together
Make the dark a bit brighter,
The waters a bit more navagatible,
The way a bit clearer,
And the thirst of life
A bit more quenchable.

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About Pilar 2....

soared to the highest levels of success...

only to find
when I got there
that I was empty,

did not know who I was,
and even despaired
of life itself.

I really did not have

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Lighter birds can Soar high, Heavier can only Run on Legs!

Life itself is that eternal bird,
building the nest of clay,
When safety becomes its priority,
Closes windows and doors,
Only to feel itself in darkness,
depriving itself of fresh air!

Smaller and narrow will be its nest,
Where in, It can sing in darkness,
The song of its pain heard by no one!

Learning leads to plan its home,
With wider doors and windows,
Open to light and fresh air,
Its happy song liked by all,
Little heart full of love,
Wider than world as world feels,
Still the bird want more light,
Leaving the nest,
flying long and wide,
Wide will be its vission,
Wide will be space its eyes can see,
Great view of world makes it happy,
Only happy bird can sing melody,
The eternal tune of wisdom,
evergreen song that every life wants to sing!

Deep into space it can see,
Vision beyond galaxies,
nay, vission beyond narrow boundaries of human heart,
The bird's eye surely full of visions,
Free of views and thoughts,
heart has only one religion,
'soar as high as possible,
Less weight of sorrows,
less light of opinions,
Higher it can soar, ,
With lighter and efficient heart,
lighter, yet efficient
Embedded in Lighter skeleton,
Less weight of head,
Strong heart make the flight easy,
Heavier the skeleton,
Inefficient heart,
Can only make the bird flightless,
It can only run on legs away from truth,
Never can fly, how can it soar high?

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Religion is inwardly focused and driven only to sustain itself.

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You and The Roses

A red rose is red flower,
A lavender is purple blue

All that is good,
All that is true.

Sky of colour blue,
The skies that are blue

When I feel blue
Give me a rose that's blue.

And these beautiful roses blue
They're coloured in red and blue
Only and only for you.

The sweetest flowers that blows,
I give you as we feel blue.

For you, it's a rose blue,
For me, it's my heart.

Give you a rose a day,
It makes me feel blue.

That's You and
The roses which are blue.

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The False Laurel And The True

'What art thou, Presumptuous, who profanest
The wreath to mighty poets only due,
Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou wanest?
Touch not those leaves which for the eternal few
Who wander o'er the Paradise of fame,
In sacred dedication ever grew:
One of the crowd thou art without a name.'
'Ah, friend, 'tis the false laurel that I wear;
Bright though it seem, it is not the same
As that which bound Milton’s immortal hair;
Its dew is poison; and the hopes that quicken
Under its chilling shade, though seeming fair,
Are flowers which die almost before they sicken.'

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Escaping the ‘maya’ of individuality

Away from the confusion of logic

Not blinded by ego’s thrall

Escaping ‘maya’, illusions that keep us fooled

What does it take to break free

From the isolation of individuality

And step into the stream of consciousness

That holds all that we know

The ancients say we are all reflections

Of that glorious energy

We call by different names

God, Allah, Mother Nature

Borrowing from this generous sky

A repository of all that was

And all that will be

We must give back, what we receive

Behind different masks

And colourful personalities

We create, to define who we are

Rises the essence of what we may give back

Yielding another layer, to the pearl

Of the eternal world’s oyster

© 24 May 2008, Anita Atina

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Which Way Will The Wind Blow

People on the sidewalk
Making small talk
Keeping up with life
Ask no questions
Make no decisions
Just do whats right
Oh, do you wanna runaway
Oh, do you wanna breakaway
Someones screamin
Calling out for help
But everyone looks after themselves
No one cares or gives a damn
How can we live in this land
Are you looking out for you
One hand can change
This world, its true
Some will stay and some must go
But do they really know
Oh, which way will the wind blow
Which way will the seas flow
Which way with time
Oh, which way will the world turn
Whos hand will control it in our time
With our hands on eyes
Fingers in our ears
Weve been like this
For too many years
Let others do what they do
Without asking if its good for you
Turn it round, upside down
Plug it in, turn up the sound
Lets hear whats in your head
Before its too late to be said

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Death And Me

Death settled onto his dark Cleopatra couch
picking admirers who in black auras
sought immortality in magnificent deaths.

'I have artists, kings, monarchs, and especially writers
who sometimes write their own epitaphs years in advance
who cozy up to me seeking my fame and finality.
I say to them there will be no communiques you know beyond this
but they don't relent
some determined to write their final scene
for sequestration in all of memory
in family
in friends or foes minds.

Some believe, I think,
that a magnificent life
deserves a magnificent death.
But you see, '
said Death
'so many imitators
come to me
using me, yes using me for petty means
to revenge, guilt slinging, and often accidentally.

I forever have to suffer amateurs in this.
Many dress for the occasion
identify stardom at last their last equation
and I raise my cloak
disabuse the few and the many
who seek individuality not understanding that
I death only distribute
rearrangements of individuals
into the future many;
Individuals too; often see their own demise
as death
which of course is not true;
individuals are only conduits
for the what is to come to be.
He sighed.
I am merely the medium
which takes individuality
and re-center it
into the cosmos.

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The Cult Of Ray

What is there to say ?
Still I can't be silent
Hear the cult of ray
And you'll be enlightened
People, they're no fun
I saw raymond speak one time, he said hello
And as he opened up my mind, so fried and battered
I heard his words so very fine so high above this constant dripping chatter
Young sharks feeding on the scrapple
And upstarts feeding on your adam's apple
And you can't hear yourself in all this babble
And are you feeling role strain
Melting rock into metal
Melting rock into metal
Melting rock into metal again ?
In a dark place
In the deep sky
Is an old man
Is an old man
In a coffee can
And he's waiting
In the old rain
In the dep sky
And he's waiting
Hear the cult of ray
Fear the boy as tyrant
People have a way
When their mood is violent
People, they're no fun
I have a century in mind, wait, oh no
At least two centuries in mind, say, it doesn't matter
This rock is turning into sand while we are drowning here in our own shatter
You can't eat dirt cause it tastes so awful
Like no sugar in your turkish coffee
And can't smile cause I got me a mouthful
And i've been grinding this grain
Melting rock into metal
Melting rock into metal
Melting rock into metal again
In a dark place
In the deep water
Is an old man
In a coffee can
And he's waiting
In the old rain

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The Power Of Persuasion

The power of persuasion stands
The lifelong test of time,
It brings together all the strands,
The lifeskills so sublime...
A gentle soul can gain new strengths
That shy folks rarely claim,
Just like trained swimmers swimming lengths
In search of wealth and fame...
We're all at levels high or low,
Maintaining skills we've learnt
Or else we've lapsed, don't want to know,
Content with what we've earnt...
But some excel at what they do
And strive to be the best!
For such as these, all things are new,
They've got that added zest!
Persuasion techniques train our minds,
They open up new doors,
They make us wise, remove the blinds,
Help us reduce our flaws...
Our costs they more than reimburse,
As long as we adapt...
They open up the Universe
To miracles untapped...
With new-found style and eloquence
Acquired from the shrewd,
You'll make new friends with confidence,
With self-esteem renewed,
You'll help encourage those you meet,
Revitalise them, too...
Persuasion techniques help complete
The plan God chose for you!

Denis Martindale, copyright, January 2011.

The poem is based on the UK's Entrepreneur Channel
shown on Sky Digital, channel 682 which promotes
a new year, new you approach to achieve success!
The website provides information and reformation!

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Prose: God is the Highest Good

Good is the extension of God as His Spirit of manifestation in the phenomenal world. That which constitutes our highest good is ultimately to do with living in tune with His Spirit and Word as revealed in either one of the great religions of the world or by being in harmony with someone who is the very embodiment of the Spirit of God. Once such a person is fortunately found our life takes a turn for the better then. And by following his advice we partake of His grace and love which leads us on in the journey back to our True Home which is none other than the Reality of Eternal Life. That person helps us to realise we are not the body which we are identified with but a free Spirit Soul.
By re-identifying ourselves with our True Nature we come to recognize that we are indeed made in the image and likeness of God our Divine Father. That which is not restricted to any construct of the human mind and is beyond imagination is Divine. This is sometimes revealed to a select few in the form of a revelation or philosophy from time to time and is what history calls religion and is uplifting and blissful. The human mind and intellect cannot comprehend or fathom that which is beyond it but only staggers at the attempt, bewildering as it is to the ego which is the seat of the mind and limited individual personality. Only by the sustained gradual removal of the ego and its eventual death can the limited individual being or soul re-establish its unity or oneness with the Infinite Being, God, forevermore enjoying that Divine State of bliss.

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The couple in the evening class

As the new year’s evening class
filed in, in varying displays of enthusiasm or cool,
discreetly summing up their tutor
you couldn’t help but notice them
despite their modest manner –
of equal height, and that a little under average

couples attending class together
always catch my too premature thoughts –
has he brought her? has she brought him?
is this just a stage in careful courtship,
attending a class together?
where will they sit? couples tend to choose
the front row or the back, I’ve noticed;
often arrive at ease, as if they’ve met up after work,
taken a coffee or a light snack…
which will ask a question first? and when they do,
will some slight frisson of emotional thought-wave
pass between them? suppose after the first term,
one leaves, one stays – will the one who stays, feel freer
to ask more questions? or will I sense
that invisible tug of apron-strings…?

over the weeks, although they gave no overt sign of it,
they became a sweet, still place in the class,
a perfect balance between individuality and togetherness;
when he or she asked a question or gave an answer,
the other radiated almost imperceptibly
a quiet pride so pure that it was more, delight,
as one might do with a son or daughter.

At the end of the year, our paths went their separate ways;
and yet, after so many years, so many classes, so many students,
they’ve left a quiet place in my memory;
of humble simplicity, strength clothed as modesty,
boundless possibility –

they, the silent tutor;
I, the observing student.

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The Cobra And The Mongoose

“Tell me mongoose why are you trying to steal my eggs? ”
“Well, I’ve not eaten for weeks and I’m dying on my legs.”
“Don’t you realise that very soon these eggs will be my children? ”
“But you have so many and you won’t miss nine or ten.”

“How wrong you are mongoose I’ll miss every one of them.”
“Well tell me cobra, are you prepared to die for just ten? ”
“Mongoose, I am a mother and for only the one I would die.”
“Why are you swaying Cobra, and is that a tear in your eye? ”

“Aren’t you feeling sleepy mongoose, you do have heavy eyes? ”
“I know what you’re doing cobra, you’re trying to hypnotise.”
“For your information mongoose, I’m doing my cobra dance,
it’s a dance of magic, which gives my enemies no chance.

Don’t think that I can’t see you mongoose trying to circle around me,
first in one direction, and then the other so tactically.
I must warn you mongoose that I have a bite that can instantly kill,
and if you don’t die straight away, moments later you will.”

I’ve heard about your bite cobra, but you don’t frighten me,
I have the thickest skin and coarsest hair, as ever you’ll see.
I also must warn you cobra that my teeth are as sharp as swords,
and combined with my agility I will have the last words.”

“Well, if I were you mongoose I would leave while you can…
unless you want to be the cause of my indigestion.”
“I was thinking cobra, you and your eggs would just be my fill,
and now that only leaves the formality of the kill.”

For hours and hours the pair did spar and fight,
throughout the day and throughout the night.
The mongoose went close and the cobra did strike,
but not one had yet applied the decisive bite.

Both were aching and tiring, and their sharpness was wearing thin.
The mongoose considered one last attack then he would pack it in.
With a last almighty effort the mongoose jumped as high as he could,
after somersaulting in the air it buried its teeth below the cobra’s hood.

This bite severed the cobra’s spine and instantly killed the snake,
but the mongoose bit once again to make sure of no mistake.
It then bit off and swallowed the cobra’s once swaying head,
but the fangs of the cobra punctured its stomach, it too was dead.

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Apollo Musagete, Poetry, And The Leader Of The Muses

Nothing is given which is not taken.

Little or nothing is taken which is not freely desired,
freely, truly and fully.

"You would not seek me if you had not found me": this is
true of all that is supremely desired and admired...

"An enigma is an animal," said the hurried, harried

And a horse divided against itself cannot stand;

And a moron is a man who believes in having too many
wives: what harm is there in that?

O the endless fecundity of poetry is equaled
By its endless inexhaustible freshness, as in the discovery
of America and of poetry.

Hence it is clear that the truth is not strait and narrow but infinite:
All roads lead to Rome and to poetry
and to poem, sweet poem
and from, away and towards are the same typography.

Hence the poet must be, in a way, stupid and naive and a
little child;

Unless ye be as a little child ye cannot enter the kingdom
of poetry.

Hence the poet must be able to become a tiger like Blake; a
carousel like Rilke.

Hence he must be all things to be free, for all impersonations
a doormat and a monument
to all situations possible or actual
The cuckold, the cuckoo, the conqueror, and the coxcomb.

It is to him in the zoo that the zoo cries out and the hyena:
"Hello, take off your hat, king of the beasts, and be seated,
Mr. Bones."

And hence the poet must seek to be essentially anonymous.
He must die a little death each morning.
He must swallow his toad and study his vomit
as Baudelaire studied la charogne of Jeanne Duval.

The poet must be or become both Keats and Renoir and
Keats as Renoir.
Mozart as Figaro and Edgar Allan Poe as Ophelia, stoned
out of her mind
drowning in the river called forever river and ever...

Keats as Mimi, Camille, and an aging gourmet.
He must also refuse the favors of the unattainable lady
(As Baudelaire refused Madame Sabatier when the fair
blonde summoned him,

For Jeanne Duval was enough and more than enough,
although she cuckolded him
With errand boys, servants, waiters; reality was Jeanne Duval.
Had he permitted Madame Sabatier to teach the poet a greater whiteness,
His devotion and conception of the divinity of Beauty
would have suffered an absolute diminution.)

The poet must be both Casanova and St. Anthony,

He must be Adonis, Nero, Hippolytus, Heathcliff, and
Genghis Kahn, Genghis Cohen, and Gordon Martini
Dandy Ghandi and St. Francis,

Professor Tenure, and Dizzy the dean and Disraeli of Death.

He would have worn the horns of existence upon his head,
He would have perceived them regarding the looking-glass,
He would have needed them the way a moose needs a hatrack;
Above his heavy head and in his loaded eyes, black and scorched,
He would have seen the meaning of the hat-rack, above the glass
Looking in the dark foyer.

For the poet must become nothing but poetry,
He must be nothing but a poem when he is writing
Until he is absent-minded as the dead are
Forgetful as the nymphs of Lethe and a lobotomy...
("the fat weed that rots on Lethe wharf").

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Khalil Gibran

Before the Throne of Beauty XXVI

One heavy day I ran away from the grim face of society and the dizzying clamor of the city and directed my weary step to the spacious alley. I pursued the beckoning course of the rivulet and the musical sounds of the birds until I reached a lonely spot where the flowing branches of the trees prevented the sun from the touching the earth.

I stood there, and it was entertaining to my soul - my thirsty soul who had seen naught but the mirage of life instead of its sweetness.

I was engrossed deeply in thought and my spirits were sailing the firmament when a hour, wearing a sprig of grapevine that covered part of her naked body, and a wreath of poppies about her golden hair, suddenly appeared to me. As she she realized my astonishment, she greeted me saying, "Fear me not; I am the Nymph of the Jungle."

"How can beauty like yours be committed to live in this place? Please tell me who your are, and whence you come?" I asked. She sat gracefully on the green grass and responded, "I am the symbol of nature! I am the ever virgin your forefathers worshipped, and to my honor they erected shrines and temples at Baalbek and Jbeil." And I dared say, "But those temples and shrines were laid waste and the bones of my adoring ancestors became a part of the earth; nothing was left to commemorate their goddess save a pitiful few and the forgotten pages in the book of history."

She replied, "Some goddesses live in the lives of their worshippers and die in their deaths, while some live an eternal and infinite life. My life is sustained by the world of beauty which you will see where ever you rest your eyes, and this beauty is nature itself; it is the beginning of the shepherds joy among the hills, and a villagers happiness in the fields, and the pleasure of the awe filled tribes between the mountains and the plains. This Beauty promotes the wise into the throne the truth."

Then I said, "Beauty is a terrible power!" And she retorted, "Human beings fear all things, even yourselves. You fear heaven, the source of spiritual peace; you fear nature, the haven of rest and tranquility; you fear the God of goodness and accuse him of anger, while he is full of love and mercy."

After a deep silence, mingled with sweet dreams, I asked, "Speak to me of that beauty which the people interpret and define, each one according to his own conception; I have seen her honored and worshipped in different ways and manners."

She answered, "Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and that which loves to give and not to receive. When you meet Beauty, you feel that the hands deep within your inner self are stretched forth to bring her into the domain of your heart. It is the magnificence combined of sorrow and joy; it is the Unseen which you see, and the Vague which you understand, and the Mute which you hear - it is the Holy of Holies that begins in yourself and ends vastly beyond your earthly imagination."

Then the Nymph of the Jungle approached me and laid her scented hands upon my eyes. And as she withdrew, I found me alone in the valley. When I returned to the city, whose turbulence no longer vexed me, I repeated her words:

"Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and that which loves to give and not to receive."

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A Tale of the Miser and the Poet

A WIT, transported with Inditing,
Unpay'd, unprais'd, yet ever Writing;
Who, for all Fights and Fav'rite Friends,
Had Poems at his Fingers Ends;
For new Events was still providing;
Yet now desirous to be riding,
He pack'd-up ev'ry Ode and Ditty
And in Vacation left the City;
So rapt with Figures, and Allusions,
With secret Passions, sweet Confusions;
With Sentences from Plays well-known,
And thousand Couplets of his own;
That ev'n the chalky Road look'd gay,
And seem'd to him the Milky Way.
But Fortune, who the Ball is tossing,
And Poets ever will be crossing,
Misled the Steed, which ill he guided,
Where several gloomy Paths divided.
The steepest in Descent he follow'd,
Enclos'd by Rocks, which Time had hollow'd;
Till, he believ'd, alive and booted,
He'd reach'd the Shades by Homer quoted.
But all, that he cou'd there discover,
Was, in a Pit with Thorns grown over,
Old Mammon digging, straining, sweating,
As Bags of Gold he thence was getting;
Who, when reprov'd for such Dejections
By him, who liv'd on high Reflections,
Reply'd; Brave Sir, your Time is ended,
And Poetry no more befriended.

I hid this Coin, when Charles was swaying;
When all was Riot, Masking, Playing;
When witty Beggars were in fashion,
And Learning had o'er-run the Nation,
But, since Mankind is so much wiser,
That none is valued like the Miser,
I draw it hence, and now these Sums
In proper Soil grow up to {1} Plumbs;
Which gather'd once, from that rich Minute
We rule the World, and all that's in it.

But, quoth the Poet,can you raise,
As well as Plumb-trees, Groves of Bays?
Where you, which I wou'd chuse much rather,
May Fruits of Reputation gather?
Will Men of Quality, and Spirit,
Regard you for intrinsick Merit?
And seek you out, before your Betters,
For Conversation, Wit, and Letters?

Fool, quoth the Churl, who knew no Breeding;
Have these been Times for such Proceeding?
Instead of Honour'd, and Rewarded,
Are you not Slighted, or Discarded?
What have you met with, but Disgraces?
Your PRIOR cou'd not keep in Places;
And your VAN-BRUG had found no Quarter,
But for his dabbling in the Morter.
ROWE no Advantages cou'd hit on,
Till Verse he left, to write North-Briton.
PHILIPS, who's by the Shilling known,
Ne'er saw a Shilling of his own.
Meets {2} PHILOMELA, in the Town
Her due Proportion of Renown?
What Pref'rence has ARDELIA seen,
T'expel, tho' she cou'd write the Spleen?
Of Coach, or Tables, can you brag,
Or better Cloaths than Poet RAG?
Do wealthy Kindred, when they meet you,
With Kindness, or Distinction, greet you?

Or have your lately flatter'd Heroes
Enrich'd you like the Roman Maroes?

No–quoth the Man of broken Slumbers:
Yet we have Patrons for our Numbers;
There are Mecænas's among 'em.

Quoth Mammon,pray Sir, do not wrong 'em;
But in your Censures use a Conscience,
Nor charge Great Men with thriftless Nonsense:
Since they, as your own Poets sing,
Now grant no Worth in any thing
But so much Money as 'twill bring.
Then, never more from your Endeavours
Expect Preferment, or less Favours.
But if you'll 'scape Contempt, or worse,
Be sure, put Money in your Purse;
Money! which only can relieve you
When Fame and Friendship will deceive you.

Sir, (quoth the Poet humbly bowing,
And all that he had said allowing)
Behold me and my airy Fancies
Subdu'd, like Giants in Romances.
I here submit to your Discourses;
Which since Experience too enforces,
I, in that solitary Pit,
Your Gold withdrawn, will hide my Wit:
Till Time, which hastily advances,
And gives to all new Turns and Chances,
Again may bring it into use;
Roscommons may again produce;
New Augustean Days revive,
When Wit shall please, and Poets thrive.
Till when, let those converse in private,
Who taste what others don't arrive at;
Yielding that Mammonists surpass us;
And let the Bank out-swell Parnassus.

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Anaïs Nin

The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume 1: 1931-1934

"Am I, at bottom, that fervent little Spanish Catholic child who chastised herself for loving toys, who forbade herself the enjoyment of sweet foods, who practiced silence, who humiliated her pride, who adored symbols, statues, burning candles, incense, the caress of nuns, organ music, for whom Communion was a great event? I was so exalted by the idea of eating Jesus's flesh and drinking His blood that I couldn't swallow the host well, and I dreaded harming the it. I visualized Christ descending into my heart so realistically (I was a realist then!) that I could see Him walking down the stairs and entering the room of my heart like a sacred Visitor. That state of this room was a subject of great preoccupation for me. . . At the ages of nine, ten, eleven, I believe I approximated sainthood. And then, at sixteen, resentful of controls, disillusioned with a God who had not granted my prayers (the return of my father), who performed no miracles, who left me fatherless in a strange country, I rejected all Catholicism with exaggeration. Goodness, virtue, charity, submission, stifled me. I took up the words of Lawrence: "They stress only pain, sacrifice, suffering and death. They do not dwell enough on the resurrection, on joy and life in the present." Today I feel my past like an unbearable weight, I feel that it interferes with my present life, that it must be the cause for this withdrawal, this closing of doors. . . I am embalmed because a nun leaned over me, enveloped me in her veils, kissed me. The chill curse of Christianity. I do not confess any more, I have no remorse, yet am I doing penance for my enjoyments? Nobody knows what a magnificent prey I was for Christian legends, because of my compassion and my tenderness for human beings. Today it divides me from enjoyment in life."
p. 70-71

"As June walked towards me from the darkness of the garden into the light of the door, I saw for the first time the most beautiful woman on earth. A startling white face, burning dark eyes, a face so alive I felt it would consume itself before my eyes. Years ago I tried to imagine true beauty; I created in my mind an image of just such a woman. I had never seen her until last night. Yet I knew long ago the phosphorescent color of her skin, her huntress profile, the evenness of her teeth. She is bizarre, fantastic, nervous, like someone in a high fever. Her beauty drowned me. As I sat before her, I felt I would do anything she asked of me. Henry suddenly faded. She was color and brilliance and strangeness. By the end of the evening I had extricated myself from her power. She killed my admiration by her talk. Her talk. The enormous ego, false, weak, posturing. She lacks the courage of her personality, which is sensual, heavy with experience. Her role alone preoccupies her. She invents dramas in which she always stars. I am sure she creates genuine dramas, genuine chaos and whirlpools of feelings, but I feel that her share in it is a pose. That night, in spite of my response to her, she sought to be whatever she felt I wanted her to be. She is an actress every moment. I cannot grasp the core of June. Everything Henry has said about her is true."

I wanted to run out and kiss her fanatastic beauty and say: 'June, you have killed my sincerity too. I will never know again who I am, what I am, what I love, what I want. Your beauty has drowned me, the core of me. You carry away with you a part of me reflected in you. When your beauty struck me, it dissolved me. Deep down, I am not different from you. I dreamed you, I wished for your existance. You are the woman I want to be. I see in you that part of me which is you. I feel compassion for your childlike pride, for your trembling unsureness, your dramatization of events, your enhancing of the loves given to you. I surrender my sincerity because if I love you it means we share the same fantasies, the same madnesses"

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