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Isaac Watts

Acquaint yourself with your own ignorance.

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Contented With Your Own Silence

in one instance you step out of your door
walk on the road,
keeping your gaze away from the danger side

you keep things to yourself
there is no one to share with
what story you have for the past days
when you hibernated in that room,

it is a break,
you stroll in the park
take your breath under those trees
sit upon one of those empty benches
lose your mind
upon what is obvious and
visible upon those
that do not need any
kind of scrutiny and fathoming

this the time to fish
for nothingness

you lay your hands upon the grass
it is this coolness
that makes you feel connected
to the earth

you sigh and sigh again and again
it is this exhaling that makes you a giver
rather than a taker
it makes you
comfortable like what smokers do
when (they pollute
the air)

there is a certain fulfillment
in this kind of loafing
you carry nothing and thus
you leave nothing
you are not alone
feel this solitude
there are so many of you
doing the same routine in the park
fishers of
nothingness

but i tell you
do not talk do not start a conversation with the one near you
or that one
who is walking his dog early morning
i tried it once

when you get no response
it will just make you lonelier
it is like taking a stone in your hand
and hitting your head with it

sit there,
just sit there
relax

take your time,
and simply be whole
nothing falling
apart

it is beautiful to
see
now that you are
contented with your own
silence.

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Work With Your Own Hands

Walk honestly before those who are outside that,
You may lack nothing!
And make it your ambition to lead a quiet life,
And work with your hands to mind your own business.

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Patrick White

Your Own Life Is The Way

Your own life is the way
whether it charm itself through the woods
like a small snail
or kick the stars up like dust
along the Road of Ghosts
or hang back like the sea
enduring its own weather
waiting for the next loveletter
to arrive like a sail
over the event horizons
of so much unopened junkmail.
But you're a long way off
and deeper in darkness
than you realize
if you're using a searchlight
to look for a star.
There's no reason
to keep showing up
at the wrong address
like a bad definition
of who you are.
You go looking
for the meaning of things
as if meaning were precious and rare,
baby teeth under a pillow
or lost wedding rings
through the noses
of unmarried skulls.
You chase your own tides
back out to sea
and then go ask the waves
trembling in their tidal pools
like children you've frightened
about the meaning of water.
But when they tell you
your mouth hangs open
like a grail in the hand of a drunk
who's sure she just drank poison.
You want to pry
the petals of the flowers open
before they're ready to bloom
as if you were unwrapping your presents early
although nothing's been hidden from you,
cloaked, eclipsed, or covered by a lie.
You paint the window you sit at
all the colours of a parrot
to enhance the clarity
of your longing for stars,
or scare yourself to death
with things you can see in the night
like someone who's been left behind
like a key under your own doormat.
The return journey goes faster than the first
as you progress backwards
looping like a planet
through all the stations of your youth
into the second innocence of awareness
knowing how deeply the soul
can be soiled by the truth
of things as they are
and how, sometimes
to the baffled astonishment of the purists
it takes a little dirt to wash it off;
which is to say, you're human.
Not one reason for everything.
You keep ploughing the same broken record
like a season stuck in a groove
never leaving anything long enough to itself
to germinate and bloom.
Even when the moon
walks on your waters
tapping its white cane
at the curb of every wave
to show you how to master
your own blindness
with your own light in the darkness
of why you won't open your eyes and look,
you cover your face with your hands like a book
you fell asleep reading.
But you can't wake up from a dream
you're not having.
You can't look into life
like a window from the outside
or arrange your eyes
like lenses in a telescope
to view things at arms length.
I know how hard
you've been looking for enlightenment
and the agony of your disappointment
that you can't pull the sword from the stone
or the apple from the seed like autumn.
You account the waste
of time, energy, aspiration,
and want to burn the whole orchard down
like a bride widowed in her wedding gown.
But the fire you set
like a last blossom on a dead branch
goes out like a torch in your own reflection
and you're lost in the woods at night
without a road going in any direction.
You thought you'd hang around
with the constellations,
but there you are
whenever you kick the earth
like a stool away from your feet
dangling like a streetlamp in space
with only go slow and stop
the three expressions
that ever cross your face
like birds hoping they're heading south.
And I don't want to sound mean or unkind,
or suggest that I know
how stars taste to the blind,
or that you're not a fury of insight,
a blazing chandelier, a broken mirror,
but when you cry
you launch your tears like submarines
into your own paranoid depths
to listen to what the others
are saying about you now
and you deploy your emotions like spies
to keep an eye on the opening night projections
you're trying to groom into a movie
where everything comes true
all at once
in a stunning climax of you
holding out like a bridge at the fall of Rome.
Let go. Give up. Let the barbarians across
that you've abused
with the severity
of your savage passions for years.
Abandon the walls
you've beaded like a rosary of skulls
around your imperial frontiers.
How can the frowning jewels
of a dying civilization
dragging itself by the heels
like a corpse through the night
compare with the more imperfectible delights
of leaving the mindstream to its own devices
as if it were wise enough all alone
to make its own circuitous way home
like blood returning to the heart
while we, who don't know the answers,
throw our swords back into the lake
as if we were surrendering to water.
We could feed the demons
of our startling immensities
all those doves you sent out looking for land
that came back like cornerstones of quicksand.
We could stop trying to square the circle
like college dropp outs
trying to corner the rain
and forgo the blinding lucidity
of what we think we know
for the darker esprit
of being swept far out to sea
like two castles effaced by the undertow
of an abyss even the light can't cross.
We could lower our bridges
and open our gates
and liberate our prisons
as if we were making love
like two more bad little reasons to live.

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Beat Me Up With Your Modifications

Beat me up with your modifications,
With your sense of falsities..
But,
What you see in me is what you get.
I don't allow an adjective to upset me.

Beat me up with your modifications
With your sense of falsities..
But,
No matter what you do I'll be the same.
Even though I'm tired of playing your games.

Beat me up with your modifications,
To change my feelings for you...
And,
I'll be the one to oblige and comply.
With a justified feeling of leaving you too!

Beat me up with your modifications,
With your own sense of falsities..
But,
What you see in me is what you get.
I don't allow an adjective to upset me...
That easy,
To please a demented ego!

So...
Beat me up with your modifications,
To change my feelings for you...
And,
I'll be the one to oblige...
'Cause,
I'm not that one you can fit with pity.
No...
I'm not the one you can stick with your sick pity.

Beat me up with your modifications.
Beat me up with your modifications.
But I'm not the one you can kick it with.
I'm not the one you can kick it with,
No...
I'm not the one you can stick it with,
Your pity!

So...
Beat me up with your modifications.
Beat me up with your modifications.
But I'm not the one you can kick it with.
I'm not the one you can kick it with,
No...
I'm not the one you can stick it with,
Your pity!

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Intro_(se) _duction

Step back and let this thought come through.
Weed yourself from baggage.
And free yourself of issues.
Give chase with haste that bitter taste to grieve.
You don't need it anymore.
And storing it to later unpack...
Has left you with an emptiness.
Leaving you acquainted but not accustomed,
To familiarize yourself...
With your own happiness.

An intro_(se) _duction free of disgust.
Erased is the plucking of the nerves with the fuss.
Your distrusting of these times,
Can now be ousted outside to collect as dust!
Clear every corner of that from your heart.
Start trusting in yourself.
And let that build up of crust...
Surrounding with doubts,
Be chipped into pieces...
And be swept away as you shout, 'Be gone! '

An introduction comes to seduce you...
With a peace of mind you wish prolonged,
Inside!
To ride and be freed of self pity to release!
'Be gone! '
Mean it.
Say it!
And let it be known.
An intro_(se) _duction free of disgust comes.
Welcome it gladly and let this be shown...
You are happy to have it with you.
Since it is recognized for what it is.
And it has finally found a home!

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If you never stand in glory

If you never stand in glory
If you never find 15 minutes of fame
I will tell your story
I’ll stand up and chant your name

If you measure yourself
With your own hands
If you don’t make excuses
If you do the best you can

You’ll be my hero
The heart, young one
Is the measure of the man.

If you don’t break the record
But yet you run the race
If you give it all your effort
And come in second place

If you do the best you can
You’ll be my hero
The heart young one,
Is the measure of the man.

If don’t sing in the spotlight
But refrained into the chorus
If you don’t climb MT Everest
But spend time in the forest

You’ll be my hero
The heart young one
Is the measure of the man.

If you don’t’ get elected
But you shake every hand
If the cause is effected
If clearly mark out where you stand

If you do the best you can
You’ll be my hero
The heart young one
Is the measure of the man.


IF you lose your direction
And meander for awhile
But seek out the correction
With each foot of every mile

You’ll be my hero
The heart young one
Is the measure of the man.

If you never stand in glory
If you never find 15 minutes of fame
I will tell your story
I’ll stand up and chant your name

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Gun Turned On The World

Youre walkin round like a doll without a head
You should be thinking bout how to give your love instead
Ive seen you lying and cheating your way
Then you complain about what all of your friends say
You shoot your mouth like you damn well own the world
We always have to keep our little white flags unfurled
Just try to finish the things that you start
Stop thinking with your fists
And start thinking with your heart
Oh cant you see
Oh what you could be now
You never listen to me
Oh youre like a gun turned on the world
Things have to be attempted one step at a time
You got to take that poison from your eyes
You know the lights are going out in your life
Your killing yourself with your own knife
Oh cant you see
Oh what you could be now
You never listen to me
Oh youre like a gun turned on the world
You dont want a love you need a chaperone
You want a first-class alibi
You bore the pants off people on the telephone
People are sick of your lies
You better open your eyes
Youre like a gun turned on the world, like a gun
Youre takin one step forward then two steps back
Friendly advice gets treated like a heart attack
You can drown in the shallow water of hate
Get the sense before its too late now
Oh cant you see
Oh what you could be now
You never listen to me
Oh youre like a gun turned on the world
Oh cant you see
Oh what you could be now
You never listen to me
Oh youre like a gun turned on the world

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Hermann And Dorothea - VI. Klio

THE AGE.

WHEN the pastor ask'd the foreign magistrate questions,
What the people had suffer'd, how long from their homes they had wander'd,
Then the man replied:--'By no means short are our sorrows,
For we have drunk the bitters of many a long year together,
All the more dreadful, because our fairest hopes have been blighted.
Who can deny that his heart beat wildly and high in his bosom
And that with purer pulses his breast more freely was throbbing,
When the newborn sun first rose in the whole of its glory,
When we heard of the right of man, to have all things in common,
Heard of noble Equality, and of inspiriting Freedom!
Each man then hoped to attain new life for himself, and the fetters
Which had encircled many a land appear'd to be broken,
Fetters held by the hands of sloth and selfish indulgence.
Did not all nations turn their gaze, in those days of emotion,
Tow'rds the world's capital, which so many a long year had been so,
And then more than ever deserved a name so distinguish'd?
Were not the men, who first proclaim'd so noble a message,
Names that are worthy to rank with the highest the sun ever shone on,
Did not each give to mankind his courage and genius and language?

'And we also, as neighbours, at first were warmly excited.
Presently after began the war, and the train of arm'd Frenchmen
Nearer approach'd; at first they appear'd to bring with them friendship,
And they brought it in fact; for all their souls were exalted.
And the gay trees of liberty ev'rywhere gladly they planted,
Promising unto each his own, and the government long'd for.
Greatly at this was youth, and greatly old age was delighted,
And the joyous dance began round the newly-raised standards.
In this manner the overpowering Frenchmen soon conquer'd
First the minds of the men, with their fiery lively proceedings,
Then the hearts of the women, with irresistible graces.
Even the strain of the war, with its many demands, seem'd but trifling,
For before our eyes the distance by hope was illumined,
Luring our gaze far ahead into paths now first open'd before us.
'O how joyful the time, when with his bride the glad bridegroom
Whirls in the dance, awaiting the day that will join them for ever
But more glorious far was the time when the Highest of all things
Which man's mind can conceive, close by and attainable seemed.
Then were the tongues of all loosen'd, and words of wisdom and feeling
Not by greybeards alone, but by men and by striplings were utter'd.

'But the heavens soon clouded became. For the sake of the mast'ry
Strove a contemptible crew, unfit to accomplish good actions.
Then they murder'd each other, and took to oppressing their new-found
Neighbours and brothers, and sent on missions whole herds of selfÄseekers
And the superiors took to carousing and robbing by wholesale,
And the inferiors down to the lowest caroused and robb'd also.
Nobody thought of aught else than having enough for tomorrow.
Terrible was the distress, and daily increased the oppression.
None the cry understood, that they of the day were the masters.
Then even temperate minds were attack'd by sorrow and fury;
Each one reflected, and swore to avenge all the injuries suffer'd,
And to atone for the hitter loss of hopes twice defrauded.
Presently Fortune declared herself on the side of the Germans,
And the French were compell'd to retreat by forced marches before them.
Ah! the sad fate of the war we then for the first time experienced.
For the victor is kind and humane, at least he appears so,
And he spares the man he has vanquish'd, as if he his own were,
When he employs him daily, and with his property helps him.
But the fugitive knows no law; he wards off death only,
And both quickly and recklessly all that he meets with, consumes he.
Then his mind becomes heated apace; and soon desperation
Fills his heart, and impels him to all kinds of criminal actions.
Nothing then holds he respected, he steals It. With furious longing
On the woman he rushes; his lust becomes awful to think of.
Death all around him he sees, his last minutes in cruelty spends he,
Wildly exulting in blood, and exulting in howls and in anguish.

'Then in the minds of our men arose a terrible yearning
That which was lost to avenge, and that which remain'd to defend still.
All of them seized upon arms, lured on by the fugitives' hurry,
By their pale faces, and by their shy, uncertain demeanour.
There was heard the sound of alarm-bells unceasingly ringing,
And the approach of danger restrain'd not their violent fury.
Soon into weapons were turn'd the implements peaceful of tillage,
And with dripping blood the scythe and the pitchfork were cover'd.
Every foeman without distinction was ruthlessly slaughter'd,
Fury was ev'rywhere raging, and artful, cowardly weakness.
May I never again see men in such wretched confusion!
Even the raging wild beast is a better object to gaze on.
Ne'er let them speak of freedom, as if themselves they could govern!
All the evil which Law has driven farback in the corner
Seems to escape, as soon as the fetters which bound it are loosen'd.'

'Excellent man,' replied the pastor, with emphasis speaking
'If you're mistaken in man, 'tis not for me to reprove you.
Evil enough have you suffer'd indeed from his cruel proceedings!
Would you but look back, however, on days so laden with sorrow,
You would yourself confess how much that is good you have witness'd,
Much that is excellent, which remains conceald in the bossom
Till by danger 'tis stirr'd, and till necessity makes man
Show himself as an angel, a tutelar God unto others.'

Then with a smile replied the worthy old magistrate, saying
'Your reminder is wise, like that which they give to the suff'rer
Who has had his dwelling burnt down, that under the ruins,
Gold and silver are lying, though melted and cover'd with ashes.
Little, indeed, it may be, and yet that little is precious,
And the poor man digs it up, and rejoices at finding the treasure.
Gladly, therefore, I turn my thoughts to those few worthy actions
Which my memory still is able to dwell on with pleasure.
Yes, I will not deny it, I saw late foemen uniting
So as to save the town from harm; I saw with devotion
Parents, children and friends impossible actions attempting,
Saw how the youth of a sudden became a man, how the greybeard
Once more was young, how the child as a stripling appear'd in a moment.
Aye, and the weaker sex, as people commonly call it,
Show'd itself brave and daring, with presence of mind all-unwonted.
Let me now, in the first place, describe a deed of rare merit
By a high-spirited girl accomplish'd, an excellent maiden,
Who in the great farmhouse remain'd behind with the servants,
When the whole of the men had departed, to fight with the strangers.
Well, there fell on the court a troop of vagabond scoundrels,
Plund'ring and forcing their way inside the rooms of the women.
Soon they cast their eyes on the forms of the grown-up fair maiden
And of the other dear girls, in age little more than mere children.
Hurried away by raging desire, unfeelingly rush'd they
On the trembling band, and on the high-spirited maiden.
But she instantly seized the sword from the side of a ruffian,
Hew'd him down to the ground; at her feet straight fell he, all bleeding,
Then with doughty strokes the maidens she bravely deliver'd.
Wounded four more of the robbers; with life, however, escaped they.
Then she lock'd up the court, and, arm'd still, waited for succour.

When the pastor heard the praise of the maiden thus utter'd
Feelings of hope for his friend forthwith arose in his bosom,
And he prepared to ask what had been the fate of the damsel,
Whether she, in the sorrowful flight, form'd one of the people?
At this moment, however, the druggist nimbly approach'd them,
Pull'd the sleeve of the pastor, and whisper'd to him as follows
'I have at last pick'd out the maiden from many a hundred
By her description! Pray come and judge for yourself with your own eyes;
Bring the magistrate with you, that we may learn the whole story.'

So they turn'd themselves round; but the magistrate found himself summon'd
By his own followers, who had need of his presence and counsel.
But the pastor forthwith the druggist accompanied, till they
Came to a gap in the hedge, when the latter pointed with slyness,
'See you,' exclaim'd he, 'the maiden? The child's clothes she has been changing.
And I recognise well the old calico--also the cushion--
Cover of blue, which Hermann took in the bundle and gave her.
Quickly and well, of a truth, she has used the presents left with her.
These are evident proofs; and all the rest coincide too;
For a bodice red her well-arch'd bosom upraises,
Prettily tied, while black are the stays fitting close around her.
Then the seams of the ruff she has carefully plaited and folded,
Which, with modest grace, her chin so round is encircling;
Free and joyously rises her head, with its elegant oval,
Strongly round bodkins of silver her back-hair is many times twisted.
When she is sitting, we plainly see her noble proportions,
And the blue well-plaited gown which begins from close to her bosom,
And in rich folds descending, her well-turn'd ankles envelops.
'Tis she, beyond all doubt. So come, that we may examine
Whether she be both a good and a frugal and virtuous maiden.'
Then the pastor rejoin'd, the sitting damsel inspecting
'That she enchanted the youth, I confess is no matter of wonder,
For she stands the test of the gaze of a man of experience.
Happy the person to whom Mother Nature the right face has given!
She recommends him at all times, he never appears as a stranger,
Each one gladly approaches, and each one beside him would linger,
If with his face is combined a pleasant and courteous demeanour.
Yes, I assure you the youth has indeed discover'd a maiden
Who the whole of the days of his life will enliven with gladness,
And with her womanly strength assist him at all times and truly.
Thus a perfect body preserves the soul also in pureness,
And a vigorous youth of a happy old age gives assurance.

After reflecting a little, the druggist made answer as follows:--
'Yet appearances oft are deceitful. I trust not the outside.
Often, indeed, have I found the truth of the proverb which tells us
Ere you share a bushel of salt with a new-found acquaintance,
Do not trust him too readily; time will make you more certain
How you and he will get on, and whether your friendship is lasting.
Let us then, in the first place, inquire amongst the good people
Unto whom the maiden is known, who can tell us about her.'

'Well, of a truth I commend your prudence,' the pastor continued
'Not for ourselves are we wooing! To woo for others is serious.'
So they started to meet the worthy magistrate seeing
How in the course of his business he was ascending the main street.
And the wise pastor straightway address'd him with foresight as follows
'We, by-the-bye, have just seen a girl in the neighbouring garden
Under an apple-tree sitting, and clothes for the children preparing,
Made of worn calico, which for the purpose was doubtless presented.
We were pleased by her face; she appears to be one of the right sort.
Tell us, what know you about her? We ask from a laudable motive.'

When the magistrate came to the garden and peep'd in, exclaimed he
'Well do I know her, in truth; for when I told you the story
Of that noble deed which was done by the maiden I spoke of,
How she seized on the sword, and defended herself, and the servants,
She the heroine was! You can see how active her nature.
But she's as good as she's strong; for her aged kinsman she tended
Until the time of his death, for he died overwhelm'd by affliction
At the distress of his town, and the danger his goods were exposed to.
Also with mute resignation she bore the grievous affliction
Of her betroth'd's sad death, a noble young man who, incited
By the first fire of noble thoughts to struggle for freedom,
Went himself to Paris, and soon found a terrible death there.
For, as at home, so there, he fought 'gainst intrigue and oppression.'

Thus the magistrate spoke. The others departed and thanked him,
And the pastor produced a gold piece (the silver his purse held
He some hours before had with genuine kindness expended
When he saw the fugitives passing in sorrowful masses).

And to the magistrate handed it, saying:--' Divide it, I pray you,
'Mongst those who need it the most. May God give it prosperous increase.'

But the man refused to accept it, and said:--'I assure you,
Many a dollar we've saved, and plenty of clothing and such things,
And I trust we may reach our homes before they are finish'd.'

Then continued the pastor, the gold in his hand once more placing
'None should delay to give in days like the present, and no one
Ought to refuse to receive what is offer'd with liberal kindness.
No one can tell how long he will keep what in peace he possesses,
No one, how long he is doom'd in foreign countries to wander,
While he's deprived of the field and the garden by which he is nurtured.'

'Bravo!' added in turn the druggist, with eagerness speaking
'Had I but money to spare in my pocket, you surely should have it,
Silver and gold alike; for your followers certainly need it.
Yet I'll not leave you without a present, if only to show you
My good will, and I hope you will take the will for the action.'
Thus he spoke, and pull'd out by the strings the leather embroider'd
Pouch, in which he was wont his stock of tobacco to carry,
Daintily open'd and shared its contents--some two or three pipes' full.
'Small in truth is the gift,' he added. The magistrate answered:
'Good tobacco is always a welcome present to trav'llers.'
Then the druggist began his canister to praise very highly.
But the pastor drew him away, and the magistrate left them.
'Come, let us hasten!' exclaimed the sensible man, 'for our young friend
Anxiously waits; without further delay let him hear the good tidings.'

So they hasten'd and came, and found that the youngster was leaning
'Gainst his carriage under the lime-trees. The horses were pawing
Wildly the turf; he held them in check and stood there all pensive,
Silently gazing in front, and saw not his friends coming near him,
Till, as they came, they called him and gave him signals of triumph.
Some way off the druggist already began to address him,
But they approach'd the youth still nearer, and then the good pastor
Seized his hand and spoke and took the word from his comrade
'Friend, I wish you joy! Your eye so true and your true heart
Rightly have chosen! May you and the wife of your young days be happy!
She is full worthy of you; so come and turn around the carriage,
That we may reach without delay the end of the village,
So as to woo her, and shortly escort the dear creature home with us.'
But the youth stood still, and without any token of pleasure
Heard the words of the envoy, though sounding consoling and heav'nly,
Deeply sigh'd and said:--'We came full speed in the carriage
And shall probably go back home ashamed and but slowly;
For, since I have been waiting care has fallen upon me,
Doubt and suspicion and all that a heart full of love is exposed to.
Do you suppose we have only to come, for the maiden to follow,
Just because we are rich, and she poor and wandering in exile?
Poverty, when undeserved, itself makes proud. The fair maiden
Seems to be active and frugal; the world she may claim as her portion.
Do you suppose that a woman of such great beauty and manners
Can have grown up without exciting love in man's bosom?
Do you suppose that her heart until now has to love been fast closed?
Do not drive thither in haste, for perchance to our shame and confusion
We shall have slowly to turn towards home the heads of our horses.
Yes, some youth, I fear me, possesses her heart, and already
She has doubtless promised her hand and her solemn troth plighted,
And I shall stand all ashamed before her, When making my offer.'

Then the pastor proceeded to cheer him with words of good comfort,
But his companion broke in, in his usual talkative manner
'As things used to be, this embarrassment would not have happened,
When each matter was brought to a close in an orthodox fashion.
Then for their son themselves the bride the parents selected,
And a friend of the house was secretly call'd in the first place.
He was then quietly sent as a suitor to visit the parents
Of the selected bride; and, dress'd in his gayest apparel,
Went after dinner some Sunday to visit the excellent burgher,
And began by exchanging polite remarks on all subjects,
Cleverly turning and bending the talk in the proper direction.
After long beating about the bush, he flatter'd the daughter,
And spoke well of the man and the house that gave his commission.
Sensible people soon saw his drift, and the sensible envoy
Watch'd how the notion was taken, and then could explain himself farther.
If they declined the proposal, why then the refusal cost nothing,
But if all prosper'd, why then the suitor for ever thereafter
Play'd the first fiddle at every family feast and rejoicing.
For the married couple remember'd the whole of their lifetime
Whose was the skilful hand by which the marriage knot tied was.
All this now is chang'd, and with many an excellent custom
Has gone quite out of fashion. Each person woos for himself now.
Everyone now must bear the weight of a maiden's refusal
On his own shoulders, and stand all ashamed before her, if needs be.'

'Let that be as it may,' then answered the young man who scarcely
Heard what was said, and his mind had made up already in silence
'I will go myself, and out of the mouth of the maiden
Learn my own fate, for towards her I cherish the most trustful feelings
That any man ever cherish'd towards any woman whatever.
That which she says will be good and sensible,--this I am sure of.
If I am never to see her again, I must once more behold her,
And the ingenuous gaze of her black eyes must meet for the last time.
If to my heart I may clasp her never, her bosom and shoulders
I would once more see, which my arm so longs to encircle:
Once more the mouth I would see, from which one kiss and a Yes will
Make me happy for ever, a No for ever undo me.
But now leave me alone! Wait here no longer. Return you
Straight to my father and mother, in order to tell them in person
That their son was right, and that the maiden is worthy.
And so leave me alone! I myself shall return by the footpath
Over the hill by the pear-tree and then descend through the vineyard,
Which is the shortest way back. Oh may I soon with rejoicing
Take the beloved one home! But perchance all alone I must slink back
By that path to our house and tread it no more with a light heart.'
Thus he spoke, and then placed the reins in the hands of the pastor,
Who, in a knowing way both the foaming horses restraining,
Nimbly mounted the carriage, and took the seat of the driver.

But you still delay'd, good cautious neighbour, and spoke thus
Friend, I will gladly entrust to you soul, and spirit, and mind too,
But my body and bones are not preserved in the best way
When the hand of a parson such worldly matters as reins grasps!'

But you smiled in return, you sensible pastor, replying
'Pray jump in, nor fear with both body and spirit to trust me,
For this hand to hold the reins has long been accustom'd,
And these eyes are train'd to turn the corner with prudence.
For we were wont to drive the carriage, when living at Strasburg,
At the time when with the young baron I went there, for daily,
Driven by me, through the echoing gateway thunder'd the carriage
By the dusty roads to distant meadows and lindens,
Through the crowds of the people who spend their lifetime in walking.'

Partially comforted, then his neighbour mounted the carriage,
Sitting like one prepared to make a wise jump, if needs be,
And the stallions, eager to reach their stables, coursed homewards,
While beneath their powerful hoofs the dust rose in thick clouds.
Long there stood the youth, and saw the dust rise before him,
Saw the dust disperse; but still he stood there, unthinking.

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Your Own Fate

What if you did all that you wanted;
If your hopes and dreams were flaunted,
For all the world to see and applaud! ?
Why not give yourself, instead of others, the nod-
To live your own life, unaffected by others' views! ?
Why not allow your life to be what you would choose,
Without regard for what the uninformed opine! ?
Why not live your life as I live mine:
For, by, and of myself-without prejudice,
Bias, or hate-my heart is for all, commodious.
My dreams are mine for a reason:
I do not seek and find, then alter like a season,
Because others need to assert their ignorance,
All the while under the guise of guidance
And protection-as if you could not possibly know
What is best for you-like this interference could possibly show
The altruism that they so ardently profess!
This decision, made under the throngs of duress,
Is not what is best for you, it is what is easiest for them.
Only when both your and their wants are ibidem,
Should you make a decision, of which others approve.
Though, it is not too late to rethink your stance, before you've
Lost a great and powerful feeling from your sight,
Locked away forever-as though an unending night
Of purgatory, where your afeared heart made a decision
It can never stand to live with-where the derision
Of the moment becomes more and more permanent.
All you need do is look in your heart to know where it went-
There resides the answer, as it has all the while:
Your heart is never prone to your mind's beguile!
Now that time has wend your way
And you are no longer subject to the sway
Of irrationality or the phantom of false fear,
All the answers in your heart should make quite clear,
That a glory need not die, nor does a dream need be gone-
Allow the spectre of the past to fade and a future to dawn,
Where you are no longer conflicted between this ardor
And attempts to please everyone-never again barter
With your heart, it is a losing proposition!
We both know the heights of your life's ambition:
To live the life, of which you have always aspired,
With the one person that you always admired
Fervently, and with strength that neither time nor
Distance may alter-you know that you are prime for
This moment and for this life, all you must do
Is disavow its impedance, and trust you,
And you alone, are the master of your own fate-
Do this now my beloved, before it is too late!

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We Are All Entitled to Our Own Ignorance

Don't you love it,
When people interpret your thoughts...
Or something you have said into what they wish?
You can repeat what you have said,
And it is still quite missed.

And if what is heard isn't agreed upon...
A debate about it is begun and goes on!
Nothing in explanation 'sinks' in to consider.
They just aren't getting 'it'!
Agree...
And walk away!
Save yourself.
We are all entitled to our own ignorance.
No matter what the depth...
Shallowness or pain of it!

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Creating Your Own Meaning

you wake up one day
finding yourself in the same dark and damp room
same dusty curtains
smelling like dried fish

light coming from the window
greets you with

hello, welcome
you are nothing special
you are just like everybody else

for one thing
your heart does not remember
what was that despair all about

you wash your face
brush your teeth
change clothes
walk outside

the world is still the same
it does not bother about you or
anybody else

man, you create your own meaning
no one does it for you.

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Legend In Your Own Time

(carly simon)
Well I have know you
Since you were a small boy
And your mama used to say
My boy is gonna grow up and be
Some kind of leader some day.
Then youd turn on the radio
And sing with the singer in the band
And your mama would say to you
This isnt exactly what she had planned.
But youre a legend in your own time
A hero in the footlights
Playin tunes to fit your rhyme
But a legends only a lonely boy
When he goes home alone.
And although I know you
Still have the heart of that small boy
Well, you lend it out far too much
And no one woman loving you
Can ever tell if youve been really touched.
Then you turn on the radio
And sing with the singer in the band
And think kind of sadly to yourself
This isnt exactly what you had planned.
But youre a legend in your own time
A hero in the footlights
Playin tunes to fit your rhyme
But a legends only a lonely boy
When he goes home alone.

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Don't Embarrass Yourself With Those Assumptions

You've had your way!
Now why do I find you in mine?
You made it a point to announce my ignorance.
You made that clear,
In a mocking done at my expense.

You've had your way!
Now why do I find you in mine?
You took time to boast of those things you have.
Remember laughing at my possessions?
You referred to them as rags.

Remember I made attempts,
To share with you my experiences?
And you spent your time dismissing them.
To be with your colleagues.
And other cling on pretentious friends.

You've had your way!
Now why do I find you in mine?
You made it a point to announce my ignorance.
You made that clear,
In a mocking done at my expense.

Am I suppose to forgive and forget,
The agony you left I met?
Or are you that stupid to believe I am?
And my heart awaits for us to reconnect?
You must stop embarrassing yourself,
With those assumptions.
Please...
Don't embarrass yourself with those assumptions.

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In A Category All Your Own

Would I cuss you out?
Or 'will' I cuss you out?
Forgive me but...
I am not familiar at all with this request.
Can you be just a little more specific.
I don't mind doing it,
But...
You have to provide the incentive.

'So you just don't go around cussing people out?
And being offensive?
I saw that on a recent documentary.'

Of course not.
I am given something to ignite that desire.
Something that initiates the feeling.
You know...
You have to want me to cuss you out badly,
To provoke me to that point.

'I had no idea that's how it was done.
Depending on the situation,
How many cuss words could I possibly provoke you to use...
Within,
Say...
Five minutes of my nonstop ignorance that provokes you? '

You are visiting here on vacation aren't you?
And someone has become annoyed with you and sent you,
My way...
Right?
Either it is believed you are my perfect match...
Or something so disconnected in your head,
It is hoped a few of my choice words will tightened.
You are in a category all your own.

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Be Your Own Girl

I know youre tired of waking up on the floor
Pushed to the edge with nothing heavy to hold
Using your clothes as a blanket and a bed
Holding your hands just to lay your head
I know you dont remember ever falling down
Who picked you up, who gathered around
But you dont have to be his girl
And you dont have to be my girl
You can always be your own girl
With the sound of your feet you follow yourself to sleep
Restless and ageless and looking for somethin to keep
When you finally fall asleep youre awake in dreams
Hanging by the ankles in a skeleton ravine
I know youve kicked the lights, fell on your shoes
Punched out the colors, leaving you the blues
But you dont have to be his girl
And you dont have to be my girl
You can always be your own girl
Theres a soft melody thats ringing in my ears
Simple and slow and it always brings you here
With broken crayons youve scribbled on the wall
Shapes of nothing and shadow box them all
Your fingertips are broke and your knees dont bend
Your imagination took the worst hit and cut its skin
But you dont have to be his girl
You dont have to be my girl
You can always be your own girl
Theres a soft melody thats ringing in my ears
And its the same one you could never avoid in yours
And if you lay down you can hear from tongue to tails
About a tattooed rhythm and drumming by color wheel
Your rung is broken on the bottom of the rope
And you cant tie another, another knot of hope
And you dont have to be his girl
And you dont have to be my girl
You can always be your own girl

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Steer through this ocean of emotion, which is your own creation

You are on an ocean
And on a small boat
Exclusively for you
You the lone passenger

You know what all could be there down under
The vast expanse of water

The marine life
Its varieties
Their beauties, strengths
And even their wild behaviours

You know also the
Great hidden treasure
At the bottom of the seabed

But you are always worried
About how to go about
Reaching the invisible shore
And you do not know
How far it is and in
Which direction

Rising waves raise fears in you
The unseen big marine animals down under
Occupy your thoughts
And threaten your very existence

There is shine
There is shower
There is cold
There is storm
But, you need to stick on
And to proceed till the time
You reach the shore

You are unaware of the
Nature of the shore
Where you will be landing
And in what shape

The above is the description
Of birth and death cycle
In Oriental thinking

The ocean personifies
The emotional turbulence
That occurs in you life through

Emotions are as strong as ocean
And they have the powers
To sustain livelihood
To create and to destroy as well
A check on emotions
Is the way you steer through
The ocean of life

Nurse those emotions, which are
Creative, proactive and productive
And do away with those
Which can drown you
And can be destructive

Seeking divine assistance
For safe landing on the shore
Is what these philosophies preach
Orienting yourself towards
Spirituality and self realization
Help you perform worldly duties
Without emotions
But, with passion and devotion

Steer through this
Ocean of emotion, which is
Your own creation

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Comeon...Get On Your Own Nerves

I know you would love to find with me...
At fault with blemishes.
A big 'ole' zit sitting on my cheek unfit!
You'd like to see me laddened with imperfection.
Finding me to spot somewhere,
Dropping errors of all kinds.
All over the place.
With speech impediments.
And incorrect language usage.
To announce to all mankind!

And you are there,
To detect each undotted 'i'.
An uncrossed 't'.
With comments I make...
You are right there to question'
Or debate for content.

'I am black!

~But how do I know that?
How far back can that be traced,
In your ancestry? ~

Before I use any restroom...
I do look over my shoulder.

You've got me wanting to protect,
My own business.

In fact,
With you around...
All of it is on lockdown!
Of late!

You feel this is your purpose.
Something that eases and comforts your mind.
Something I do...
That keeps you on my behind!
And no...
That is not an invitation.
I must be careful what I say.
You might regard that as a solicitation.

And yet,
When you observe your own reflection...
I am not there at all!
And you 'still' accuse me,
For all of your flaws.

With beliefs your insecurities are invisible.
But to whom?

You are the only one attempting to convince,
Your presence is envied.
But 'why' is it necessary,
To use me as validation?
Why me?
Why have you chosen me,
As 'your' obligation?

And 'why' if you see yourself as better...
Than any living 'thing' that walks upon the Earth!
You must remind me of it?
By getting on 'my' nerves.
Have you no self worth?

You are the one thirsting to have that acknowledged.

Comeon...
Get on your own nerves.
Feel deserving of it.
At least be brave,
And leave me alone!

I don't need you around to know I am fantastic.
Why can't you do the same?

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Never Frown, Even When You're Sad Because You Never Know Who May be Falling in Love With Your Smile

Never frown, when you're sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
Deep inside you know there is someone special to be with
Never change yourself just for guy/girl because there is other fish in the sea
You don't need a boyfriend/girlfriend to be happy because
You have your friends and family
You can be single and happy on your own
When you are single you learned thing you never knew before about yourself
You can be brave and try not to think about it
There are good things about being single or being in love
Don't obsession with a guy/girl who break your heart and just move on
Their other people to be with

Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
You are great person and there is someone for you and everyone else too
We all dervese someone special to be with
Never make yourself look cuter just for one guy/girl because
You know better than that and should just love yourself
You know that someone do love you for who you are
On the other hand, some of us don't need someone to be with because
They have thier friends and family
You can enjoy your life and be happier than before
Right now I am single and
I see what people gone through and I'm not ready for that
I know love is not perfect, but I have a lot of rejection and I'm enjoying all of this
I just want to get take it easy, relax and have fun

Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
You know that you can found someone or they come to you
Don't wait, just take chances and just be crazy for once
Remember there is always other fish in the sea and not just that person who break your heart
You don't need a boyfriend/girfriend to be happy because
You have your friends and family
I know I will miss out on all great things, but
I'm tired of bringing my hopes up
I'm done, being single for now and it tragedy at end
There other things can make me happier than ever
There are good things about being single or being in love
Don't obsession with someone who don't love you
Just remeber the good times you have with them

Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
You are great person and
There is someone for you and everyone else too
We all dervese someone special to be with
Never make yourself look cuter just for one guy/girl because
You know better than that and should just love yourself
You know that someone do love you for who you are
On the hand, some of us don't need someone to be with
They have thier friends and family
You can enjoy your life and be happier than before
Right now I am single and
I see what people gone through and I'm not ready for that
I know love is not perfect, but I have a lot of rejection and I'm enjoying all of this
I just want to get take it easy, relax and have fun
Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile

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Patrick White

Murder Me Again With Your Voice

Murder me again with your voice,
the moon, your maculate heart, the weapon of your choice.
I am space, light, water, air, stars beyond your reach.
Meteor showers have been looking for my species for years
And still I thrive like glass eyes with real tears,
in the shadows of your amorous extinctions.

You can snuff a thousand votive candles out.
You can desecrate the shrine where I bury my feelings
like the small bodies of gentle birds
beside the ashes of the dragons that burnt out
like solar flares returning to the source.
You stab at the wind. You can try to ruin the sun
with a pettiness that isn't worthy of the moon
that sends no night bird out to look for you
though my longing says you've been missing for years.

Nothing against you, nothing especially for,
though I thought I saw for a moment Bailey's Beads
peeking through the lunar valleys of your last eclipse.
And there was a time I'd trade two of my fingers
just to have a taste of your lips again as they were
when the apple orchard covered your nakedness
in the blossoms of the first drafts
that couldn't improve on you by revising anything.
Come the first time right, or better not come at all
and they fell, each more perfect than the last.
Now it's like French-kissing a voodoo doll
with pins through its lips that makes everything you say
the martyr of a brutal kind of unspoken curse.

Make it worse, if that's all you've got left to feel.
Get it out. Oxyrhyncus Jesus says that'll save you.
I'm an old ghost. Do you really think
you're my first exorcism? Boo. I'm gone
just like the mist off a morning lake,
just like a gust of stars in the lens of a telescope
that can bring you close, or set you at a distance
just like that piece of tinfoil you wrap
like skin around your heart as if you were saving
some kind of vegetable in the cold shining
you think of as the Pleiades on a binge of light.

Screech, shriek, rave, rake your fingernails
down a blackboard like an ice age in a rage,
like a glacial striations cut into shale
and ambush the mammoth, the sabre-tooth, the dire wolf
of twelve thousand years ago when you stole
the water out of their mouths and returned nothing but dust
like you take the words from mine now
that you've uprooted the garden of your own.

Carve on me like a bone if you must, break my skull
like Pangaea into a synarthritic jigsaw puzzle of continents
and I'll do nothing but diversify my species.
I'll turn the scars in my starmud into calendars and alphabets
and wait for the next golden age like honeysuckle
tangled in a cedar fence after a storm
that strikes at itself like sheet lightning,
after your apocalypse has finished venting itself.

You're a white peony, not a wounded rose with thorns,
though you both shed the moon in common
to get down to the withered jester's cap of the star
hiding like a spider under your eyelids.
You kill me and you kill me deeper into life
not because it's me you hate, but what I refuse
to hate about you as a coward who turns her back
at the sight her own blood on her razors and wrists
and runs like a river system on a starmap
toward the emergency exits of the red giants
even as they're imploding under their own exhaustion
who promise to suckle you on the dream milk
of the poppies who opiate you into believing
you're twice as deceiving as death in Aleppo,
racially profiling the stars in infra red for the Gestapo.

What a silly girl you are, to expect a firing squad
to show up for your rescue, every time you click
your ruby slippers like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz
and tiny eyes emerge from the gigantic size
of the blackholes in your deathmasks like gnats
swept up like stars in your stillborn tornadoes on the moon.
It takes more than a snakepit to make someone an oracle.
However you enrobe it in incense and drugs
and mollify your fear in an exchange of syringes.
More fangs on a hydra-headed Medusa than there are
crescents of the moon lactating with antidotes
as if to say the cure is in the heart of the disease.

Let all those boyfriends you stole like corpses
from a graveyard, believing you were the artistic genius
who was mistress of their vital organs, rise from the dead
as if they'd finally learned to stand up to you
and making a move on your surgical flesh
say, hey, now, mistress, come lie down with us
and see, for yourself, what a heady lover death can be
when you don't take your cliches so seriously
you've rewired your waterlilies to the stars
until they all sting like superclusters of jellyfish
tasing you with the acid rain of your own tears
like rootfires of desire blossoming underground
without a flower to speak of or break through anywhere
you could point to and say, there, I grew that out of love
as if I weren't even trying all that hard
to stand here alone, alive, and beautiful as I am
not as an alibi for dying, but as an act of life
as indelible in its absence it is when it's here.

So go your own way with blood on your hands
and blessings on your head as you wish.
And take a last parting shot at the stars
if you want the last word
as you stand like a likeness of yourself
like a commission you've always had done
by every doorway you've ever stood in like an easel,
and step into a smaller realm than the one you're leaving
as if your eyes were too small for my windows
when you hurled yourself against them
like a housefly against a mirage in an hourglass
being emptied and filled at the same time.

And, yes, I will cry for you with deep regret
I couldn't die for you any better than I did,
and you couldn't live for me
just for the cheap thrill of it.
And then I'll wipe my tears on my sleeve
where my heart used to be
and make my comic entrance into the next world
laughing like a sacred clown at the sublimity
in the enlightened madness of it all
as you back up like a tragic exit into yours,
troubled by the punch-lines in your nightmares
you never got.

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Patrick White

To See The Glee In Your Eyes At Eighty

To see the glee in your eyes at eighty
as if you were about to achieve something as big
as you did at three.
And you, there, shy one, freaky adolescent
day after day in the same corner of the restaurant
like a bruised mermaid
riding the clock out like a sea turtle
until it’s time to go home again and face the music;
you who drive your pen so deeply
into the fleshy paper
of your black arts journal
as if you were carving up a body
or intensely wedging the tiny bird tracks
of your hieroglyphic footnotes
like some bitter aside
into the shin of that Ramsean gigantism
you’re standing in the shadow of
waiting for it to get dark enough
the fireflies might come out.
To see you light up like a rainbow at a black mass
when I ask if I can look
and you turn your book over like a leaf
and show me a breakthrough masterpiece
that’s good enough to start a school of crocuses
with no instruction from anyone.
To see you afraid to believe in your own excellence
the juno of your aristos
yet risking the possibility it might be a fact
you’re the mysterious matrix
of a genuinely creative act;
that you might feel
like you’ve got a lump of coal for a heart
and a La Brea tar pit for a mind
but when the mascara comes off
like a Gothic eclipse
you’re a new moon
and you’re starting to shine like a diamond.
To see the black dove in your eyes
liberated from the cages of disapproval
imposed on you by white crows in disguise
is to know
what human beings are doing on earth.
To see what softens the angry blue eyes
of the next generation
of gram masters of Gore Street
with their heads shaved like Auschwitz
or the Stalinesque inmates of the Thief’s World
with its rock pile laws
trying to stay true to the Rosetta Stone
of their prison tattoos
like the sacred syllables
of the mother tongue of darkness.
To see in the glee in their eyes
when their girlfriends take them back
that their hearts are not hard enough yet
to be immune to alienation
and for all the rocks that blister in spoons
the occasional angel still keeps its place
as Francis Thompson knew better than these
under the stones that love turns over
like eclipses of the moon
that weren’t indelible enough to last.
To see the glee in the eyes of a child
when it looks at an animal
and sees the same instinctive innocence
that’s just as wild as it is
and watch their minds go crazy
trying to give their tongues
a jump up on their amazement
at meeting a senient life form
that speaks the same language they do
and shares in the original parity
of the undifferentiated freedom
they still enraptures them in Dilmun
Shangri La
Queensland
and the Garden of Eden.
To see such ecstasy in their eyes
is to know how much wonder is lost
how much joy in just being here with everything else
is driven out of us
as we age our way into separation
deluded by the truth
that perfects our isolation
from the small and big furry things with startling eyes
and the Bolshoi Ballet of fins and veils
that makes my gold fish Toke a dancer
or an underwater comet
high above Atlantis
like a good omen on the eve
of some catastrophic decision
to rise again with more imagination to live
than the dead have reason not to.
To see the glee in the eyes of a friend in winter
like the bouquet of good brandy
beside a warm fire mythologizing
the first drafts of the stories
that are being told and retold
by the blind poets of an oral tradition
sipping red gold
from the snifters of inspiration
they swirl like the whirlpools of the muses
warming to their palms like the head of a glass rose
with its stem between their fingers.
To see in their eyes how good it is
to recognize we’re all linked like tree rings
to the same heartwood
through all four seasons of our lives
is to make a friend of your own human nature
by remembering even in the midst
of this blitz of blazing that blinds the world
on the frantic midways of its cheap thrills
like a heart under a roof heavy with snow
the best things in life
like fires and friends
and goblets of auburn Courvoisier
still glow without diminishment.
To see the glee in the eyes of the rain
that they can behold the whole of the sky again
and all its stars
in the single dropp of a tear
though the rain doesn’t know who it’s crying for
is to understand in a flash of insight
even though you fall
like the small flower at the tip of a blade of stargrass
like a grain of sand down the slopes
of the oxymoronic mountains in an hourglass
you contain it all within yourself
and you can’t pour the universe out of the universe
anymore than you can be driven out of paradise
or be obliterated out of existence
whether humanity immolates itself
or dark energy accelerates us
into an entropy of starless ice.
To perceive the stars and the fireflies in the eyes of the rain
is to comprehend that your mystic specificity
is so unique and broad-shouldered
that down to the slightest detail
what makes you so crucially you
is that it upholds the whole of the rest of the world
in every cell and grain of gold and dirt
like a mountain of a cornerstone
that’s as boundless and high
as its bottomless valley is deep.
To look into the eyes of the stranger
the child the friend the lover the corpse
the eye of the hurricane the enemy the Medusa
the wounded white tail buck in the barbed wire fence
the black-eyed Susans the English ox-eyed daisies
or the yellow suns in the hydrogen clouds
of the New England asters
or the white eclipse of the black holes
in the eyes of the shark as it rolls to kill
or to attune the expression
to the sensibilities of the moment
as a fourteenth century German mystic once wrote
the same eye by which I see the multiverse
are all the eyes by which the multiverse sees me.
What you see
everyone sees.
When you understand
everyone understands.
Lost causes flaws and imperfections.
The lamp the road the night the light the journey.
You can ask the fireflies.
You can ask the galaxies.
But when you’ve exhausted all your cul de sacs
it’s going to be your own seeing
without starmaps
that gives you the right directions
like true north on the inside
and then reminds you in a gentle aside
that it’s impossible to be off the path
because it’s as wide as your field of vision.
When you see for yourself
who’s watching you in this dream of life
even the blind are enlightened
and as many as the ways
and as myriad as the eyes there are
to see in and through your mind
like a jewel turning in the light
it reveals like infinite insight
from the dark source of its own radiance
we rejoice in the genius
of compassion and courage
who took a Pax gene and a moonbeam
and in a moment of omnidirectional inspiration
that included all points of view at once
made it the muse of our eyes.
When you realize
that sight is a kind of love
as I once read on a poster in the sixties
everyone realizes
when you open your eyes
like an expanding universe
even our imperfections shine
in the available dimensions of the darkness before us
and born from the very beginning of everything else
to see and be happy
eye to eye with your own vision of things
as they appear and disappear
like thorns and roses from your heart
like leptons axions and quarks
like the stem cells of your own creative potential
to enter the dark spaces of your own imageless realms
and revel like a child in the art
of making worlds within worlds
like an opening night that everyone’s invited to.
Comets bombarded the earth
and the waters of life
broke from their fire wombs
and for the children of that union
there’s never been a way
to look into the eyes of their opposite
without seeing themselves.
Whether in sorrow or joy
whether in love despair ignorance or wisdom
out of our minds
or biding our time within them
like a flower that knows when to bloom
our shadows cast on a winter night
by the approaching light of Venus
or exalted by the crazy wisdom of life
in the thriving tides of the moon
eyes in the sky
like spy satellites extraterrestrials
and Hubble telescopes
eyes in the water
eyes in the blood
eyes in the wine
eyes in the wheat the apple the pomegranate
eyes in the forbidden fruits
that make all things believable
two eyes and a third
in the word for imagination
to conceive of the inconceivable.
When you see this
through your own eyes
even the mirages the delusions the lies
confess to themselves creatively.
Don’t judge the immensity of the world within
by the grain of sand it comes in
or the density of the pyramid
by what the thieves left of its grave goods.
Imagination is a dragon fly
that can take the fallen and broken
the duff and decay
the twig the leaf the petal
and glue it into a small house of transformation
so the worm comes out breathing fire
like a burnt matchstick with wings.
Point is.
Don’t waste the creative potential
of your own imperfections.
You can find holy water in a tainted well
if you know how to look for it.
The moon dips her cup
in the waters of life
because she has none
and as she raises it to her lips
what looked like a skull
turns into a long-stemmed goblet.
Doorways of light.
Doorways of night.
We open them both alike.
White sails.
Black sails.
We part the veils of space
to see who’s wearing our face
like a mask in the guise of a universe.
Bad.
Worse.
Perfections.
Imperfections.
When you understand
everyone understands.
We weep rivers of stars
into our own hands
to drink from our own reflections
just to taste the light and the life
of the mysterious insight
that burns within us
when the sun shines at midnight.

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