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Quotes about morphology

The independent role of morphology in mate choice is revealed by the rare instances where the usual association between song and morphology is disrupted.

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We must consider the distinctive characters and the general nature of plants from the point of view of their morphology , their behavior under external conditions, their mode of generation, and the whole course of their life.

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Frantz Fanon

I ascribe a basic importance to the phenomenon of language. To speak means to be in a position to use a certain syntax, to grasp the morphology of this or that language, but it means above all to assume a culture, to support the weight of a civilization.

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Who Blows that Nor'easter

From Walgreen's Pharmacy
a pink stuffed bunny rabbit
that sings 'Jesus loves me'
for a frantic foster girl-child at Easter
(where's your occidental mind?)
hmmmm....Just what the DR ordered?
is a metaphor for what?
A holiday completely morphed
...but does it know yet?
One wonders what future forensic morphology
will show
No wonder God made adultery against the law.

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For The Loneliness

There's one remedy,
If one tries to grab the solitude-
I approach to Antarctic,
Seals disturb me.

The strugle for own's existence,
vividly appears-
Blood spreads among the bondings,
So common are the incidents.

The pack hunts down,
scream spills in the air-
Union is the sense of intimacy,
these exhibit the courage.

Antarctic can't be lonely,
In search of eternal solitude-
I grab my index,
And there lies the space.

[...] Read more

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A Song for the Arts

What ever happened to the ARTS?
hurrah for thunder
The illuminates of time preserved teachings
spanning from the aesthetic arts
to the esoteric and philosophical arts.

Historians take pride in moribund conventions
with the aid of a pen, they live in several millennia ago.
They take pride in the classics and internal relations
they are the key to the future.

Linguists take pride in language
they unravel the mysteries of syntax
they drown in the realm of morphology
they are crowned with phonology
and they are talented with semantics.

Musicologists take pride in musical aestheticism
they unravel the mysteries of dance
they take pride in the act of directing

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Patrick White

Hallowed Be The Gentleness Of A Pacified Mind

Hallowed be the gentleness of a pacified mind.
Uplifting, a gust of stars, dust doing wheelies
in a back alley like a vehicular Sufi in a Ford,
because, and this is significant, it doesn't, I swear,
mean a damn thing and therein lies the joy of it.

Inspiration never aspires to meaning. It doesn't
cling like a God particle to give the matter at hand, mass.
The morphology of the multiverse is bubbles.
Iridescent, rainbow-smeared grackle-headed bubbles.
And that includes the black-pearled oil slicks
shining like new moons after their first eclipse.

Meaning, that hovers like a ghost of grammar
over the things of the world that can find
their own place in it without consulting anyone.
Who turns around to ask their shadow where they're going?
Grammar's a dead shaman. Time for new orthodoxies,
to let the rain make some new creekbeds to flow in
when it's lamenting the death of a Spanish guitar

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Patrick White

The Loneliest, Most Protean Modes Of Madness

The loneliest, most protean modes of madness
rage in my cells like nightmares in isolation
watching the fireflies dance through the bars
as a secret gesture from unknown, sympathetic stars
in a collusion of constellations to keep up with the times
and shuck off their old myths of origin
like the straight jackets of a fixed place,
debate whether the light-bending darkness is chaos or freedom
or the old heirarchies of seraphic emanations of insight
still trickle down like oracular snakes on burning ladders.

Now if I wanted this to mean something
I'd look for a precedent for the shadows that dart like birds
across the tunnel vision of my line of sight
and I'd drink from the same fountain where the leaves
lap their water like books full of experience
and I'd borrow light years from other men's eyes
to verify my seeing may be new, but it's sound.
I don't have any use for knowledge
and that's why it trusts me and let's its hair down

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Patrick White

When The Unsayable Supplants Yesterday's Wisdom

When the unsayable supplants yesterday's wisdom
it makes it look obvious and trivial in retrospect
and you marvel at the spiritual gestures of goodwill
that swept you off your feet for light-years
as the arcana of a discipline you gave up trying to master,
because you could only see into the matter
as far as the light you were given to go by.
And you didn't know then that when
you blew the candle out you held
pathetically up to the abyss that you did more,
by blowing it out, to illuminate the universe,
than you did when you fed it your heart
to keep it burning like a night light among the stars,
or a lighthouse paling in the full glare of the sun.

Off the path is the way of the path.
How can anyone be lost? Or found, for that matter?
Midways of gurus with their touring freak shows.
Sacred matchbooks of budding sulphur
throwing humans into the Bonfire of the Vanities,

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Patrick White

Every Insight, The Big Bang, And The Thought That Follows, A Universe

Every insight, the Big Bang, and the thought that follows, a universe.
Every image that flashes across the moonscape like a silhouette
in reverse of the dark matter and starmud that surrounds it,
a black swan among the white when there's snow on the river.
Worlds bubbling out of the mouth of a fish through a hole in the ice
that looks like the third eye of a glacier taking a long, hard look
at whether it was worth opening all those lakes
and then filling them like eyes with the runoff of its own tears
as it disappears into a more fertile approach to letting go of itself.

I could always see a human shape hidden in the landscape
and I wanted to free it so I scraped and gouged
and dug my way into it like a dog unearthing the fossil
of a distant ancestor that ran with the wolves.
Even now when their ghosts howl it's a sad ballad
of the lyrical hills going mad by themselves
and sometimes it breaks my heart like water
in the cleft of a pseudomorphic rock to write picture-music
in striated cuneiform on the cliff faces to sing to themselves
like a lost people with more legend than life in its veins.

[...] Read more

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