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Show ALL Forums  > Poems And Quotes  > “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers,      Home login  
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 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 51
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”Page 3 of 8    (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8)
Ah, Jer, don't mind being beaten. . . . It got here after all. But that was truly lovely! Such a gift! Thank you.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 52
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History
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/31/2006 2:54:18 PM
The Science Of The Night


I touch you in the night, whose gift was you,
My careless sprawler,
And I touch you cold, unstirring, star-bemused,
That have become the land of your self-strangeness.
What long seduction of the bone has led you
Down the imploring roads I cannot take
Into the arms of ghosts I never knew,
Leaving my manhood on a rumpled field
To guard you where you lie so deep
In absent-mindedness,
Caught in the calcium snows of sleep?

And even should I track you to your birth
Through all the cities of your mortal trial,
As in my jealous thought I try to do,
You would escape me--from the brink of earth
Take off to where the lawless auroras run,
You with your wild and metaphysic heart.
My touch is on you, who are light-years gone.
We are not souls but systems, and we move
In clouds of our unknowing
like great nebulae.
Our very motives swirl and have their start
With father lion and with mother crab.
Dreamer, my own lost rib,
Whose planetary dust is blowing
Past archipelagos of myth and light
What far Magellans are you mistress of
To whom you speed the pleasure of your art?
As through a glass that magnifies my loss
I see the lines of your spectrum shifting red,
The universe expanding, thinning out,
Our worlds flying, oh flying, fast apart.

From hooded powers and from abstract flight
I summon you, your person and your pride.
Fall to me now from outer space,
Still fastened desperately to my side;
Through gulfs of streaming air
Bring me the mornings of the milky ways
Down to my threshold in your drowsy eyes;
And by the virtue of your honeyed word
Restore the liquid language of the moon,
That in gold mines of secrecy you delve.
Awake!
My whirling hands stay at the noon,
Each cell within my body holds a heart
And all my hearts in unison strike twelve.


~~ Stanley Kunitz

 NaiveandWitty
Joined: 9/28/2006
Msg: 53
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/31/2006 2:58:19 PM
St Agnes' Eve---Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
But no---already had his deathbell rung
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing'd St Agnes' saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full rnany times declare.
They told her how, upon St Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by---she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere;
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.
She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,
Save to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
So, purposing each moment to retire,
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss---in sooth such things have been.
He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage: not one breast affords
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.
Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
The sound of merriment and chorus bland.
He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
"They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!
"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;
He had a fever late, and in the fit
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
More tame for his gray hairs---Alas me! flit!
Flit like a ghost away."---"Ah, gossip dear,
We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
And tell me how"---"Good saints! not here, not here;
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."
He follow'd through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
And as she mutter'd "Well-a---well-a-day!"
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb.
"Now tell me where is Madeline", said he,
"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
"When they St Agnes' wool are weaving piously."
"St Agnes! Ah! it is St Agnes' Eve---
Yet men will murder upon holy days:
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays
To venture so: it fills me with amaze
To see thee, Porphyro!---St Agnes' Eve!
God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
This very night: good angels her deceive!
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."
Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
Who keepeth clos'd a wondrous riddle-book,
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot: then doth he propose
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
"A cruel man and impious thou art:
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
From wicked men like thee. Go, go!---I deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem."
"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"
Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
Or I will, even in a moment's space,
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears."
"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, doth she bring
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing,
That Angela gives promise she will do
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.
Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy
That he might see her beauty unespied,
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
While legion'd fairies pac'd the coverlet,
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
Never on such a night have lovers met,
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.
"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:
"All cates and dainties shall be stored there
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."
So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
The Dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste;
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.
Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
When Madeline, St Agnes' charmed maid,
Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:
With silver taper's light, and pious care,
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
She comes, she comes again, like dove fray'd and fled.
Out went the taper as she hurried in;
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
She closed the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven:---Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumbrous tenderness;
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!---how fast she slept!
Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
A doth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:---
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:---
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,
While he from forth the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.
These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume light.---
"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
Open thine eyes, for meek St Agnes' sake,
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains:---'twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream:
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
It seem'd he never, never could redeem
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,---
Tumultuous,---and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy:"
Close to her ear touching the melody:---
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
He ceased---she panted quick---and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep,
At which fair Madeline began to weep,
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.
"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."
Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,---
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes; St Agnes' moon hath set.
Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.---
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;---
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."
"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
After so many hours of toil and quest,
A famish'd pilgrim,---saved by miracle.
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
Arise---arise! the morning is at hand;---
The bloated wassailers will never heed:---
Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,---
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."
She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears---
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.---
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side:
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one, and one, the bolts fill easy slide:---
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones,---
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

John Keats

hopefully it's not too long.
 edjoecdn
Joined: 5/25/2006
Msg: 54
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/1/2007 11:10:33 AM
The winds of a new year have blown thru,
Is how I started it an indication of how the year will be ?

Doing considerate things for those in need, ...
no selfish motives , no ulterior plans.
Ending my day with midnite, but an hour away …..
A call from a dear friend asking where I am…
...an invitation extended ..I am thankful.
Resigned to not meeting the plans I hoped,
is it a sign or was it a blessing.

My new year was brought in all alone,
a walk under the moon light.
Experiencing and absorbing what nature was offering,
Yet while alone and quiet on this walk,
my thoughts turned to my dreams which have yet to turn out.
I know what I wish for and the odds are quite long,
another true person to share this beauty…
Of what this world offers , what’s right in front of us…

To all a prosperous new year, hoping your blessed with both health and happiness…

Because the two above are actually all that’s needed for a “good life”

Edjoecdn
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 55
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Which is my little boy
Posted: 1/1/2007 4:27:22 PM
Which is my little boy,
Which is he?
Jean qui pleure ou
Jean qui rit?

Jean qui pleure
Is mystérieux
With sorrows older than 'näg"pur
And all of the suns
And all of the moons
Mirrored in little silver spoons.

Jean qui rit
Is my delicate John,
The one with the Chinese slippers on,
Whose hobby horse
In a single bound,
Carries me back to native ground.

Which is my little boy,
Which is he?
Jean qui pleure ou
Jean qui rit?

Tennessee Williams
~~ In the Winter of Cities
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 56
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/1/2007 4:34:16 PM
Naive and edjoe, thanks for stopping by; come again, please. And no, not too long, Naive: just right!
 Mandielove
Joined: 11/25/2006
Msg: 57
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/1/2007 4:36:01 PM
I thought being Canadian I should add some Canadian poetry. UNfortunately, I really dislike the Confederation 6, so here's a little Margaret Atwood:

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)

Very powerful Feminist poem.
 Mandielove
Joined: 11/25/2006
Msg: 58
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History
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/1/2007 4:37:26 PM
I thought being Canadian I should add some Canadian poetry. UNfortunately, I really dislike the Confederation 6, so here's a little Margaret Atwood:

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)

Very powerful Feminist poem.
 Mandielove
Joined: 11/25/2006
Msg: 59
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History
Which is my little boy
Posted: 1/1/2007 4:38:30 PM
Oh Wooby, I forgot about Tennessee Williams. I really love him.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 60
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History
Irving Berlin and Leonard Cohen
Posted: 1/1/2007 4:42:24 PM
ALWAYS Lyrics
Artist:Leonard Cohen



ALWAYS Lyrics




(By Irving Berlin)

(Oh friends, ... don't matter if you're a man or a woman.
If you're in love with somebody,
these are the words that you got to learn to say.
Now listen carefully. Here it comes...)

I'll be loving you always
with a love that's true, always
When the thing you've planned
needs my helping hand,
I will understand, always, always

Days may not be fair, always
Yeah but that's when I'll be there, always
Not for just an hour,
Not for just a day,
Not for just a year, but always.

I said that I'll be loving you, always
with a love that's true, always.
When the thing you've planned
needs my helping hand,
I will, I will understand, always, always

(Oh that's pretty ... that's pretty too ... Oh darling)

The days may not be fair, always
Yeah but that's when I'll be there, always
Not for just a second, or a minute, or an hour,
Not for just a weekend and a shake down in the shower,
Not for just the summer and the winter going sour,
But always, always, always


(Ok if you don't want to quit, let's try it one more time)

I'll be loving you, always
with a love that's true, always.
When the thing you've planned
needs my helping hand,
I will understand, I will, I will understand, always, always

The days may not be fair, always
(Don't worry, baby)
That's when I'll be there, always
Not for just an hour,
Not for just a day,
Not for just a year, but always.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 61
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History
Which is my little boy
Posted: 1/1/2007 5:02:58 PM
Mandi ~~ I lost my copy of In the Winter of Cities during one of my (many) moves. Spent my first year on ebay finding a replacement. Over the years, I'd kind of changed some of his poetry around a bit, lol! Wasn't hard though to get back to the original. I *love* Atwood: my God! what a brain/soul/talent that woman has!
 Mandielove
Joined: 11/25/2006
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Which is my little boy
Posted: 1/2/2007 8:24:30 AM
I alos adore Lenoard Cohen. He's completely tone deaf but his lyrics are alot like poetry. I love Suzanne by him:


Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.



He wrote this about this woman, Suzanne. She lives in California now, still a hippy, and tells everyone she is Suzanne. I thought it was cute.
 alyosha
Joined: 11/13/2006
Msg: 63
Which is my little boy
Posted: 1/2/2007 9:56:28 AM
Yo, Mandie! You want Canajun? You want what L. Cohen will never be? Get ahold of an album by Gilles Vigneault & hear him sing his own songs, including this one (translation follows) Or email me for my phone # or send me yours and I will sing it to you (moderately off-key):

* SI LES BATEAUX

Si les bateaux que nous avons bâtis
Prennent la mer avant que je revienne
Cargue ta voile, aussi la mienne
Fais comme si... fais comme si
Nous en étions toujours les capitaines
Nous en étions toujours les capitaines

REFRAIN:
Profond comme au large de l'íle
Doux comme une aile d'istorlet
Loin comme l'Angleterre
Je t'aimerai
Je t'aimerai

Si les trésors dont nous avions la clé
Le plan la carte et la belle aventure
N'étaient que rêve et qu'imposture
Évoque-les... évoque-les
Par des drapeaux de plus dans les mâtures
Par des drapeaux de plus dans les mâtures

REFRAIN

Si je me fais facteur ou jardinier
Ne me viens plus parler de contrebande
Mais si tu veux que je me pende
Au grand hunier... au grand hunier
Raconte-moi que tu as vu l'Irlande
Raconte-moi que tu as vu l'Irlande

REFRAIN

words & music: Gilles Vigneault

If The boats
If all the boats that we have built
Take to the sea before I return
Hoist your sail, and mine as well
Pretend as if... pretend as if
We have always been the captains
We have always been the captains

Chorus: As deep as the open water off the island,
As soft as the wing of a starling,
As far away as England,
I shall love you
I shall love you

If the treasure for which we held the key
The plan, the map and the beautiful adventure
Were nothing but a dream and a deception
Summon them up... summon them up
By placing more flags on the rigging
By placing more flags on the rigging

Chorus

If I should become a merchant or a gardener
Don’t come around to talk to me of contraband
But if you want me to hang myself
From the highest mast... from the highest mast
Tell me that you have seen Ireland
Tell me that you have seen Ireland

Chorus
 woobytoodsday
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Tell me that you have seen Ireland
Posted: 1/2/2007 4:39:13 PM
Canajun? Is that related to Cajun? Seriously, that is rather fine. And lovely. Thanks!

And Mandi, thank you, too.
 woobytoodsday
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Especially for NaiveandWitty ~~
Posted: 1/2/2007 9:31:26 PM
Maori folk song

I have suitors at my door
oh ha lay ho bah hi lah
Six or eight or even more
oh ha lay ho bah hi lah
And my father wants me wed
oh ha lay ho bah hi lah
Or at least that's what he said.
oh ha lay ho bah hi lah

oh lay ho la
oh ha lay ho bah hi lah
oh lay ho la
oh ha lay ho bah hi lah

I have told him that I will
oh ha lay ho bah hi lah
When the river runs up hill
oh ha lay ho bah hi lah
Or when fish begin to fly
oh ha lay ho bah hi lah
Or the day before I die
oh ha lay ho bah hi lah

Us liberated Mormon girl camp counselors taught this to all our campers when we were young thangs, lol!
 woobytoodsday
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/2/2007 9:48:48 PM
Traveling Through The Dark

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason--
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all--my only swerving--,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

William Stafford
 edjoecdn
Joined: 5/25/2006
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/3/2007 10:54:32 AM
A whisper from the darkness,… a tender touch.
A body warmth shared,… part of what I miss so much.
Is it right to “long” for a dream,…. that may never happen.
Or is this where “hope” comes in… or fate as in some other cases .
A complement to my existence…… and I to hers !
That “ best” friend is what I’m missing !!!


The one that’ll hold my hand, when things get tough..
Who’ll trust in me,….
Not only to try to “make it right”….
But also trust in me, all her secrets in allowing me,… to share in her life.

You know…..!!! One of those,…thru “thick and thin” types;
Where the feelings not only survive…..but the closeness and emotions thrive.
Out of the doom and gloom this world has to offer…
A love that continues to grow…. With each disaster ..survived!
Is such commitment a fantasy in today’s selfish world…
Where for the most part, it’s all about the “me”

I’d like to think that while my heart is gold and somewhat scarred,
I’ve the wisdom to recognize an opportunity when it arises…
Another chance at love, as I have described it above.
A best friend, a confidant, a partner,…. a lover,
Asking for nothing other than what I myself am offering.
A true heart, affection, care and concern.. ,
honesty and sincerity and of course consideration
Willing to help in any way I can..
If only this “true love” will come along soon…

Until then , this time I wait for... will remain in my hopes and dreams..

waiting and watching .. for a "final" true love to begin.....

Edjoecdn - wpg,Mb
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/3/2007 12:39:30 PM
PAINFUL BLESSINGS
by Rob Brezsny

This is a perfect moment.
It's a perfect moment for many reasons,
but especially because you and I
are waking up
from our sleepwalking thumbsucking dumbclucking collusion
with the masters of illusion and destruction.
Thanks to them, from whom the painful blessings flow,
We are waking up.
Thanks to them, from whom the awful teachings ooze,
We are waking up.
Their wars and tortures,
their devils and borders,
extinctions of species
and brand new diseases,
their spying and lying
in the name of the father,
sterilizing seeds and
trademarking water,
stealing our dreams and
changing our names,
their brilliant commercials,
their endless rehearsals
for the end of the world.
Thanks to them, from whom the painful blessings flow,
We are waking up.
Thanks to them, from whom the awful teachings ooze,
We are waking up
Their painful blessings
are cracking open holes
in the sour and puckered
mass hallucination
mistakenly called reality.
News of the soul's true home
is pouring in,
infiltrating our increasingly lucid
waking dreams.
Wild ripe juicy eternity
is flooding in.
Our allies
from the other side of the veil
are swarming in.
We're waking up.
And as Heaven and Earth come together,
as the dreamtime and daytime merge,
as paradise and the underworld overlap,
we register the shockingly exhilarating fact
that we are in charge
-- you and I are in charge --
of making a brand new world.
Not in some distant time or faraway place,
but right here and right now.
As we stand on this brink,
as we dance on this verge,
we can't let the ruling fools of the dying world
sustain their curses.
We have to rise up and fight their insane logic;
defy and resist and prevent their tragic magic;
unleash our sacred rage and let them feel it.
But overthrowing the living dead is not enough.
Protesting the well-dressed monsters is not enough.
We can't afford to be consumed with anger --
can't be obsessed and possessed with complaint.
Our sweet animal bodies
need to feel rowdy blessings.
Our amazing imaginations
need to thrive on missions
that incite our delight.
We need truths in their wild state,
insurrectionary beauty
that excites our curiosity,
outrageous goodness
that drives us to perform
heroic acts of lusty compassion,
ingenious love
that endlessly transforms us,
tricky freedom
that is never permanent
but must be reinvented and reclaimed every day,
and a totally-serious-yet-always-laughing justice
that schemes and dreams
about how to diminish the suffering
and increase the joy
of every sentient being.
So I'm radically curious, my fellow creators;
I'm seriously delirious:
Since we are in charge
of making a brand New World,
where do we begin?
What truths in their wild state
are we planning to plant
at the heart of our creation?
What stories will be our reminders?
What questions will be our fuel?
Here's one for you:
In the New World
you will know through and through
that life is crazily in love with you --
life is wildly and innocently in love with you.
In the New World,
you will know beyond a doubt
that thousands of secret helpers are
angling to turn you into
the gorgeous curiosity you were born to be.
But then here's the loaded question.
The love that life eternally floods you with
has not exactly been unrequited,
but there's room for you to be more demonstrative.
If life is wildly and innocently in love with you,
are you prepared to start loving life back
the way it loves you?
In the New World, you will.
In the New World,
you will reject paranoia with all of your smart heart.
Instead, you will embrace Pronoia,
Which is the opposite of paranoia.
Pronoia is the sneaking suspicion
that the whole living world
is conspiring to shower you with rowdy blessings.
Pronoia is the dawning perception
that life is a conspiracy
to liberate you from ignorance,
and fill you with love,
and make you brilliantly soulful.
My fellow creators,
I want you to know
that I am allergic to dogma.
I don't trust any idea
that requires me to believe in it absolutely.
There are very few things
about which I am totally certain.
But I am absolutely certain
that Pronoia describes the way the world actually is.
Pronoia is wetter than water,
truer than the facts,
and stronger than death.
It smells like cedar smoke in spring rain,
and if you close your eyes right now,
you can feel it shimmering
in your soft warm animal body
like the aurora borealis.
The sweet stuff that quenches all of your longing
is not far away in some other time and place.
It's right here and right now.
Earth is crammed with heaven.



 Mandielove
Joined: 11/25/2006
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Which is my little boy
Posted: 1/3/2007 1:45:36 PM
lol Thanks for the Offer Alyosha. I'll try and find him. Better then L. Cohen though...that might be a hard sell.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/3/2007 3:58:02 PM
edjoe ~~ I think that love, like life, is something that happens when you are on your way to the bazaar for blood oranges. . . .

2007 looks to me to be a good year for blood oranges.

 alyosha
Joined: 11/13/2006
Msg: 71
Tell me that you have seen Ireland
Posted: 1/3/2007 4:20:03 PM

Canajun? Is that related to Cajun? Seriously, that is rather fine. And lovely.


Nah, but it’s kinda how we “Hosers” pronounce it. But do yourself a serious favour and either download Gilles Vigneault singing this or send away for the CD called by his name.

I went to a concert of his once in British Columbia where probably the majority of the audience were displaced Francophone Quebeckers. I sang along with several of the songs. His last song of the evening was going to be “Mon Pays:”


Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Mon jardin ce n'est pas un jardin, c'est la plaine
Mon chemin ce n'est pas un chemin, c'est la neige
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver


Which has practically become the Quebec national anthem. I began to sing along with that too when I noticed a man across the aisle gesturing at me. I thought, Oh, [naughty word], he’s probably pissed off at me for singing in my atrocious accent! but it turned out he wanted me to stand up as he & the rest of the audience proceeded to do and arms across each others’ shoulders, left & right, swaying to the melody, we all sang together!
 woobytoodsday
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Tell me that you have seen Ireland
Posted: 1/3/2007 10:41:47 PM
Ordered/on its way. Wonderful story, Jerry, wonderful.

Odd tie-in, perhaps: the working title of what will likely be my last novel (if that) is The Winter Garden. Hadn't thought about it in a while. Prolly couldn't even find the draft of a very small beginning. Been busy with the blood oranges, you see. And, of course, it's not French (of any variety) at all.

 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/4/2007 10:14:49 PM
"The world is too dangerous for anything but truth and too small for anything but love." ~~ William Sloane Coffin
 woobytoodsday
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/7/2007 2:48:20 PM
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

Tess Eliot, of course
 woobytoodsday
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“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 1/9/2007 1:42:31 PM
Alan's Heifer

tears or fears
or both
my neighbor's call had an edge
that had me hurry
"Can you come and help load cattle"
"They won't let me help."
so I expected an out of control bull
or a busted corral fence
with jumpers running loose
but when you are a 73 year old widow
asking for help in farm country
you're never turned down
whatever the reason

stubborn old beef cow
didn't want to load
and the rest came back off
when the door didn't close quickly
but cows can count to three
and outnumbered
on they all went
calving season over
the old girls that hadn't conceived
were headed for a burger barn
and had spent the last night
in the old red home

well now the tears were real
as the trailer pulled off
I had heard right
when she called
so gently now an "OK?"
and she shook her head no
"That was Alan's Heifer."

she didn't have to say more.
They were headed to the river fishing
in too big a hurry to shag in the round bales
the day the Oliver ended upside down
on her son on that steep hill
past the barn
"That makes her 20" I said
"You never forget; he was so proud of her fat first calf"
now she was gone
and no matter how many more cattle
came and went (we come and go)
the barn will always be empty

"you never forget"


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Phil Specht
April 28, 2005©
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