redstapler: (Chin Up)
Resume

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

-- Dorothy Parker
redstapler: (Default)
Resume

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

-- Dorothy Parker
redstapler: (Handgun)
As I've gotten older, I've found I really can't stand this play. I still really love the prologue, though...

Prologue to Romeo and Juliet

Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whole misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

William Shakespeare
redstapler: (Default)
As I've gotten older, I've found I really can't stand this play. I still really love the prologue, though...

Prologue to Romeo and Juliet

Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whole misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

William Shakespeare
redstapler: (Chin Up)
The Lady's Reward

Lady, lady, never start
Conversation toward your heart;
Keep your pretty words serene;
Never murmur what you mean.
Show yourself, by word and look,
Swift and shallow as a brook.
Be as cool and quick to go
As a drop of April snow;
Be as delicate and gay
As a cherry flower in May.
Lady, lady, never speak
Of the tears that burn your cheek-
She will never win him, whose
Words had shown she feared to lose.
Be you wise and never sad,
You will get your lovely lad.
Never serious be, nor true,
And your wish will come to you-
And if that makes you happy, kid,
You'll be the first it ever did.

Dorothy Parker
redstapler: (Default)
The Lady's Reward

Lady, lady, never start
Conversation toward your heart;
Keep your pretty words serene;
Never murmur what you mean.
Show yourself, by word and look,
Swift and shallow as a brook.
Be as cool and quick to go
As a drop of April snow;
Be as delicate and gay
As a cherry flower in May.
Lady, lady, never speak
Of the tears that burn your cheek-
She will never win him, whose
Words had shown she feared to lose.
Be you wise and never sad,
You will get your lovely lad.
Never serious be, nor true,
And your wish will come to you-
And if that makes you happy, kid,
You'll be the first it ever did.

Dorothy Parker
redstapler: (Meliora di Greco)
The Most of It - Robert Frost

He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer could he wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff's talus on the other side
And then in the far distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush - and that was all.

The General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales - Geoffrey Chaucer (well, the first 14 lines anyway...)

Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages-
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
redstapler: (Default)
The Most of It - Robert Frost

He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer could he wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff's talus on the other side
And then in the far distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush - and that was all.

The General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales - Geoffrey Chaucer (well, the first 14 lines anyway...)

Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages-
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
redstapler: (Default)
I forgot to post a poem today. So you get two. One is one of mine! :)

NYC 4/Any Year - Me

Forget Paris
New York in April is best
When everyone comes out of hiding
sitting and smoking and sipping
their coffees and teas
in their Birks and their Tevas
discussing philosophy
out by the Lions

When the trees change from white to green
the nowhere near to setting sun
high over the Hudson
(I guess that'll have to wait till
sometime between 7 and 8)

When shopping sprees on Canal
seem more for the walk than the price
and the buses are empty because
it's just too damn nice
not to walk and talk
or sit outside smoking and sipping your coffee or tea
sitting anywhere
discussing philosophy

Title Unknown - Ellis Graveworthy

Derwent College, Oxford, '36
My father's laughter still in echoed halls
The disapproving click of heels on stone
And time, as ever, subjugating all.
Two hours each week I had, in colonnades
Arched slyly over walkways few will see.
My father's world is books and wooden chairs
A lifetime spent in peaceful academe.
But passion spirals down another path
In dreams of books and chairs of different kind
And fame unwanted crowned my sandy head
The colonnades unfaded from my mind.
Sometimes it longs for rich obscurity
(My father walks with Tolkien and Belloc)
But dreams of quiet contemplation yet
Must wait for one more poem, one more book.
Such silence as my father's study saves
Awaits, as my inheritance, the grave.
redstapler: (Default)
I forgot to post a poem today. So you get two. One is one of mine! :)

NYC 4/Any Year - Me

Forget Paris
New York in April is best
When everyone comes out of hiding
sitting and smoking and sipping
their coffees and teas
in their Birks and their Tevas
discussing philosophy
out by the Lions

When the trees change from white to green
the nowhere near to setting sun
high over the Hudson
(I guess that'll have to wait till
sometime between 7 and 8)

When shopping sprees on Canal
seem more for the walk than the price
and the buses are empty because
it's just too damn nice
not to walk and talk
or sit outside smoking and sipping your coffee or tea
sitting anywhere
discussing philosophy

Title Unknown - Ellis Graveworthy

Derwent College, Oxford, '36
My father's laughter still in echoed halls
The disapproving click of heels on stone
And time, as ever, subjugating all.
Two hours each week I had, in colonnades
Arched slyly over walkways few will see.
My father's world is books and wooden chairs
A lifetime spent in peaceful academe.
But passion spirals down another path
In dreams of books and chairs of different kind
And fame unwanted crowned my sandy head
The colonnades unfaded from my mind.
Sometimes it longs for rich obscurity
(My father walks with Tolkien and Belloc)
But dreams of quiet contemplation yet
Must wait for one more poem, one more book.
Such silence as my father's study saves
Awaits, as my inheritance, the grave.
redstapler: (Lost Girls)
More e. e. cummings...

"kitty". sixteen,5'1",white,prostitute.

ducking always the touch of must and shall,
whose slippery body is Death's littlest pal,

skilled in quick softness. Unspontaneous. cute.

the signal perfume of whose unrepute
focusses in the sweet slow animal
bottomless eyes importantly banal,

Kitty. a whore. Sixteen
you corking brute
amused from time to time by clever drolls
fearsomely who do keep their sunday flower.
The babybreasted broad "kitty" twice eight

—beer nothing,the lady'll have a whiskey-sour—

whose least amazing smile is the most great
common divisor of unequal souls.
redstapler: (Default)
More e. e. cummings...

"kitty". sixteen,5'1",white,prostitute.

ducking always the touch of must and shall,
whose slippery body is Death's littlest pal,

skilled in quick softness. Unspontaneous. cute.

the signal perfume of whose unrepute
focusses in the sweet slow animal
bottomless eyes importantly banal,

Kitty. a whore. Sixteen
you corking brute
amused from time to time by clever drolls
fearsomely who do keep their sunday flower.
The babybreasted broad "kitty" twice eight

—beer nothing,the lady'll have a whiskey-sour—

whose least amazing smile is the most great
common divisor of unequal souls.
redstapler: (David)
Echoes of Home

Echoes of home are haunting me
It must be so but
Oh God, why me?
Like a stone thrown 'cross the water
My eyes across the crowd
How vain my hope sails on the day
Till nightfall drags it down
In hell the women scream in pain
That echoes down my hall again.
At night their voices waken me
And I clutch my heart, pray they'll leave.
"A TOAST TO THEE!" my host did shout
Tonight at dinner in this house
Yet now designs to murder me
And since I'm home
I cannot leave.

-Terry Moore
redstapler: (Default)
Echoes of Home

Echoes of home are haunting me
It must be so but
Oh God, why me?
Like a stone thrown 'cross the water
My eyes across the crowd
How vain my hope sails on the day
Till nightfall drags it down
In hell the women scream in pain
That echoes down my hall again.
At night their voices waken me
And I clutch my heart, pray they'll leave.
"A TOAST TO THEE!" my host did shout
Tonight at dinner in this house
Yet now designs to murder me
And since I'm home
I cannot leave.

-Terry Moore
redstapler: (Marylin Miller)
It's poetry month. I guess I'll partake this year. Go! (I warn you in advance, there will be a lot of e.e. cummings.)

somewhere i have never travelled

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-- e. e. cummings
redstapler: (Default)
It's poetry month. I guess I'll partake this year. Go! (I warn you in advance, there will be a lot of e.e. cummings.)

somewhere i have never travelled

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-- e. e. cummings

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redstapler: (Default)
A Punk Rock Joan Holloway Trying To Be Ianto Jones

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