Writers: Pretty Alice, Scoundrel Ghost and Scary Halloween. Someone wrote: Beware those who do not filter their own feelings, beliefs, or actions because of the potential consequences of other people’s opinions and judgement.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Banana Slip or Freudian Split?
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Prince by Giacomo Puccini
| Posted by Scary Halloween | |
| Nessun dorma, nessun dorma ... Tu pure, o Principessa, Nella tua fredda stanza, Guardi le stelle Che tremano d'amore E di speranza. | No one sleeps, no one sleeps... Even you, o Princess, In your cold room, Watch the stars, That tremble with love And with hope. |
| Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me, Il nome mio nessun saprà, no, no, Sulla tua bocca lo dirò Quando la luce splenderà, Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio Che ti fa mia. | But my secret is hidden within me; My name no one shall know, no, no, On your mouth I will speak it* When the light shines, And my kiss will dissolve the silence That makes you mine. |
| Il nome suo nessun saprà E noi dovrem, ahimè, morir. | No one will know his name And we must, alas, die. |
| Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle! All'alba vincerò! | Vanish, o night! Set**, stars! At daybreak, I shall conquer! |
Friday, October 9, 2009
WARNING BEWARE: Normal is a relative term.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
I HAVE NEVER
There are no
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Like This Together by Adrienne Rich
Like This Together
1.
Wind rocks the car.
We sit parked by the river,
silence between our teeth.
Birds scatter across islands
of broken ice. Another time
I'd have said, "Canada geese,"
knowing you love them.
A year, ten years from now
I'll remember this—
this sitting like drugged birds
in a glass case—
not why, only that we
were here like this together.
2.
They're tearing down, tearing up
this city block, block by block
Rooms cut in half
hang like flayed carcasses,
their old roses in rags,
famous streets have forgotten
where they were going. Only
a fact could be so dreamlike.
They're tearing down the houses
we met and lived in,
soon our two bodies will be all
left standing from that era.
3.
We have, as they say,
certain things in common.
I mean: a view
from a bathroom window
over slate to stiff pigeons
huddled every morning; the way
water tastes from our tap,
which you marvel at, letting
it splash into the glass.
Because of you I notice
the taste of water,
a luxury I might
otherwise have missed.
4.
Our words misunderstand us.
Sometimes at night
you are my mother:
old detailed griefs
twitch at my dreams, and I
crawl against you, fighting
for shelter, making you
my cave. Sometimes
you're the wave of birth
that drowns me in my first
nightmare. I suck the air.
Miscarried knowledge twists us
like hot sheets askew.
5.
Dead winter doesn't die,
it wears away, a piece of carrion
picked clean at last,
rained away or burnt dry.
Our desiring does this,
make no mistake, I'm speaking
of fact: through mere indifference
we could prevent it.
Only our fierce attention
gets hyacinths out of those
hard cerebral lumps,
unwraps the wet buds down
the whole length of a stem.
6.
The severed hand still suffers
beyond the stump.
But new life, how do we bare it?
You or huge tree when lightning strikes.
Fresh new flames spurting
through our old sealed skins,
susceptibilities ours, and yet not ours
sucking blind power from our roots.
What is there to do but
hold on to the one thing we know,
grip Earth and let burn.