dahlia_moon: (batgirl!steph)
"Has My Heart Gone to Sleep?"
By Antonio Machado

Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?

No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence.
dahlia_moon: (Stargate Dream)
"Dinner Guest: Me"
Langston Hughes

I know I am
The Negro Problem
Being wined and dined,
Answering the usual questions
That come to white mind
Which seeks demurely
To Probe in polite way
The why and wherewithal
Of darkness U.S.A.--
Wondering how things got this way
In current democratic night,
Murmuring gently
Over fraises du bois,
"I'm so ashamed of being white."

The lobster is delicious,
The wine divine,
And center of attention
At the damask table, mine.
To be a Problem on
Park Avenue at eight
Is not so bad.
Solutions to the Problem,
Of course, wait.
dahlia_moon: (Default)
"City Trees"
Edna St. Vincent Millay

The trees along this city street,
Save for the traffic and the trains,
Would make a sound as thin and sweet
As trees in country lanes.

And people standing in their shade
Out of a shower, undoubtedly
Would hear such music as is made
Upon a country tree.

Oh, little leaves that are so dumb
Against the shrieking city air,
I watch you when the wind has come,—
I know what sound is there.
dahlia_moon: (Default)
"Sonnet LXXXI"
Pablo Neruda

And now you're mine. Rest with your dream in my dream.
Love and pain and work should all sleep, now.
The night turns on its invisible wheels,
and you are pure beside me as a sleeping amber.

No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,
we will go together, over the waters of time.
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

Your hands have already opened their delicate fists
and let their soft drifting signs drop away; your eyes closed like two gray
wings, and I move

after, following the folding water you carry, that carries
me away. The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny.
Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.

Apparently, you can listen to Julia Roberts and Andy Garcia reciting this poem. I take it it's from those movies they did together? Ocean's Eleven? I've yet to watch them, so I have no idea.
dahlia_moon: (Jason Toddler)
I kinda dropped the ball on this project there for a couple days, but it has been a hectic week. Hopefully things will calm down a bit.

"A Hundred Ways To Say Your Name"
Tania De Rozario

I avoid speaking your name in conversation,
throwing it to the air as if it were nothing
more than an assumption of you; it is my last
mode of defence. The last item of clothing
to discard before I realise I’m naked in public.

Because they can hear it in my voice. I know.
Even in that one short syllable that means
everything and nothing; your name is as common
as you are rare. As easy as you are not.
As simple as love should be, but never is.

But when I’m alone, I tie my tongue softly
round the familiar sound, as if pronouncing
with conviction the phonetics of desire
will cause time to pause just long enough
for the earth to hear me naming my loss.
dahlia_moon: (maria)
"Holy Sonnet #14"
John Donne

Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Stumbled upon this code to have the lj-cut image go back to its former design, for those who are finding the scissors image ugly: http://xylodemon.livejournal.com/473217.html

Personally, I don't care either way. I'm kinda ambivalent more often than not when LJ decides to change things. Could be because I've totally moved over to Dreamwidth - well, besides just the friendslist and a few comms here and there that aren't on DW. But, god, I can't stand updating through LJ anymore - why is the update window all shrunken down over? or am I imagining that?
dahlia_moon: (girl power)
"Ode on Melancholy"
John Keats

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
dahlia_moon: (Default)
Rane Arroyo

We met in proud Utah and wore opaque
vodka on those vague Sundays for the
unfaithful on your dangling back porch
while dreaming of the very New York

where we entangled for the last time.
Te quiero, you said there, my ears as
paths. You then vanished with a macho
because I had a lover, because we’d

never ride across Russia together in
that frozen train, because listening
to A Chorus Line all those weekends
didn’t teach us the foreign language

of our bodies, because of your career
as a model after years as a military
mannequin, because we never expected
adios to be our actual parting last word.

Because, because, and because. You
turned around to stare at me and I waved
back: I love you too. What an education:
poetry always demands all my ghosts.


Also, saw the s6 finale of Psych. WTF?!! Seriously, that ending still has me shocked and angry. And season seven won't be premiering until the fall, which seems like years away. (If anyone else on my flist sees it, PLEASE TALK TO ME ABOUT IT. BECAUSE I CAN'T HANDLE IT. Especially what happened *before* the last five minutes.)
dahlia_moon: (maria)
Cathy Song

He thinks when we die we’ll go to China.
Think of it—a Chinese heaven
where, except for his blond hair,
the part that belongs to his father,
everyone will look like him.
China, that blue flower on the map,
bluer than the sea
his hand must span like a bridge
to reach it.
An octave away.

I’ve never seen it.
It’s as if I can’t sing that far.
But look—
on the map, this black dot.
Here is where we live,
on the pancake plains
just east of the Rockies,
on the other side of the clouds.
A mile above the sea,
the air is so thin, you can starve on it.
No bamboo trees
but the alpine equivalent,
reedy aspen with light, fluttering leaves.
Did a boy in Guangzhou dream of this
as his last stop?

I’ve heard the trains at night
whistling past our yards,
what we’ve come to own,
the broken fences, the whiny dog, the rattletrap cars.
It’s still the wild west,
mean and grubby,
the shootouts and fistfights in the back alley.
With my son the dreamer
and my daughter, who is too young to walk,
I’ve sat in this spot
and wondered why here?
Why in this short life,
this town, this creek they call a river?

He had never planned to stay,
the boy who helped to build
the railroads for a dollar a day.
He had always meant to go back.
When did he finally know
that each mile of track led him further away,
that he would die in his sleep,
having seen Gold Mountain,
the icy wind tunneling through it,
these landlocked, makeshift ghost towns?

It must be in the blood,
this notion of returning.
It skipped two generations, lay fallow,
the garden an unmarked grave.
On a spring sweater day
it’s as if we remember him.
I call to the children.
We can see the mountains
shimmering blue above the air.
If you look really hard
says my son the dreamer,
leaning out from the laundry’s rigging,
the work shirts fluttering like sails,
you can see all the way to heaven.
dahlia_moon: (Default)
"Practising Bach"
Jan Zwicky

for performance with Bach's E Major
Partita for Solo Violin, BMV 1006


There is, said Pythagoras, a sound
the planet makes: a kind of music
just outside of our hearing, the proportion
and the resonance of things — not
the clang of theory or the wuthering
of human speech, not even
the bright song of sex or hunger, but
the unrung ringing that
supports them all.

The wife, no warning, dead
when you come home. Ducats
on the fishheads that you salvaged
from the rubbish heap. Is the cosmos
laughing at us? No. It's saying
improvise. Everywhere you look
there's beauty, and it's rimed
with death. If you find injustice
you'll find humans, and this means
that if you listen, you'll find love.
The substance of the world is light,
is water: here, clear
even when it's dying; even when the dying
seems unbearable, it runs.
dahlia_moon: (Default)
"April in Maine"
May Sarton

The days are cold and brown,
Brown fields, no sign of green,
Brown twigs, not even swelling,
And dirty snow in the woods.

But as the dark flows in
The tree frogs begin
Their shrill sweet singing,
And we lie on our beds
Through the ecstatic night,
Wide awake, cracked open.

There will be no going back.
dahlia_moon: (Default)
I love people talking about their own writing and feedback and meta-ish thoughts on those subjects. So two links on Archive of Our Own's kudos function:
A year in kudos
in the fandom afternoon (this was linked in the first article about kudos)

Today's poem:

Charles Simic

I grew up bent over
a chessboard.

I loved the word endgame.

All my cousins looked worried.

It was a small house
near a Roman graveyard.
Planes and tanks
shook its windowpanes.

A retired professor of astronomy
taught me how to play.

That must have been in 1944.

In the set we were using,
the paint had almost chipped off
the black pieces.

The white King was missing
and had to be substituted for.

I’m told but do not believe
that that summer I witnessed
men hung from telephone poles.

I remember my mother
blindfolding me a lot.
She had a way of tucking my head
suddenly under her overcoat.

In chess, too, the professor told me,
the masters play blindfolded,
the great ones on several boards
at the same time.

You can also listen to the poem being read by the author.

This poem might've come around during the last five National Poetry Month extravaganzas I did around here or not (Charles Simic has definitely been featured here before), I don't remember, but he is one of my favorite contemporary poets ever. Ever. 
dahlia_moon: (Default)
"My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" (Sonnet 130)
William Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

RL update )


And TV updates. Spoilers for One Tree Hill )
dahlia_moon: (Katara - Hearts)
"The English Are So Nice!"
D.H. Lawrence

The English are so nice
so awfully nice
they are the nicest people in the world.

And what’s more, they’re very nice about being nice
about your being nice as well!
If you’re not nice they soon make you feel it.

Americans and French and Germans and so on
they’re all very well
but they’re not really nice, you know.
They’re not nice in our sense of the word, are they now?

That’s why one doesn’t have to take them seriously.
We must be nice to them, of course,
of course, naturally—
But it doesn’t really matter what you say to them,
they don’t really understand—
you can just say anything to them:
be nice, you know, just be nice
but you must never take them seriously, they wouldn’t understand.
Just be nice, you know! oh, fairly nice,
not too nice of course, they take advantage—
but nice enough, just nice enough
to let them feel they’re not quite as nice as they might be.


Mar. 28th, 2012 02:28 pm
dahlia_moon: (Sirius from HP- I'm Sorry I Can't Hear Y)
Get ready guys: April is coming and I'm gonna try to post a poem every day in celebration of National Poetry Month. It's a very exciting time around here.

It's gonna come a little sooner than previous years. So to start off NPM, here have a poem:

Politeness by A. A. Milne

If people ask me,
I always tell them:
"Quite well, thank you, I'm very glad to say."
If people ask me,
I always answer,
"Quite well, thank you, how are you to-day?"
I always answer,
I always tell them,
If they ask me

I wish

That they wouldn't.

- from When We Were Very Young, 1924

(Also, lost my draft review of Fables on here that I was working on. Ah well. I have scribbled down the gist of it in my notebook when I wasn't paying attention in class so I have something to start from again, but man does this suck. Fables is a new comic that has me obsessed and staying up until all hours of the night/day reading it.)
dahlia_moon: (Toph/Sokka=Love)


When I fall asleep

my hands leave me.

They pick up pens

and draw creatures

with five feathers

on each wing.

The creatures multiply.

They say: "We are large

like your father's


They say: "We have

your mother's


I speak to them:

"If you are hands,

why don't you


And the wings beat

the air, clapping.

They fly

high above elbows

and wrists.

They open windows

and leave


They perch in treetops

and hide under bushes


their nails. "Hands,"

I call them.

But it is fall

and all creatures

with wings

prepare to fly



When I sleep

the shadows of my hands

come to me.

They are softer than feathers

and warm as creatures

who have been close

to the sun.

They say: "We are the giver,"

and tell of oranges

growing on trees.

They say: "We are the vessel,"

and tell of journeys

through water.

They say: "We are the cup."

And I stir in my sleep.

Hands pull triggers

and cut

trees. But

the shadows of my hands

tuck their heads

under wings


for morning,

when I will wake


three strands of hair

into one

Siv Cedering

From: www.poets.org

An epigram

Apr. 29th, 2008 07:43 pm
dahlia_moon: (PC Andy)

When the last fight is lost, the last sword broken;
The last call sounded, the last order spoken;
When from the field where braver hearts lie sleeping,
Faint, and athirst, and blinded, I come creeping,
With not one waving shred of palm to bring you,
With not one splendid battle-song to sing you,
O Love, in my dishonor and defeat,
Your measureless compassion will be sweet.

Sophia Jewett

From: poetryfoundation.org
dahlia_moon: (Dumbledore is gay)
What Changes, My Love

What changes, my love,
is the sunlight that slips
and shutters your smile for the night.

What rages, my love
is the night wind that grips
and slackens your hand on my heart.

What tames me, my love,
is your smile that alights
and raises the roof of the day.

What stays me, my love,
is your hand dripping honey
out of my skinflint heart.

Edwin Honig

From: Pocket Poems selected by Paul B. Janeczko

dahlia_moon: (Sokka-Sad)
She Put on Her Lipstick in the Dark

I really did meet a blind girl in Paris once.
It was in the garden of a museum,
Where I saw her touching the statues.
She had brown hair and an aquamarine scarf.

It was in the garden of the museum.
I told her I was a thief disguised as a guard.
She had brown hair and an aquamarine scarf.
She told me she was a student from Grenoble.

I told her I was not a thief disguised as a guard.
We had coffee at the little commissary.
She said she had time till her train to Grenoble.
We talked about our supreme belief in art.

We had coffee at the little commissary,
Then sat on a bench near the foundry.
We talked about our supreme belief in art.
She leaned her head upon my chest.

We kissed on a bench near the foundry.
I closed my eyes when no one was watching.
She leaned her head upon my chest.
The museum was closing. It was time to part.

I really did meet a blind girl in Paris once.
I never saw her again and she never saw me.
In a garden she touched the statues.
She put on her lipstick in the dark.

I close my eyes when no one is watching.
She had brown hair and an aquamarine scarf.
The museum was closing. It was time to part.
I never saw her again and she never saw me.

Stuart Dischell

From: www.theatlantic.com

dahlia_moon: (Doctor + Rose)
Calle Placida Luz de Luna

"Street of Placid Moonlight"? Gimme a break.
My aunt's Arizona subdivision
summoned all my Manhattan derision
-how corny, how gringo, how fake!
But when one night I took my daughter
out for a walk, the moon rode high, and lo,
the even sheen it cast across the faux-
adobe houses, and the way it caught her
exuberant small face, upturned in wonderment,
filled me with the kind of mild serenity
that had, coyotelike, eluded me
in every tranquil desert place we went;
not among the ironwoods and saguaros
but within that synthetic so-called estate,
I found calm indifference to the laws of fate
and a sudden lifting of all sorrows.
Past stagey aloes and transplanted mesquites,
beneath a cliché-encrusted moon,
we pottered along, perfectly in tune-
with what happy steps we walked those placid streets.

Ben Downing

From: www.theatlantic.com


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