Every time I read this my pulse goes up... I adore this guy
Declaration of the Halfrican Nation
by Wayde Compton
hazel's so definitive. is the window
half open or half closed? is a black
rose natural? is it indigenous to this
coast? my grammar teacher said a semi-
colon is just a gutless colon; yellow. co-
conuts get eaten from the inside, the sweetness
and light from the milk and flesh, not
the husk, so skull-like. one
friend said she's white except
for having this brown skin and some-
times she forgets it until a mirror shatters
that conclusion casting backwards glances side-
ways, askance processions of belonging, possession. mirrors walk
on two legs too sometimes, saying hello to you cause
you are brown
as we pass. what is britannia
to me? one three continents removed
from the scenes my mothers loved,
misty grove, english rose,
what is britannia to me?
ain't no negroes on the tv shoes we
produced in playground theaters; now
there's so many on screen a white acquaintance of mine
thought the us population was half
black! one drop rules aside and all
things being equal, I'd say that signifies
an inexorable triumph of mlk's dream. we numb-
er a dozen percent, in fact, south
of the border; in canada, I really couldn't
begin to guess our numbers crunching
through the snow on shoes of woven
koya. black hippes; black punk rockers;
black goths with white masks literally
multiply like flesh-eating bacteria on the west coast. racism
is a disease, the ministry decrees to me in my bus seat
from an ad, and I could add
that this is just the latest stage in race management. canada all
in a rush to recruit more brown whites; entre-
preneurs only, no more slaves or railroad builders,
iron chinks or tempered ******s. the wages
of empire have yet to be spilled. oka. all
I halfta do is spell it and the settled snow shivers. one settler,
one bullet, south africans sang, palestinians sing; the tune
is bloomin. is the mention
of bullets too american? the best way
anyone ever referred to be as mixed-race was a jamaican
woman who said, I notice you're touched. to
me sounded like she meant by the hand of god
(or the god of hands), and not the tar brush. made me
feel like a motherless child a long, long way
from my home. feel like history got me
by the throat. sometimes I feel like franz fanon's ghost
is kickin back with a coke and rum having
a good chuckle at all this, stirring in his tears, his work
done, lounging with the spirits. oh, all
my fellow mixed sisters and brothers let us mount
an offensive for our state. surely something
can be put together from the tracts, manifestos, auto-
biographies, ten-point programs, constitutions, and historical
claims. I know more than enough who've ex-
pressed an interest in dying on the wire just for the victory
of being an agreed-upon proper noun
More money, less integrity.
I love all works by Lord Byron but this one is my favourite
Remember Thee! Remember Thee!
Remember thee! remember thee!
Till Lethe quench life's burning stream
Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,
And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remember thee! Aye, doubt it not.
Thy husband too shall think of thee:
By neither shalt thou be forgot,
Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!
Has anyone heard 'She walks in beauty' in musical form? I believe it was Sissel who covered it. I think it was featured on the Vanity Fair soundtrack.
More than 10 years ago, an old friend sent me this poem, she said she had to think of me when she read it. It's been one of my fav since then.
W. E. Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbow'd.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
*******do what u want, this is your party*******
(> <) http://www.myspace.com/74783036
She does not know
She thinks her brown body
Has no glory.
If she could dance
Under palm trees
And see her image in the river
She would know.
But there are no palm trees
On the street,
And dishwater gives back no images.
Amour Comme Hiver
Possibly the most beautiful thing ever put on paper, and I usually can't stand poetry. This is hands down my favorite (along with Twinkle, Twinkle Little Bat by Lewis Carroll). :p
"I say, let's have happy clothes. You could reply that's frivolous in this troubled world, but do you really think dressing like an existential nun with suicidal thoughts is going to solve Bosnia?"
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
"Hey open wide here comes original sin" -Regina Spektor
MONAJ.NET IS BACK: updated May 19
Daffodils by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
To be honest, I hate poetry...I always feel like it is SO pretentious and always takes itself SO seriously...but I love these poems because they are neither pretentious or serious!
"Kubla Khan" by Coleridge
"How Doth the Little Crocodile" by Lewis Carroll
"Twinkle, Twinkle Little Bat" by Lewis Carroll
"DIOR, NOT WAR!"
The future is stupid
by Rainer Maria Rilke
You darkness from which I come,
I love you more than all the fires
that fence out the world,
for the fire makes a circle
so that no one sees you anymore.
But darkness holds it all:
the shape and the flame,
the animal and myself,
how it holds them,
all powers, all sight -
and it is possible: its great strength
is breaking into my body.
I have faith in the night.
Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
The future is stupid
Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me
by Mary Oliver
spoke to me
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth!
That's what it said
as it dropped,
smelling of iron,
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain -
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.
Last edited by MissMagAddict; 06-05-2008 at 02:13 AM.
Oh hear since the world's reality is illusion
How long will you complain about this torment?
Resign your body to fate and put up with the pain
Because what the pen has written for you it will not unwrite
reading The Beautiful and Damned by F Scott Fitzgerald -> completed 0
Lilies, Mary Oliver
I have been thinking
like the lilies
that blow in the fields.
They rise and fall
in the edge of the wind,
and have no shelter
from the tongues of the cattle,
and have no closets or cupboards,
and have no legs.
Still I would like to be
as the old idea.
But if I were a lily
I think I would wait all day
for the green face
of the hummingbird
to touch me.
What I mean is,
could I forget myself
even in those feathery fields?
When Van Gogh
preached to the poor
of course he wanted to save someone--
most of all himself.
He wasn't a lily,
and wandering through the bright fields
only gave him more ideas
it would take his life to solve.
I think I will always be lonely
in this world, where the cattle
graze like a black and white river--
where the vanishing lilies
melt, without protest, on their tongues--
where the hummingbird, whenever there is a fuss,
just rises and floats away.
le rêve est réalité...
Twilight by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The twilight is sad and cloudy,
The wind blows wild and free,
And like the wings of sea-birds
Flash the white caps of the sea.
But in the fisherman's cottage
There shines a ruddier light,
And a little face at the window
Peers out into the night.
Close, close it is pressed to the window,
As if those childish eyes
Were looking into the darkness,
To see some form arise.
And a woman's waving shadow
Is passing to and fro,
Now rising to the ceiling,
Now bowing and bending low.
What tale do the roaring ocean,
And the night-wind, bleak and wild,
As they beat at the crazy casement,
Tell to that little child?
And why do the roaring ocean,
And the night-wind, wild and bleak,
As they beat at the heart of the mother,
Drive the colour from her cheek?
While You Were Sleeping
By Alicia Click
While You Were Sleeping
While you were sleeping I felt your heart beating.
While you were sleeping in my head love was repeating.
While you were sleeping all I could do was smile.
While you were sleeping I watched you for a while.
While you were sleeping I always held your hand.
While you were sleeping I knew where my heart would land.
While you were sleeping you would hold me near.
While you were sleeping I would cry all my tears.
While you were sleeping from you I knew I wouldn't part.
While you were sleeping I gave to you my heart.
A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
Last edited by nnzr; 11-05-2008 at 06:21 PM.