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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in oh_deliver_me's LiveJournal:

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Sunday, January 29th, 2012
Jan 29th, 1:10pm
The Whole, Real Self
The important parts are bolded, with the rest included for context:

From Human Behavior in the Social Environment: A Social Systems Approach, by Irl Carter, the 6th edition:

Because males ordinarily separate from their mothers in order to identify with their own gender, and females do not, males employ a mode of relating that is oppositional, separatist, and places more importance upon abstract (rational and impersonal) principles than upon relationships with others. Males' styles of relating are presumably more compatible with bureaucratic (including military) ways of organizing their lives and activities. Conversely, women are presumably more (but not exclusively) compatible with informal styles of organization and communication, even within bureaucracies; "networking" is more characteristic of women as a style of relationship and communication.

Gilligan's statement of the difference is that men and women see attachment and separation differently: men see connection as a threat, while women see separation as a threat. Women view the fundamental issue in relationships as care and responsibility, rather than rights and rules (Gilligan, 1982). Gilligan concluded that women's logic is based on equality and reciprocity rather than an abstract conception of justice. "Women... associate moral behavior with obligation, sacrifice, and inhibitions against hurting others. They are reluctant to make moral judgments about other people and perceive a conflict between power and care" (Westkott, 1986:141). There may be a negative aspect of this role, however:

"The female altruist is not only the selfless caretaker of others but also the great mediator of this vast web of competing needs. Thus the moral paralysis that keeps her from taking a stand which would favor one person over another." (ibid.:143)

Gilligan maintained that women's position will change when "the concept of relationship changes from a bond of continuing dependence to a dynamic of interdependence. Then the notion of care expands... to an injunction to act responsively toward self and others and thus to sustain connection" (Gilligan, 1982:149). Later research has indicated that moral reasoning does not differ between genders to the degree that Gilligan theorized - that both genders base decisions on justice and caring.

Horney stated a similar, existentialist view...:

"By making self-responsibility her fundamental therapeutic goal, Horney reclaimed judgment as a human capacity that is not reducible to sexuality (libido), guilt (superego), or accommodation to external reality (ego). Freedom and responsibility of choice that draw upon a whole real self, not a segmented and managed self, bring to bear perception, cognition, feeling, and judgment." (Westkott, 1986:207)

Horney's view is highly congruent with a systems view of the relationship of the person and larger systems. Conflict within the person mirrors conflicts in the culture and society, and alteration of the feedback cycle (through locating and validating the "real self") can heal: "From [Horney's] perspective growth is self-directed life itself, and at its core is the central inner force that is the real self" (ibid.:71).

***

If one is not able to merge an intact sense of self with others, the outcome is a sense of isolation and polarization of affect ("I love..." or "I hate...")
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Thursday, July 15th, 2010
Jul 15th, 11:25pm
Remorse
Roar, lion of the heart,
and tear me open!

It is not possible to control the outside of yourself until you have mastered your breathing space. It is not possible to change anything until you understand the substance you wish to change. Of course people mutilate and modify, but these are fallen powers, and to change something you do not understand is the true nature of evil.

I am a mixed metaphor myself, consistency is one thing you cannot really expect from me.

I miss God. I miss the company of someone utterly loyal... I miss God who was my friend. I don't even know if God exists, but I do know that if God is your emotional role model, very few human relationships will match up to it. I have an idea that one day it might be possible, I thought once it had become possible, and that glimpse has set me wandering, trying to find the balance between earth and sky... As it is, I can't settle, I want someone who is fierce and will love me until death and know that love is as strong as death, and be on my side for ever and ever. I want someone who will destroy and be destroyed by me. There are many forms of love and affection, some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other's names. Naming is a difficult and time-consuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. But on the wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name. Romantic love has been diluted into paperback form and has sold thousands and millions of copies. Somewhere it is still in the original, written on tablets of stone. I would cross seas and suffer sunstroke and give away all i have...

The unknownness of my needs frightens me. I do not know how huge they are, or how high they are, I only know that they are not being met.

There is never just one transgression. There is a wound in the flesh of human life that scars when it heals and often enough seems never to heal at all. Avoid transgression. How's that for advice.

My point here is that you never do know the actual nature even of your own experience. Or perhaps it has no fixed and certain nature.

I just have trouble understanding how truth, all by itself, could be enough for a person.

This here's a re-search laboratory. Re-search means look again, don't it? Means they're looking for something they found once and it got away somehow, and now they got to re-search for it? How come they got to build a building like this, with mayonnaise elevators and all, and fill it with all these crazy people? What is it they're trying to find again? Who lost what?

I find out what I really want by seeing what I do... That's what we all do, if we're honest about it. We have our feelings, we make our decisions, but in the end we look back on our lives and see how sometimes we ignored our feelings, while most of our decisions were actually rationalizations because we had already decided in our secret hearts before we ever recognized it consciously. But this terrifies me.

You can know a thing to death and be for all purposes completely ignorant of it. A man can know his father, or his son, and there might still be nothing between them but loyalty and love and mutual incomprehension.

But the truth is that no person ever understands another, from beginning to end of life, there is no truth that can be known, only the story we imagine to be true, the story they tell us is true, the story they really believe to be true about themselves; and all of them lies.

That's life. It hurts, it's dirty, and it feels very, very good.

If anyone wins at all, I will win, he will win, not because of the glorious purity of our love, but because of the desperate hunger of the lovers.

you'll be forgiven for forgetting
that what you really want is
love's confusing joy.

Stop agreeing with everything I say! It's not as if you're going to solve everything by admitting your mistakes. Whether you admit them or not, mistakes are mistakes.

Stretch your arms

and take hold the cloth of your clothes
with both hands. The cure for pain is in the pain.
Good and bad are mixed. If you don't have both,
you don't belong with us.
When one of us gets lost,

is not here, he must be inside us. There's no
place like that anywhere in the world.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you felt my feet.

Stay here, quivering with each moment
like a drop of mercury.

Goodbye and good luck. I send you my love. (What if people really did that – sent their love through the mail to get rid of it? What would it be that they sent? A box of chocolates with centers like the yolks of turkeys' eggs. A mud doll with hollow eye sockets. A heap of roses slightly more fragrant than rotten. A package wrapped in bloody newspaper that nobody would want to open.) Take care of yourself.

Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, "It might have been."

Remorse is a virtue in that it is a stirrer up of the emotions but it is a folly to accept it as a criticism of conduct. So to accept it is to attempt to fit the emotions of a certain state to a preceding state to which they are in no way related. Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.

I am sorry that I cannot say anything more comforting.

--from The Book of Love, Oranges Aren't the Only Fruit, Patchwork Girl, Gilead, Cat's Cradle, Children of the Mind, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, Song of Myself (Leaves of Grass), Before the Change (The Love of a Good Woman), William Carlos Williams, and The Brothers Karamazov

But mostly from me.

Life, death, soul, God, past, present, not insuperable barriers, not semicolons. Just a comma.
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Saturday, February 6th, 2010
Feb 6th, 3:47pm
Which poem should I write a 4-5 page paper about?
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie.
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's sensual ecstasy.

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of sweetness show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find the mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness see you fed
By the involuntary powers.
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.

--W.H. Auden



I.

Not whipstitch nor blindstitch
nor any
sort of basting stitch I recognize, black

cordage, really, piercing its way from pubis
to breast-
bone - why not? - up to shoulder, the coroner's

question flatly left
to the body's
implacable gray. The part

in her hair is jagged too.
Amazing
what the flesh can make of all this in-

terruption. You've
gathered
that she's beautiful.

2.

When Megan chose the fifteenth-century sculpture
rooms, I
realized with some chagrin

she hadn't any notion who these
people
were. The one in blue,

I said, is Mary, and the one
she's
holding in her lap... til Megan

got the gist of it. And here,
I said,
is how you'll know him when they take

him down: five wounds. But my five-
year old
daughter saw six. Have I

told you - do you know for yourself - how the
sweetness
of creation may be summed up in the lightfall

on a young girl's cheek? The wound
she hadn't yet
learned to ignore, the mortal one, was where

the child had once been joined
to something else.

3.

She'd had worse news, the pale one, she'd felt terror
sink
its claw and hold, and never

had she lapsed into so lumpish
a cliche.
The bright young surgeon showed

her how to read the stark trans-
parency,
the telltale script of cells

gone wrong. And like some dull
beginner
she began to lose the edge of things

and had to sit (I'm
sorry),
had to drink some water (I'm

not like this, I can hear). The
punishment
for self-absorbed, she thought, is self-

absorbed. And all this black periphery
is chiefly
lack of blood flow to the

brain. Poor brain. It's body too.
Is this,
this old embarrassment, the way I'll know?

4.

The woman in the photograph is
lying
on a pallet made of wood. And though

her abdomen appears to have been
packed
again in haste and though the breast

is badly sewn,
her hips
are smooth parentheses, her cheekbones

high, her lovely arms disposed as though
in langour
or luxurious thought. They took

my mother's teeth away - they had
to, I can
understand - the morphine I'd bullied them

into providing was meager
and frequently
late. And so my mother's face was not

the face I knew. But, reader,
her
fine forehead was a blessing on the place.

The lesson, though I'm clumsy here, has something
to do

5.

with beauty and use.

The sculptors whose grammar my Megan
recites -
a hole in each hand, a hole

in each foot, an entry
point
beneath the breast - believed we get our

bodies back. And all the urgent calculus
that death
can found and dis-

solution expedite was lavished in that era
on this one
account:

What of the fingernails? What
of the hair?
The menses? The milk? The proud-

flesh worn for heaven's sake?
Who'd want,
you see, the body oblivious? - body

on which the stern salt tide
had left
no mark? When Megan

hadn't yet been born - two months to go -
my ankles swelled
and doubled over every pair of shoes

I wore. Unseemliness, you seem
to have some
thing in mind. Imagine,

said people once:
a world
where nothing is thrown away.

--Linda Gregerson, "The Woman Who Died In Her Sleep"
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Thursday, November 12th, 2009
Nov 12th, 12:07am
I really love Bright Eyes. This is is called "Lua"
has no significance, is just a beautiful song

I know that it is freezing, but I think we have to walk
I keep waving at the taxis, they keep turning their lights off
But Julie knows a party at some actor's West side loft
Supplies are endless in the evening by the morning they'll be gone

When everything is lonely I can be my own best friend
I'll get a coffee and the paper, have my own conversations
with the sidewalk and the pigeons and my window reflection
The mask I polish in the evening by the morning looks like shit

And I know you have a heavy heart, I can feel it when we kiss
So many men stronger than me have thrown their backs out trying to lift it
But me I'm not a gamble, you can count on me to split
The love I sell you in the evening by the morning won't exist

You're looking skinny like a model with your eyes all painted black
Just keep going to the bathroom, always say you'll be right back
Well, it takes one to know one, kid, I think you've got it bad
But what's so easy in the evening by the morning's such a drag

I got a flask inside my pocket, we can share it on the train
And if you promise to stay conscious I will try and do the same
We might die from medication, but we sure killed all the pain
But what was normal in the evening by the morning seems insane

And I'm not sure what the trouble was that started all of this
The reasons all have run away, but the feeling never did
It's not something I would recommend, but it is one way to live
Cause what is simple in the moonlight by the morning never is

It was so simple in the moonlight now it's so complicated
It was so simple in the moonlight, so simple in the moonlight
So simple in the moonlight...
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Sunday, September 20th, 2009
Sep 20th, 2:13pm
stolen from a note Cassee wrote
"First Love: A Quiz," from Hapax

He came to me:

a. in his souped-up Camero
b. to talk to my skinny best friend
c. and bumped my glass of wine so I wore the ferrous stain on my sleeve
d. from the ground, in a lead chariot drawn by a team of stallions black as crude oil and breathing sulphur; at his heart, he sported a tiny golden arrow

He offered me:

a. a ride
b. dinner and a movie, with a wink at the cliche
c. an excuse not to go back alone to the apartment with
its sink of dirty knives
d. a narcissus with a hundred dazzling petals that breathed
a sweetness as cloying as decay


I went with him because:

a. even his friends told me to beware
b. I had nothing to lose except my virginity
c. he placed his hand in the small of my back and I felt the
tread of honeybees

d. he was my uncle, the one who lived in the half-finished
basement, and he took me by the hair

The place he took me to:

a. was dark as my shut eyes
b. and where I ate bitter seed and became ripe
c. and from which my mother would never take me wholly
back, though she wept and walked the earth and made
the bearded ears of barley wither on their stalks and the
blasted flowers drop from their sepals

d. is called by some men hell and others love
e. all of the above



"Medea, Homesick," from Archaic Smile

How many gifted witches, young and fair,
Have flunked, been ordinary, left the back-
Stooping study of their art, black
Or white, for love, that sudden foreigner?
Because chalk-fingered Wisdom streaks the hair,
Because the flame that flaps upon its wick
Rubrics the eye, I left behind a book
And washed my hands of ink, my homeland, my father.
But beauty doesn't travel well: the ocean,
Sun-strong years. The charms I knew by rote,
Irregular as verbs, decline to charm.
I cannot spell the simplest old potion
I learned for love. As for the antidote,
He discovered it himself, and is past harm.
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Tuesday, June 16th, 2009
Jun 16th, 12:34am
Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

--Derek Walcott
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Monday, March 16th, 2009
Mar 16th, 7:45pm
Well I am just stupidly repressed.
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Friday, March 13th, 2009
Mar 13th, 11:32am
I never wanted to be...
Promise that forever
we will never get better
at growing up and learning to lie.

I'm on my way back home now,
good lives are gold
like the oldest story
will mine be told
while I'm still young and horny
I know my role
is to be all confusion
set the clock back, we're not growin' old!

I never wanted to be like you or all the rest.
I've always been the first one to settle for second best.
I never wanted to be
I never wanted to be
I never wanted to be like you...............!!!!!

Good lives are gold
like the oldest story
will mine be told
while I'm still young and horny
I know my role
is to be all confusion
set the clock back, we're not growin' old!

Promise that forever
we will never get better at
growing up and learning to lie...
Promise it.
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Saturday, December 6th, 2008
Dec 6th, 4:33pm
William Carlos Williams, in the midst of talking about literature and poetics, says the following:

I have discovered that the thrill of first love passes! It even becomes the backbone of a sordid sort of religion is not assisted in passing. i knew a man who kept a candle burning before a girl's portrait day and night for a year - then jilted her, pawned her off on a friend. I have been reasonably frank about my erotics with my wife. I have never or seldom said, my hear I love you, when I would rather say: My dear, I wish you were in Tierra del Fuego. I have discovered by scrupulous attention to this detail and by certain allied experiments that we can continue from time to time to elaborate relationships quite equal in quality, if not greatly superior, to that surrounding out wedding. In fact, the best we have enjoyed of love together has come after the most thorough destruction or harvesting of that which has gone before. Periods of barrenness have intervened, periods comparable to the prison music in Fildelio or to any of Beethoven's pianissimo transition passages. It is at these times our formal relations have teetered on the edge of a debacle to be followed, as our imaginations have permitted, by a new growth of passionate attachment dissimilar in every member to that which has gone before.
It is in the continual and violent refreshing of the idea that love and good writing have their security.

An interesting view of marriage, eh? And writing, too, of course.

*****
also WCW:

Remorse is a virtue in that it is a stirrer up of the emotions but it is a folly to accept it as a criticism of conduct. So to accept it is to attempt to fit the emotions of a certain state to a preceding state to which they are in no way related. Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.

*****
and another. i have no idea why it caught me:

What I like best's the long unbroken line of the hills there. Yes, it's a good view. Come, let's visit the orchard. Here's peaches twenty years on the branch. Not ripe yet? Why-! Those hills! Those hills! But you'd be young again! Well, fourteen's a hard year for boy or girl, let alone one older driving the pricks in, but though there's more in a song than the notes of it and a smile's a pretty baby when you've none other - let's not turn backward. Mumble the words, you understand, call them four brothers, strain to catch the sense but have to admit it's in a language they've not taught you, a flaw somewhere,-and for answer: well, that long unbroken line of the hills there.
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Friday, December 5th, 2008
Dec 5th, 1:38am
Paradox of Identity
The very question "Who am I?" implies both objectivity and subjectivity simultaneously. It seeks an objective description of a particular subjectivity from within the subjective perspective. It implies the ability for the subjective self to objectively detach from the subjective self in order to examine the self's subjective perspective. In other words, it's impossible.
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Monday, December 1st, 2008
Dec 1st, 9:02pm
The Fire Fly (inspired by Breaking Benjamin)
Firefly's little butt-light
mating signal has stopped

its frantic flickering.
Maybe it was just
a fly on fire, after all,
and a charred black
body lies unburied
in long summer grass.

Maybe
lacking the everlasting
light of a lightning
bug's bottom,
it just burned up
with a quiet crackle.
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Friday, November 14th, 2008
Nov 14th, 12:49pm
Hinduism pushes me to think about multiplicity vs. unity, and about my own Western conception of multiplicity and unity as a dichotomy rather than a simultaneous truth.

Kierkegaard pushes me to think about why we love and how we love and whether we can ever love without God. Also, what is true love, love as a duty, whether all love is a duty or only some types, and what do you do when love is not eternal. He hasn't really addressed that last question yet, but apparently he stalked a woman he loved for the rest of her life after he broke it off with her b/c he knew he would make her miserable and she married someone else.
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Saturday, November 8th, 2008
Nov 8th, 1:34am
I miss his compassion, and his real smile.
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Thursday, November 6th, 2008
Nov 6th, 12:23pm
Reform
Education - if people want to help the poor, teach them how to help themselves. The government is not here to solve the world's problems by being the charitable heart of the world. In fact, the government creates the majority of the world's problems. It's time to help children attain the dignity of self-reliance and self-determination. Too many children are given up on in the public school system and relegated to hopelessness. Give schools money, damnit, and pay teachers the wage they deserve. Good, motivated teachers will find ways to teach children what they need to know to survive and better themselves and others in this world.

The Media - news programs, no matter what the channel, are sickening in how they play up to their corporate sponsors and an uneducated, spectacle-seeking audience. That audience is used and manipulated by every mainstream news network. A democratic nation (of the people, by the people, for the people) cannot function without straightforward education on the hows and whys and THEN the whats of the political process without financial or political pressure altering what people see and hear.

Abortion - if a mother is dying because of her baby, then the risk is the woman's choice to make. In any other case, abortion is straight up murder. The argument that an unborn child is not human is ridiculous. It has 23 pairs of chromosomes, except in some cases of genetic deformity (and anyone with a family member who has Down's will tell you that their relative is human, and maybe a better human than anyone without their deformity). The fetus/baby has the potential to build relationships with other people, even in the case of autism. If a woman has the right to kill a baby she doesn't want, shouldn't a man have the right to make a woman kill a baby if he doesn't want it? After all, he has to pay child support. Maybe that's just not convenient for him. Ridiculous. If you don't want a child, give it up for adoption. Someone else wants him or her.

Of course there is plenty else to reform, but those are the issues I feel like I know enough about to have an opinion on and push it out to make it known. I have a very limited scope, I know.
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Wednesday, October 22nd, 2008
Oct 22nd, 8:23pm
Cross My Heart
Cross my heart,
Hope to die,
I swear I won't say
What happened that night.
So starting today
Things are gonna be all right.

Your best you tried,
Yeah you did fine,
No, better than fine,
Perfect in my mind.
In fact, I wish your heart was mine...

And I can hear the memory in my ears,
Back to the years and all those tears.
But hear me when I say I'm glad that we steered that way,
Because now we're here.

Do you want to get away?
Get in the car we can leave today!
Do you want to celebrate
Our just-made little holiday?
Cause now today's your day
All that stuff you used to take
I'm glad you threw all that away 'cause now you
Look so great
You never need to be afraid, just know
You went the right way.

'Cause even though we never get things right
And it gets so old to say we'll keep tryin'
But it's mine to decide when I'll be alright

A little crazy (crazy!)
But happy is all that you make me (all you make me!)
And nothin's gonna get better baby
I know everything went wrong ok (ok!)
But now it's time to get some better days (some better days!)
'Cause I don't wanna keep acting this way

Cause man I know we never get things right
And it gets so old to say we'll keep trying,
But it's mine
To decide
When and if I'll be alright..
And that's just a thing that takes time.

So keep going
Till you know when
Its time,
When its right.
Keep showing
Yourself in that light
Cause back in school
Man that gets cruel
But one thing is true is
Man now look at you
Your heart is big enough for two

Cause I can hear the memory in my ears
Back to the years and all those tears
But hear me when I say I'm glad
'Cause we're...

A little crazy (crazy!)
But happy is all that you make me (all you make me!)
And nothin's gonna get better, baby.
I know everything went wrong, ok (ok!)
But now it's time to get some better days (get better days!)
'Cause I don't wanna keep acting this way

'Cause, man, I know we never get things right
And it gets so old, just sayin' "We'll keep trying"
But it's mine to decide when and if I'll be alright..
And that's just a thing that takes time.

Ba ba ba ba ba
Ba ba ba ba ba
Ba ba ba ba ba
Ba ba...
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Tuesday, October 7th, 2008
Oct 7th, 7:00pm
Lighter
Here are the two poems I submitted to the Lighter today:

Bruised

My smudged skyline
bruises after sunset;
but blackness kisses
sleep just before waking,
and this is blue
of dreams and dark chocolate.
Stars are sharp sutures
threaded by blind men;
haphazard, still
they form a pattern
and let in light.


Persephone (Song of Innocence)

................Shards of spun sugar
skyscrapers coat black spines
piercing a calloused hand. Blood
traces fingerprints,
dripping. Innocence
is virtue, my dear; sing along
as glass splinters shower

your head. Kiss the rain,
drink deep. You don't need
sugar when you have
pomegranate seeds,
you don't need anyone else
when you have your loving faith.

Stand tall and straight, my dear,
wordless as wind
around a glass tower.


**nb#1: I had to insert the periods before the first line b/c LJ won't let me tab or space it from the left margin, so ignore them
**nb#2: I actually submitted a previous draft, which split "Shards of spun sugar" completely from the first stanza

And the following is a poem I'm working on, and if I get it to my satisfaction before Friday I may submit it as well:

The Butterfly

The butterfly can't float
with wings on fire,
it must beat
whooshing strokes,
a fluttering,
guttering candle.

Tapping rain will reduce
the insect to ash.
Blackened bits crumble,
smudge on the gray sidewalk.

But when it flamed,
that butterfly
was like an autumn
leaf, an earth-bound
star, a stinging spark
to light the inferno.

CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM MUCH DESIRED!!!!
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Tuesday, September 30th, 2008
Sep 30th, 1:31am
"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea..."
So, making out with Ryan while we're both happy and connected and fully present in our minds is better than sex. Just sayin'.

Also, T.S. Eliot hurts my brain and moves me, simultaneously.

(you'll hafta read the whole damn thing if you really want to get the title of this entry)

The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap.
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?'
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-
(They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!')
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-
(They will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!')
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all-
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how shall I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all-
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all-
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And how should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
*****
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
*****
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep... tired... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me,
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'-
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.'

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-
And this, and so much more?-
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'
*****
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
post comment · edit entry · remember
Monday, September 22nd, 2008
Sep 22nd, 7:31pm
Communication
Well, ok, so the final fight sealed nothing. We are together, and I think we're better than we were before. Haven't seen him alot since, so it's hard to tell.
There were some serious miscommunications, in addition to poor mode of communication in general. I'm tired of fighting - but it doesn't feel like a fight again anytime soon!
Enough drama. Let's just focus on school and being at peace with one another for just a week. One week is all I really ask.

*****

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
post comment · edit entry · remember
Wednesday, September 17th, 2008
Sep 17th, 8:56pm
GOOD GOD I LOVE POETRY!!!
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain



***(hint: anyone and noone can be read as names)***

************************************************************

A Coat

I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eye
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.

*************************************************************

328

A Bird came down the Walk -
He did not know I saw -
He bit an Angelworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,

And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass -
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass -

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all around -
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought -
He stirred his Velvet Head

Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home -

Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon
Leap, plashless as they swim.
post comment · edit entry · remember
Sep 17th, 4:01pm
Paradox
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist - slack they may be - these last strands of man
In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
They wring-earth right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer.
Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot trod
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

******************

Glory be to God for dappled things -
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

********************

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves - goes its self; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came.

I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is -

Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

**********************

I was analyzing Gerard Manley Hopkins, the author of these poems, when I wrote: "Hopkins calls forth feelings of longing and thirsting and straining in a 'world [which is] charged with the grandeur of God,' right along with feelings of completeness and unity and ultimate peace as 'the Holy Ghost over the bent / world broods with warm breast.' His twists and plays with language reflect his intense awareness of dwelling in a paradoxical world equally damned and saved, ruled and comforted by a terrible God of love."

Paradox and Love are the fused elements of the nature and ultimate beauty of God.
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