I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.
I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Livin' might mean takin' chances but they're worth takin'
Lovin' might be a mistake but it's worth makin'
Don't let some hell bent heart leave you bitter
When you come close to sellin' out reconsider
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.
Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along
Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
Notes from the Underground
"Love is God's mystery and should be hidden from outsiders' eyes, whatever happens. This makes it holier, better. The husband and the wife respect each other more, and a great deal is founded on respect. And if there has been love, if they were married for love, why should love cease? Isn't it possible to keep it alive? It is a rare case when it's impossible. Besides, if the husband happens to be a kind and honest man, how can love pass? It's true, the feeling of the early married days will pass, but the love that will come afterwards will be still better. Man and wife will grow close in spirit; they'll have no secrets from each other. And when children start coming, the hardest times will seem happy, so long as there is love and courage. Work goes like a song, and even if you have to deny yourself a piece of bread once in a while for the children's sake, life's full of joy all the same. After all they'll love you for it afterwards; so that you're really saving for your own future.
The children start growing up, and you feel that you are setting an example for them; that even when you die, they'll carry your thoughts and feelings inside them all their lives, for you've bequeathed them your image, and they will grow up in your likeness. So you see, this is a great duty, and how can the mother and father help but grow closer? Some people say it is a hardship to have c hildren. But who says so? It's a joy from heaven! Do you love babies, Liza? I love them terribly. You know- imagine a pink little boy suckling your breast. What husband's heart could turn against his wife, seeing her with his child? The baby, rosy, plump, spreads out his arms and legs, luxuriating in your warmth; his little hands and feet are firm like ripe apples, the nails clean and tiny, so tiny they are comical to see, and the eyes look at you as though he already understands everything. And when he suckles, he tug at your breast with his little hand, playing. His father will com over, and the baby will turn from the breast, bend backward, look at him and laugh- as if it were God knows how funny- then start suckling again. Or else, when the teeth begin to come, he'll take a nip at his mother's breast and look at her out of the corner of his eye; 'See, i bit you!' Isn't this the greatest happiness in the world when the three of them, the husband, wife, and child are together? For such moments, a lot can be forgiven. No, Liza, I suppose one has to learn how to live himself before accusing others!"
fyodor dostoevsky
The children start growing up, and you feel that you are setting an example for them; that even when you die, they'll carry your thoughts and feelings inside them all their lives, for you've bequeathed them your image, and they will grow up in your likeness. So you see, this is a great duty, and how can the mother and father help but grow closer? Some people say it is a hardship to have c hildren. But who says so? It's a joy from heaven! Do you love babies, Liza? I love them terribly. You know- imagine a pink little boy suckling your breast. What husband's heart could turn against his wife, seeing her with his child? The baby, rosy, plump, spreads out his arms and legs, luxuriating in your warmth; his little hands and feet are firm like ripe apples, the nails clean and tiny, so tiny they are comical to see, and the eyes look at you as though he already understands everything. And when he suckles, he tug at your breast with his little hand, playing. His father will com over, and the baby will turn from the breast, bend backward, look at him and laugh- as if it were God knows how funny- then start suckling again. Or else, when the teeth begin to come, he'll take a nip at his mother's breast and look at her out of the corner of his eye; 'See, i bit you!' Isn't this the greatest happiness in the world when the three of them, the husband, wife, and child are together? For such moments, a lot can be forgiven. No, Liza, I suppose one has to learn how to live himself before accusing others!"
fyodor dostoevsky
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
The Whispering Gallery
She's turning away, about to step
out of the concave cuddle of Italian tiles
before walking through the grand
doorway to cross 42nd Street
to glance up at The Glory of Commerce
as she hails a yellow taxicab
when he whispers, I love you, Harriet.
Did he say something to himself,
something he swore he'd never think
again? Or, was she now limestone
like Minerva, a half-revealed secret,
her breasts insinuating the same
domed wisdom? Maybe his mind
was already heading home to Hoboken—
his body facing hers—his unsure feet
rushing to make a connection
with Sinatra's ghost
amongst a trainload of love cries
from the Rustic Cabin to Caesar's Palace.
Hugged there under the curved grandeur,
she says, I love you, too, Johnny.
-Yusef Komunyakaa
out of the concave cuddle of Italian tiles
before walking through the grand
doorway to cross 42nd Street
to glance up at The Glory of Commerce
as she hails a yellow taxicab
when he whispers, I love you, Harriet.
Did he say something to himself,
something he swore he'd never think
again? Or, was she now limestone
like Minerva, a half-revealed secret,
her breasts insinuating the same
domed wisdom? Maybe his mind
was already heading home to Hoboken—
his body facing hers—his unsure feet
rushing to make a connection
with Sinatra's ghost
amongst a trainload of love cries
from the Rustic Cabin to Caesar's Palace.
Hugged there under the curved grandeur,
she says, I love you, too, Johnny.
-Yusef Komunyakaa
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)