miche.poetry

When we two parted - George Gordon, Lord Byron

2010-08-01T07:57:00.001-07:00

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Lond, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

I secret we met--
I silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

The Plains of Ilium

2010-01-12T22:36:00.000-08:00

Rage.

Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles, of Peleus' son, murderous, man-killer, fated to die, sing of the rage that cost the Achaean so many good men and sent so many vital, hearty souls down to the dreary House of Death.

Catharsis

2010-01-06T09:08:00.001-08:00

it was as if life plays itself out in short scenes

flashes – slowly, quietly, painfully

uttered out in words, lines by painted faces

we sit, at the edge, anticipating and yearning

somewhere, we tell ourselves,

“let my life not be this” or nod mentally even as emotions stir

“yes, yes, I know what this is”

betraying nothing on our faces

they speak for us.

utter our pain, a scene for our grief

be our sadness, be our souls

transforms

for that one single moment

disengage

they speak to us.

with such vicariousness, we play our lives out

alive, yet not living

emotional, yet not feeling

we purge ourselves

their misery is our relief; their pain, our joy

yet, we fail, no catharsis is real

every purge erodes, eats away

in the end, catharsis never comes.

Remember - Christina Rosetti

2009-11-24T00:08:00.000-08:00

REMEMBER me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

... perfectly imperfect ...

2009-07-28T07:28:00.000-07:00

...words, words,words
are all we have...
~Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guilderstern are Dead~

Never fails
And Always Amuse
The dramatic irony
Of worlds and words

We find ourselves
Perennially searching
In eternal endlessness…
Only to return
To the one which
Eludes

Millions around
In so many forms
Yet, struggles
To find the one
Who speaks,
The meaning of us

Convoluted, complicated, complex
Confusing
Sense is made
World created
Only to know it
Is temporal

We seek comfort in the mastery of words
But even as pen meets paper,
We realize that we are merely scratching
life
In an instant can be erased.
No word
Suffices.

Suddenly, blank
Silence erupts.

special tribute to the hundred acre wood gang.

2008-11-09T18:56:00.000-08:00

Etched

like imprints on the shoreline at low tide
memories
do not fade away
gone but never far from sight
recurring, repeating, remaining…

etched…
the faces…
the joys…
the times…

like clouds that hang in the skies
ever-changing, solitude in groups
occupy our skies…
dissipating, forming, re-forming…

like the thunderstorm that rages with fury
times and events we braved through together
but has to end…

like the imprint of a tattoo
ever-lasting, you are
etched
the lives
the memories
you and I

To the hundred acre wood gang who most likely wont read this site, this is dedicated to you for the times you shared with me and thank you for letting me be part of your lives. live on, live well.

crazy raps by 16 year olds

2008-09-29T11:46:00.000-07:00

there a new boy in town named favian
he likes to stay at home and smoke opium
he likes to beat ppl withouy giving a hint
the problem is he cant take care of his own skin

oh man jac,
you just got jabbed.
swollen nipples are what you're gonna get.
a coffin or two for you, jac?

Fare Thee Well by George Gordon Lord Byron

2008-09-06T22:51:00.000-07:00

Fare thee well ! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show !
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'T was not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee ---
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound ?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is --- that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! "
Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press'd,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd !

Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.

But 't is done --- all words are idle ---
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well ! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

one of the poems i encountered while writing my paper on romantic poets of the 19th century. wanted to do my thesis on him but sadly enough there wasnt any tutor who was willing to supervise me. but i do like this poem a lot. bryon what a tragic life, just the kind of things which appeals to me =D

Because I could not stop for Death - Emily Dickenson

2008-02-05T08:17:00.001-08:00

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me – 
The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring – 
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –

Anthem for 17-Year-Old Muslim - Lee Jiawei

2008-02-05T08:05:00.000-08:00

What passing-bells for you who prays to Allah?
Only the monstrous anger of G. Keerthi.
Only the spluttering idiot’s putrid prattle
Can patter out your anguished affectation.
No mockeries now for you; no prayers from Fongs,
Nor any screams of adulation save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing Smiths,
And fangirls laughing at your spare tyres.
What candles may be burnt to cheer you up?
Not in the hands of boys, but on a cake
Shall shine the holy glimmers of your sweet seventeen.
The genius of this parody shall be my gift:
No pork, nor lard can desecrate this day,
For this 4th of Feb be your happy birthday!

Jiawei's dedication to Anish on his 17th birthday. Hilarious, yes yes cool guy own this i have to admit

5 Ways to Kill a Man - Edwin Brock

2008-02-05T07:23:00.000-08:00

There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man:
you can make him carry a plank of wood
to the top of a hill and nail him to it. To do this
properly you require a crowd of people
wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak
to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one
man to hammer the nails home.

Or you can take a length of steel,
shaped and chased in a traditional way,
and attempt to pierce the mental cage he wears.
But for this you need white horses,
English trees, men with bows and arrows,
at least two flags, a prince and a
castle to hold your banquet in.

Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind
allows, blow gas at him. But then you need
a mile of mud sliced through with ditches,
not to mention black boots,bomb craters,
more mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs
and some round hats made of steel.

In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly
miles above your victim and dispose of him by
pressing one small switch. All you then
require is an ocean to separate you, two
systems of government, a nation's scientists,
several factories, a psychopath and
land that no one needs for several years.

These are, as I began, cumbersome ways
to kill a man. Simpler, direct, and much more neat
is to see that he is living somewhere in the middle
of the twentieth century, and leave him there.

This poem was on the back of the worksheet i was supposed to completed in class. but in typical miche fashion, instead of doing the work, she did a pract crit on the poem instead. i found it totall brillant and intriguing. Depressing yeah of course but brillant dystopic.

excerpts - Dan Simmon's Olympos

2006-12-20T00:15:00.000-08:00

The setting of Olympos is highly complex. it takes place in several settings. One is on the plains of Illium where the war between the Trojans and the Aegeans is happening. The other is on Mt Olympos, where the Olympian Gods frolick around, do silly things and whine like kids when things dont go their way. The third setting is on a distant planet with machines and humaniods who study shakespeare and much of human literature. The fourth setting is on earth (but not earth as we know it) where the population of mankind (known as old style humans) are kept at 1 million. they live in blocs of 20 years, to be rejuvenated and rebuilt physically at the end of every 20 years.

the following exchange takes place when Achilles meets Nyx-Night, to find out where Zeus is, because Achilles wants Zeus' permission to place Penthasilea the Amazon Queen into the healing tanks.

"You need to see the Lord of Thunder, the God of all Gods, the Pelasgian Zeus, Father of all Gods and Men, Zeus the Ultimate King Who Marshals the Storm Clouds and Who Gives All Commmands?"

"Yeah," says Achilles.

"What about?" asks Nyx.

It was Hephaetus who speaks up. "Achilles seeks to bring a mortal to the Healer's tanks, Mother of the first black germless egg. He wants to ask Father Zeus to command the Healer to bring back to life the Amazon Queen, Penthasilea."

Night laughs. If her voice had been a wild sea crashing against rocks, Achilles thinks her laught sounds like a winter wind howling off the Aegean.

"Penthasilea?" says the black-garbed goddess, still chuckling. "That brainless, blond, big-boobed lesbian tart? Why on a million Earths would you want to bring that musclebound bimbo back to life, son of Peleus? After all, it was you I watched run her and her horse through with your father's great lance, skewering them both like peppers on a kebab."

"I have no choice," rumbles Achilles. "I love her."
The brilliance of Simmon's writing. Found the passage really hilarious. The plot of Olympos is complex and complicated but no less interesting and intriguing. But to really understand and appreciate the whole sequence of events and the beauty of Simmon's writing and intelligence. really go buy Illium and Olympos. Thick but satisfying. (and really, i dont like science fiction, but i recommend it)

excerpts from sexing the cherry - Jeanette Winterson

2006-12-09T10:37:00.000-08:00

'The future and the present and the past exist only in our minds, and form a distance the borders of each shrink and fade like the borders of hostile countries seen from a floating city in the sky. The river runs from one country to another without stopping. And even the most solid of things and the most real, the best loved and the well known, are the only hand shadows on the wall. Empty space and points of light.

your emotions are not complex like mine, my dilemna is poetic
i love to see the sudden glide of wings spread out for prey and then dip and the noise like a lover in pain
i could stay and be unhappy and humilated
i could leave and be unhappy but dignified
i could live in hope and die of bitterness
i was no longer a reality, i was one of those things around him
i was the fence that needed to be removed
i was none of these things, but i became them

these were previously part of my actual blog, but i decided to remove them cause it was beginning to get too wordy and i changed the layout as well. these really struck me when i read them the first time, i picked up sexing the cherry because i was considering it as an s lit text, but i didnt in the end, neither did i use oranges arent the only fruit, but it remains my favourite book till date.

maths tutorial ii - Aaron Maniam

2006-10-30T09:09:00.000-08:00

"let me count the ways..."

We could love like a palindrome
No difference between
'You and me'
Or 'me and you'
Continuous commutation, always
The same conclusion.

Love can be irrational
Our best efforts yield points
Of decimal estimation
As we try to round off
Our own, each other's corners.

Part of love is fractional
Sometimes awkwardly improper
Passionate numerators
Teetering like discomfort
On unstable pedestals.

As much as it pains us
Sometimes we must admit
That's love's subtration
Is also a kind of adding -
A lonely walk
Down the pavement
Of a number line

Emptiness grows, size defined
By negatives, absences and the weight
Of everything that could have been.

Aaron Maniam (his book Morning at Memory's Borders is up for the Singapore Literature Prize) is my mentor and traffic light. i stumbled across this poem, the other day while randomly flipping through the book. found it fascinating. hope you enjoy it.

Dr Gwee's Complete Smart Cat - Part II

2006-10-25T23:16:00.000-07:00

Let Lecturer and Student do justice to learning on EN4222 together!
Let Dr Gwee and his students approach the Ark of their Examination with great clarity of mind!
Let Celina who presented on Swift still remember what she said about Swift!
Let Jun who also presented on Swift make points as good as her yummy latte!
Let Jemima who presented on Thomson continue to work exemplarily!
Let Ying Yi who presented on Thomson venerate her plow too!
Let Sylvia who presented on Pope remember not to rely on one critic alone!
Let Cheryl who presented on Pope share with her friend Sylvia who sits just next to her every week!
Let Janice who presented on Akenside, and sits next to Siew Wei weekly, be the sublime!
Let Siew Wei who presented on Akenside, like Janice, be the wonderful!
Let Mandy, the third of the sister-graces, remain the fair!
Let Ann who presented on Johnson be heard with care as she does have many good moments!
Let Julius who presented on Johnson show up for class more -- this being the want of he who wants nothing!
Let Jean who presented on Smart type away on her laptop so long as she contributes to our discussion!
Let Meiji who presented on Smart not be associated in my mind with "contradictory impulses"!
Let Sheena who presented on Smart consider her work seriously!
Let Hong Peng present on Barbauld and be in the front of the class for once!
Let Christine present on Barbauld and not look as worried as she usually does!
Let Elizabeth present on Cowper and delight us with her spontaneous insights!
Let Michelle present on Cowper and share with her strong confident voice!
Let Yisa then present on Cowper without referring to Lacanian Law!
Let Hongyi present on Blake without referring to September 11!
Let Gladys present on Blake as only she can and that, too, is cryptic!
Let Jiahui present on Blake and remember to present this time!

Dr. Gwee wrote the previous one for the honours corhort last year. this one is dedicated to my class. hahahah...

Dr. Gwee's Complete Smart Cat

2006-10-25T23:13:00.000-07:00

For I will consider my EN4222 students.
For they are the servants of learning and pursue knowledge dutifully and daily.
For at their first step out of class they set their minds on reading next week's text.
For they will remember to post their presentations even though some haven't done so yet.
For having prepared, presented, and posted their points, they begin to consider other people's presentations.
For this they do in ten degrees.
For first they still read their texts.
For secondly they still show interest in thinking about the texts.
For thirdly they are not afraid to share their findings in class.
For fourthly they do not mislead their friends with strange points.
For fifthly they at least come to class.
For sixthly they come to class on time (and not after the break).
For seventhly their friends recognise that they are indeed being helpful.
For eighthly they are thinking even as they are listening to other tribes.
For ninthly they still remember the ideas I introduced in earlier lessons.
For tenthly they go out in quest of food in good conscience that they have contributed to discussion.
For having considered their own presentations, their essays, and their exam, they nonetheless consider their neighbours.
For if they meet another in the library, they can smile with a moral certainty that they haven't been hiding books.
For when their academic work is done their business of life more properly begins.
For they keep watch against the contamination of their own integrity.
For they counteract the Powers of Darkness by their interest and diligence.
For the Cherub Student is a term of the Angel Scholar.
For they purr in thankfulness when they are called good students.
For NUS students are the best in Asia.
For they bear their burdens heroically.
For just 1 in 7 failed to hand in the first essay on time and I know who they are.
For they are clearly called by benevolence -- Poor students! poor students! you have so many essays to write.
For I bless my students if their essays are still great fun to read despite the workload.
For by marking good essays I find happy reasons for using up electricity.
For though they cannot grade themselves, they are praiseworthy inquirers.
For then they can swim for life.
For then they can creep.

Written by my 18th C lit lecturer, Dr Gwee. His extremely brillant and hilarious. haha what to do, we hail from the same school. heh heh

ADAM - Dominic Soon

2006-10-24T10:05:00.000-07:00

when Adam found something to hide
the unflattering paunch he was developing
(there was no sweat and toil in Paradise)
he was glad that it matched, quite forcibly,
the colour of his eyes instead of his skin.
he must have been sick of himself, his
pasty clay figure shaped out of mud
and worse, puckered with imperfections,
a helpless, uncompromising picture.

but now he had perfection, proudly engineered
by thermal underwear in the dregs of winter,
and thin cotton shirts for scorched dry days,
even tough denim jeans so he wouldn't leave bloodstains
when sitting on rocky crags. best of all was when
Eve, in a golden evening gown, leaned over
during a candlelight dinner and fondled his tuxedo
then moved down, whispering, "You are the man for all times."

Adam, be proud that you bit the apple which
brought you striding out of Eden. neither God
nor archangels wingtip-to-wingtip could hold you back.
not the wooden pawn but the player now.
you breathed life into yourself.

it's been one heck of a party, Adam.
I still crack up when God sent his only son to find out
what the hell the commotion was all about.

dominic soon, the first non-published poet to get featured on my poetry site. hahah okay, dom's a really good friend of mine. hee hee, he says this poem really reflects his take on theology, that the bible begin with a story of liberation and not a story of castigation.

One Art - Elizabeth Bishop

2006-10-07T00:16:00.000-07:00

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

i discovered this poem in a chick flick. that show with cameron diaz in it, "in her shoes". she was sitting on the bed of this sick old man who was trying to help her get over her dyslexia. so yeah, anyway, i found it nice, strangely bittersweet. that's life huh.

The Road Less Travelled - Robert Frost

2006-10-03T02:49:00.000-07:00

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
let knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

the one poem i am sure which is overused and over cited,but still an extremely meaningful poem. somthing to ponder on. how many of us can actually say we took the road less travelled? i have no idea if i ever did.

Because I could not Stop for Death - Emily Dickinson

2006-10-03T02:45:00.000-07:00

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, be passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

a strangely morbid and yet totally fascinating poem. remembered reading it when i was in school like secondary school. still conjures up images of death happily riding in a carriage smiling away.

On this day I complete my thirty sixth year - George Gordon Lord Byron

2006-10-03T00:59:00.000-07:00

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move;
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;
The worm --- the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some Volcanic Isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of Love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus--and 'tis not here
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now
Where Glory decks the hero's bier
Or binds his brow.

The Sword, the Banner, and the Field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece -- she is awake!)
Awake, my Spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down
Unworthy Manhood! -- unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy Youth, why live?
The land of honourable Death
Is here: --- up to the Field, and give
Away thy Breath!

Seek out --- less often sought than found ---
A Soldier's Grave, for thee the best;
Then look around and choose thy Ground,
And take thy Rest.

lord byron's last piece of poetry written when he was in Greece to fight for the cause of greek liberation. did you know, his funeral procession met the wedding procession of his first lover, lady caroline who commented that he is mad and bad to know.

Fare Thee Well - George Gordon Lord Byron

2006-10-03T00:42:00.000-07:00

"Alas! they had been friends in youth:
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain;
________

But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining -
They stood aloof, the scars remaining.
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been."

Coleridge, Christabel

Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee -
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praise must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is - that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee - by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done - all words are idle -
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie.
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

quite a sad poem written by lord byron when he divorced his wife, the poem was dedicated to his daughter whom he realised that he was not going to see her again. but the highlighted stanza is so true,

all words are idle

words from me are vainer still

but the thoughts we cannot bridle

force their way without the will

Sexing the Cherry - Jeanette Winterson

2006-10-03T00:03:00.000-07:00

"There is a black tower...it has no windows and no doors...inside there is a cage. The tower is my body, the cage is my skull, the spirit singing is to comfort itself is me. But I am not comforted. Does the body hate itself so much that it seeks release at any cost? - Winterson,Sexing the Cherry

William Shakespeare's Sonnet 81

2005-11-09T02:55:00.000-08:00

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read;
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live, such virtue hath my pen,
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

This is one of my favourite sonnets, invoking the idea of an immortal life through writing. Looking at it again for the upteenth time, Shakespeare seems not only to immortalise his addressed through language and pen but also through the eyes, tongues and months of men in generations to come. The act of creating materiality through literary, his addressed is resurrected again just as Shakespeare will be when we recreate his works.

Every You Every Me

2005-08-19T12:29:00.000-07:00

Sucker love is heaven sent.
You pucker up, our passion's spent.
My hearts a tart, your body's rent.
My body's broken, yours is bent.

Carve your name into my arm.
Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed.
Cuz there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.

Sucker love, a box I choose.
No other box I choose to use.
Another love I would abuse,
No circumstances could excuse.

In the shape of things to come.
Too much poison come undone.
Cuz there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.

Every me and every you,Every Me...he

Sucker love is known to swing.
Prone to cling and waste these things.
Pucker up for heavens sake.
There's never been so much at stake.

I serve my head up on a plate.
It's only comfort, calling late.
Cuz there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.

Every me and every you,
Every Me...he
Every me and every you,
Every Me...he

Like the naked leads the blind.
I know I'm selfish, I'm unkind.
Sucker love I always find,
Someone to bruise and leave behind.

All alone in space and time.
There's nothing here but what here's mine.
Something borrowed, something blue.
Every me and every you.
Every me and every you,
Every Me...he
Every me and every you,Every Me...he [x4]