The More Loving One
Here is yet another poetic intermission.
The More Loving One
by W. H. AudenLooking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.From “Homage to Clio” by W. H. Auden
Moesta and Errabunda
Here is a new poetic intermission.
Moesta et Errabunda
Tell me, does your heart sometimes soar, Agathe,
far from the dark sea of the sordid city,
towards another sea, a blaze of splendor that
is blue, bright, deep as virginity?
Tell me, does your heart sometimes soar, Agathe?
The sea, the vast sea, consoles us for our efforts!
What demon entrusted the sea, that hoarse singer
that accompanies the immense roar of tempests,
with being the sublime sleep-bringer?
The sea, the vast sea, consoles us for our efforts!
Carry me wagons! Take me, frigate!
Far, far! Here the city slime is made of our weeping!
Is it true that your sad heart, Agathe,
cries: ‘Far from remorse, from crime, from suffering,
carry me wagons, take me frigate!
How far perfumed paradise, you are removed
from us, where the clear blue is all love and happiness,
where what one loves is worthy of being loved,
where the heart drowns in pure voluptuousness!
How far, perfumed paradise, you are removed!
But the green paradise of childhood’s thrill,
the games, the songs, the kisses, and the flowers,
the violin making music behind the hill,
and the wine glass, under the trees, in twilight hours,
- But the green paradise of childhood’s thrill,the innocent paradise full of secret yearning,
is it already further than India or China?
Can we call it back, with cries of longing,
and re-create it, with its voice of silver,
the innocent paradise full of secret yearning?Charles Baudelaire
Note: Moesta et Errabunda: Sad and Restless.
‘Agathe’ is pronounced as ‘Agat’, to rhyme with ‘that’.
The sleeper of the valley (Le dormeur du val)
Here is a little poetic intermission… Details count, even the least of those, at the end.
THE SLEEPER OF THE VALLEY
There’s a green hollow where a river sings
Silvering the torn grass in its glittering flight,
And where the sun from the proud mountain flings
Fire –and the little valley brims with light.
A soldier young, with open mouth, bare head,
Sleeps with his neck in dewy water cress,
Under the sky and on the grass his bed,
Pale in the deep green and the light’s excess.
He sleeps amid the iris and his smile
Is like a sick child’s slumbering for a while.
Nature, in thy warm lap his chilled limbs hide!
The perfume does not thrill him from his rest.
He sleeps in sunshine, hand upon his breast,
Tranquil –with two red holes in his right side.JEAN ARTHUR RIMBAUD (1854-1891)
[Translator: Ludwig Lewisohn]
On your next product, Go for Simple
Hi, I was browsing around last night for some research that I am making at work, I found this sequence of drawings, which is a perfect illustration of why simple succeeds, and why complex may be right, but remains in the closet:
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Love is not… Love is…
If I could speak in any language in heaven or on earth but didn’t love others, I would only be making meaningless noise like a loud gong or a clanging cymbal. If I had the gift of prophecy, and if I knew all the mysteries of the future and knew everything about everything, but didn’t love others, what good would I be? And if I had the gift of faith so that I could speak to a mountain and make it move, without love I would be no good to anybody. If I gave everything I have to the poor and even sacrificed my body, I could boast about it; but if I didn’t love others, I would be of no value whatsoever.
Love is patient and kind.
Love is not jealous or boastful or proud or rude.
Love does not demand its own way.
Love is not irritable, and it keeps no record of when it has been wronged.
It is never glad about injustice but rejoices whenever the truth wins out. Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.
May You Always Experience This Kind Of Love,
Dr. Howdy
Ok so this is a post sample
And i say this and that in there…