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Thread: Favorite poems and quotations.

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    I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.

    Sylvia Plath
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    "When I ought to be thinking of heaven he will nail me to earth"

     






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    Sylvia Plath is my favorite poet. She was not only a descendant of Modernism and the Romantics, she was a poet that cared about her own feelings so much that she cared about yours. She had some fucked up shit happen in her life, but who cares about that? We all suffer and that has everything to do with poetics. Have you ever heard of Modernism? The Nazis called Modernism primitive and the work of the brutes. The only brutes on this earth are the dogs and those are the things that I love. Do you wonder what I am? You are reading the work of a great poet, possibly one of the greatest ones of your time. If I am standing in front of you right now, you are listening to the voice of one of the greatest poets of your time. Do you take time to analyze greatness? I don’t think you should bother–you will never get it right. I am both a Modernist and a Romantic. All poetry that is good today is some combination of modernism, ethics, and faith. Take note. All poetry that matters today has feelings in it. You can refute or deny this with your lack of them. You can wrestle against feelings and make funny words for it. Take a look in the mirror. You were born a child and you will die one, too. When you are in your grave all that you will be able to say is mommy. You are going to die you know and so am I. That’s it. You were born to die. Take the things you say because you can’t write poems and figure out how to write some. Go to the grocery store and buy some food. Sit alone by yourself and think of how it is, the way it really is. There are a million cells of fluid rushing in your veins. On earth a thousand rivers rush through. The only thing that keeps you contained is the faith God has in your every breath. When you are mean, you let him down, so don’t be. Read Plath. Hell, Read Stein. She was a woman and would have approved of you–you man, you woman, you dog. Bark your last breath while we all swim along a river. There are children playing around you. They know more than you will ever know.
    —“The Poetry That is Going to Matter After You are Dead,” Dorothea Lasky
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  4. #244
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    We, however, are not prisoners. No traps or snares have been set around us, and there is nothing that should frighten or upset us. We have been put into life as into the element we most accord with, and we have, moreover, through thousands of years of adaptation, come to resemble this life so greatly that when we hold still, through a fortunate mimicry we can hardly be differentiated from everything around us. We have no reason to harbor any mistrust against our world, for it is not against us. If it has terrors, they are our terrors; if it has abysses, these abysses belong to us; if there are dangers, we must try to love them. And if only we arrange our life in accordance with the principle which tells us that we must always trust in the difficult, then what now appears to us as the most alien will become our most intimate and trusted experience. How could we forget those ancient myths that stand at the beginning of all races, the myths about dragons that at the last moment are transformed into princesses? Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.

    — Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
    “As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naïve and simple-hearted than we suppose. And we ourselves are, too.” — Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

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    I've seen things you people wouldn't believe.
    Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
    I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate.
    All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.
    Time to die.


    Roy Batty, Blade Runner

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    Why did god create a dual universe?
    So he might say
    ‘Be not like me. I am alone.'
    And it might be heard.

    Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

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    Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly;
    Man got to sit and wonder 'why, why, why?'
    Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;
    Man got to tell himself he understand.

    Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle

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    ...But when music speaks, she speaks not to us. The perfect work of art touches upon us only in that it survives us. A poem enters into language from within, in an aspect forever averted from us. It fills the language wondrously, rising to its very brim – but it never again thrusts toward us. Colors are congealed in a picture, but they are broidered into it like rain into the countryside; and all that the sculptor shows his stone is how it may most splendidly hold itself aloof. Music, indeed, is closer to our heart... but how much of her is beyond our reach, pushes just past us, carries right through us – and we comprehend it not!...

    — Rainer Maria Rilke, from Letters to Benvenuta
    “As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naïve and simple-hearted than we suppose. And we ourselves are, too.” — Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

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    The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.

    — As You Like It, Act 5, Scene 1
    “As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naïve and simple-hearted than we suppose. And we ourselves are, too.” — Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

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    Oh, a sleeping drunkard
    Up in Central Park,
    And a lion-hunter
    In the jungle dark,
    And a Chinese dentist,
    And a British queen--
    All fit together
    In the same machine.
    Nice, nice, very nice;
    Nice, nice, very nice;
    Nice, nice, very nice--
    So many different people
    In the same device.

    Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle


    Nowhere and oblivion were completely different things/places to Richard Stein. For
    him, oblivion is when something goes into nothing and nowhere is the place where
    something can come out of nothing.


    Carlton Mellick III, Satan Burger

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    There is something maddeningly attractive about the untranslatable, about a word that goes silent in transit.

    — Anne Carson, from A Public Space, Issue 7 / 2008
    “As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naïve and simple-hearted than we suppose. And we ourselves are, too.” — Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

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    Not to suppress suffering (the stupid notion that time will do away with such a thing) but to change it, transform it, to shift it from a static stage (stasis, obstruction, recurrences of the same thing) to a fluid state.
    —Roland Barthes, tr. by Richard Howard, from a diary entry featured in Mourning Diary
    Hitta: lungs is like a reverse tootsie roll pop
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    Hitta: lungs is like a reverse tootsie roll pop
    Hitta: sticky elastic external persona... strong core
    Hitta: or a bukkake girl

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    I promise you, these storms are only trying to wash you clean.

    -Jessica Katoff


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    ''When I write, I become a version of myself that isn’t filtered through the detritus and clutter of experience.''
    "...Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly" (the Skin Horse)

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    Hitta: lungs is like a reverse tootsie roll pop
    Hitta: sticky elastic external persona... strong core
    Hitta: or a bukkake girl

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    وزير‎‎ lungs's Avatar
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    Kinda corny but it hits the spot

     

    I.
    On my TV screen,
    a magician talks about the record
    for holding one’s breath
    as his assistant lowers herself
    into a tank of water.
    It’s twenty two minutes.
    I would have sworn it would be longer.
    I would have sworn it would be years.

    II.
    This is how I remember it:
    On our first date,
    he ran his fingertips across my skin
    like he was reading my palm.
    When I fell asleep with my glasses on,
    He slid them off and cleaned them,
    then placed them on my nightstand, every single time.
    Once, I took a sip of wine,
    shrugged,
    and set my glass down on the table.
    He poured it down the sink.
    Then the entire bottle.
    He said, life is too short for bad wine.
    He said, you deserve better.

    III.
    God, I love doing magic tricks.
    I love the way
    I know the lie from the beginning.
    I love the way
    I can see the turn coming.

    IV.
    This is the hardest part–
    That boy is not made of fists.
    This is the hardest part–
    That boy
    learned how to braid my hair.
    These things do not un-truth themselves
    when the first door slams.
    I did not stop loving him
    all the months I was holding my breath.
    This is the hardest part,
    the way a fish is still a fish
    even after she’s been gutted.
    Even after her lip’s split clean in half
    from the hook
    and the hook
    and the hook;
    Do you think the fish blames herself?
    And her own stupid, open mouth?
    Do you think the fisherman apologized?
    Said all he wanted was to hold her?
    Said, I’ve touched that hook for years and it never once pierced me, darling, how could I have known?
    Do you think the fish forgave him?
    Said, I’m sorry, too.
    I promise I’ll try harder
    to breathe outside the water.

    V.
    This is how I remember it.
    He wrote me a song
    for my birthday
    and he played it any time I asked.
    I still sing it all the time,
    without really even noticing,
    the words a fishhook
    caught inside my mouth.
    Hitta: lungs is like a reverse tootsie roll pop
    Hitta: sticky elastic external persona... strong core
    Hitta: or a bukkake girl

  18. #258
    وزير‎‎ lungs's Avatar
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    "Getting older is a hard thing to explain to anyone who hasn’t done it yet, which I don’t mean in a patronizing way, just a true one: it’s a strange thing to be in a position to know so much about what you could have done differently with no way to redo any of it. (Time travel into the past is theoretically possible but unlikely, as you may know already.) I don’t mean regret, that’s not the same thing, and I don’t mean I wish I could go back and give advice to my younger self, because my younger self would find my current self unfathomable–not insufferable, I don’t think (I hope) but also not likely someone my younger self could ever imagine growing into, and I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise."
    Sarah McCarry
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    There is another world, but it's inside this one.

    Paul Éluard

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    Occasionally I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor.
    On purpose. I’m not satisfied when it doesn’t gather itself up again.
    Someday, perhaps a cup will come together.

    Hannibal Lecter

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