Troubled Water

spiritual truth,  physical detereoration, insomnia, migraine  headaches and poems  about suffering,  and inspiration to  keep suffering and being  a sucker to  inspiration and the idea  that the rewards of suffering  are inspirational and  spiritual the rewards of suffering in it’s like this   meaning somebody who rode through town once, ten years ago or who lived and died before your birth. They expect you to remember, to know, just like your mind is their mind and if you don't, they might take it personal. Get so made at you, they can't get on with the story. Not like Fannie Mae. She will get all into a story and catch herself: "But that was before you were born." Fannie Mae will pause, grin for emphasis and say, "And I wish you coulda seen it!" not me. when i get through when i'm done won't be no wishing you could see. you gone        see . Now, I know you remember so and so in Madness Like Morning Glories ...

The land was ours before we were the land’s. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia, But we were England’s, still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weak Until we found out that it was ourselves We were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outright (The deed of gift was many deeds of war) To the land vaguely realizing westward, But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced, Such as she was, such as she would become. The Gift Outright Out of the mud two strangers came And caught me splitting wood in the yard, And one of them put me off my aim By hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!" I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind And let the other go on a way. I knew pretty well what he had in mind: He wanted to take my job for pay. Good...

The Farewell (1878) - Harriet Backer In the jungle of glass and steel, A titan rises, resolute and real. Trump , they call him, a name that echoes, In the corridors of power, where the wild wind blows. Crafting towers of ambition, matching his own, In every brick, his audacity shown. A dealmaker, a shaker of hands, Shaping the world, as his vision commands. The Art of the Deal A leader bold, a leader brash, His reign marked with controversy and clash. Yet, under the golden crest of his hair, Lies the weight of a nation, in his care. Unyielding, unapologetic, a force to reckon, His words, like fire, often beckon. A storm of tweets, his modern decree, The world watches, in constant decree. The Controversial Commander A dreamer, a doer, a visionary, In his world, there’s no secondary. A future painted in gold and glory, Trump, at the heart of his own story. From reality TV to the Oval Office, His journey, a testament to his audaciousness. In his eyes, America, forever great, His vision, a...

"Nous prétendons qu'il y a deux manières de faire appel aux "destructions nécessaires" : celle du poète, qui parle au nom d'une puissance créatrice, capable de renverser tous les ordres et toutes les représentations pour affirmer la Différence dans l'état de révolution permanente qui caractérise l'éternel retour ; et celle du politique, qui s'attache avant tout à nier ce qui "diffère", afin de conserver ou de prolonger un ordre historique établi" (53). "Par conséquent, l'apprentissage a toujours lieu dans et par l'inconscient, établissant ainsi le lien d'une profonde complicité entre la nature et l'esprit " (165). "C'est l'intensité qui s'exprime immédiatement dans les dynamismes spatio-temporels de base et qui détermine une relation différentielle "indistincte" dans l'Idée à s'incarner dans une qualité distincte et une extensité distinguée" (245). "L'individuati...

Lone amid the café’s cheer, Sad of heart am I to-night; Dolefully I drink my beer, But no single line I write. There’s the wretched rent to pay, Yet I glower at pen and ink: Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray, It is later than you think! Hello! there’s a pregnant phrase. Bravo! let me write it down; Hold it with a hopeful gaze, Gauge it with a fretful frown; Tune it to my lyric lyre ...    Ah! upon starvation’s brink, How the words are dark and dire: It is later than you think. Weigh them well .... Behold yon band, Students drinking by the door, Madly merry, bock in hand, Saucers stacked to mark their score. Get you gone, you jolly scamps; Let your parting glasses clink; Seek your long neglected lamps: It is later than you think. Look again: yon dainty blonde, All allure and golden grace, Oh so willing to respond Should you turn a smiling face. Play your part, poor pretty doll; Feast and frolic, pose and prink; There’s the Morgue to end it all, And it’s later than you think. Yon’s ...

What transforms this world is — knowledge. Do you see what I mean? Nothing else can change anything in this world. Knowledge alone is capable of transforming the world, while at the same time leaving it exactly as it is. When you look at the world with knowledge, you realize that things are unchangeable and at the same time are constantly being transformed. You may ask what good it does us. Let's put it this way — human beings possess the weapon of knowledge in order to make life bearable. For animals such things aren't necessary. Animals don't need knowledge or anything of the sort to make life bearable. But human beings do need something, and with knowledge they can make the very intolerableness of life a weapon, though at the same time that intolerableness is not reduced in the slightest. That's all there is to it. To see human beings in agony, to see them covered in blood and to hear their death groans, makes people humble. It makes their spirits delicate, bright, p...

[...]       A turban carv'd in coarsest stone, A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, Whereon can now be scarcely read The Koran verse that mourns the dead; Point out the spot where Hassan fell A victim in that lonely dell. There sleeps as true an Osmanlie As e'er at Mecca bent the knee; As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, In orisons resumed anew At solemn sound of "Alla Hu!" Yet died he by a stranger's hand, And stranger in his native land— Yet died he as in arms he stood, And unaveng'd, at least in blood. But him the maids of Paradise       Impatient to their halls invite, And the dark Heaven of Houri's eyes       On him shall glance for ever bright; They come—their kerchiefs green they wave, And welcome with a kiss the brave! Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour, Is worthiest an immortal bower. * * * * * * *       But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe; And fro...

Não tenho medo De ser quem sou Só porque ainda não sei para onde vou Sabe quem sabe Não sabe quem Quem não está interessado em ser alguém  Alguém na vida Com pensamento Que mais forte que a chuva só o vento Vento de pais Vento de avós Quantas vezes já tentamos nós  Então p'ra quê Mudar de vida Se a semente do saber já foi colhida Seja por ti Ou por alguém Ser vivo é ser livre também  Trago-te então Uma questão Que preço tem um jovem numa mão  Vale a bonança Da tempestade Chegará antes do fim da minha idade Manifesto Do Jovem Moderno - Miss Universo

« It must be confessed that many of the incidents recorded in the life of Blessed Gonzalo ( Gundisalvus ), a Portuguese of high family, are not of a nature to inspire confidence in the sobriety of his biographers judgment. At the very outset we are told that when carried to the font the infant fixed his eyes on the crucifix with a look of extraordinary love. Then, when he had grown up and been ordained a priest, he is said to have resigned his rich benefice to his nephew and to have spent fourteen years upon a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. On his return, being repulsed by his nephew, who set the dogs on him as a vagrant, he was supernaturally directed to enter that Order in which the Office began and ended with the Ave Maria. He accordingly became a Dominican, but what was allowed by his superiors to live as a hermit, during which time he built, largely with his own hands, a bridge over the river Tamega. When the laborers whom he persuaded to help him had no wine to drink, and he was af...

 "Organic Life beneath the shoreless waves Was born and nurs'd in Ocean's pearly caves; First forms minute, unseen by spheric glass, Move on the mud, or pierce the watery mass; These, as successive generations bloom, New powers acquire, and larger limbs assume;  Whence countless groups of vegetation spring, And breathing realms of fin, and feet, and wing. "Thus the tall Oak, the giant of the wood, Which bears Britannia's thunders on the flood; The Whale, unmeasured monster of the main, The lordly Lion, monarch of the plain, The Eagle soaring in the realms of air, Whose eye undazzled drinks the solar glare, Imperious man, who rules the bestial crowd, Of language, reason, and reflection proud,  With brow erect who scorns this earthy sod, And styles himself the image of his God; Arose from rudiments of form and sense, An embryon point, or microscopic ens! I. 295-314 "In these lone births no tender mothers blend Their genial powers to nourish or defend; No nutrie...

Sr. Redactor: - Acedo da melhor vontade ao seu desejo de que lhe escreva a história real  das festas de Suez. Conto-lhe, porém, simplesmente e descarnadamente, o que me ficou em memória daqueles dias confusos e cheios de acontecimentos, tanto mais que as festas de Suez estão para mim entre duas grandes recordações - o Cairo e Jerusalém: estão abafadas, escurecidas por estas duas poderosas e luminosas impressões: estão como pode estar um desenho linear a lápis, entre uma tela resplandecente de Decamps , o pintor do Alcorão, e uma tela mortuária de Delaroche , o pintor do Evangelho. Talvez em breve diga o que é o Cairo e o e o que é Jerusalém na sua crua e positiva realidade, se Deus consentir que eu escreva o que vi na terra dos seus profetas. Hoje faço-lhe apenas a narração trivial, o relatório chato das festas de Port Said, Ismaília e Suez. ... Tínhamos voltado, eu e o meu companheiro, o Conde de Resende, duma excursão às pirâmides de Gizé, aos templos de Sakkarah e às ruínas de M...

Eu sou o anjo do desespero. Com as minhas mãos distribuo o êxtase, o adormecimento, o esquecimento gozo e dor dos corpos. A minha fala é o silêncio, o meu canto o grito. Na sombra das minhas asas mora o terror. A minha esperança é o último sopro. A minha esperança é a primeira batalha. Eu sou a faca com que o morto abre o caixão. Eu sou aquele que há-de ser. O meu voo é a revolta, o meu céu o abismo de amanhã. O ANJO SEM SORTE. Atrás dele o passado dá à costa, acumula entulho sobre as asas e os ombros, um barulho como de tambores enterrados, enquanto à sua frente se amontoa o futuro, esmagando-lhe os olhos, fazendo explodir como estrelas os globos oculares, transformando a palavra em mordaça sonora, estrangulando-o com o seu sopro. Durante algum tempo vê-se ainda o seu bater de asas, ouvem-se naquele sussurrar as pedras a cair-lhe à frente por cima atrás, tanto mais alto quanto mais frenético é o escusado movimento, mais espaçadas quando ele abranda. Depois fecha-se sobre ele o instant...

Longe do estéril turbilhão da rua, Beneditino, escreve! No aconchego Do claustro, na paciência e no sossego, Trabalha, e teima, e lima, e sofre, e sua! Mas que na forma se disfarce o emprego Do esforço; e a trama viva se construa De tal modo, que a imagem fique nua, Rica mas sóbria, como um templo grego. Não se mostre na fábrica o suplício Do mestre. E, natural, o efeito agrade, Sem lembrar os andaimes do edifício: Porque a Beleza, gêmea da Verdade, Arte pura, inimiga do artifício, É a força e a graça na simplicidade. A Um Poeta - Olavo Bilac A cruz dizia à terra onde assentava, Ao vale obscuro, ao monte áspero e mudo: — Que és tu, abismo e jaula, aonde tudo Vive na dor e em luta cega e brava? Sempre em trabalho, condenada escrava. Que fazes tu de grande e bom, contudo? Resignada, és só lodo informe e rudo; Revoltosa, és só fogo e hórrida lava… Mas a mim não há alta e livre serra Que me possa igualar!.. amor, firmeza, Sou eu só: sou a paz, tu és a guerra! Sou o espírito, a luz!.. tu és...

Ponho o acento mais grave na palavra Esperança O acento mais grave ponho-o na palavra Esperança Escutai toda a extensão de caminho que ela traz consigo: Mas dos pés quotidianos não limpem a lama dos dias quanta [houver e há tanta Nem tapem a boca ao tumulto os punhos nos ouvidos feitos [surdos Ao coração - esse podem deixá-lo pesado se o estiver e como Mas espantem o sono dos olhos já pisados de sonho por demais E cuspam fora o sarro do tédio o não importa o é sabido e basta Em cada palavra um grito em cada grito a vida - esse é [o estrume Desta flor íntima e pública que vos digo e não é fácil Não é fácil que a flor brota da aspereza e do nojo E da fome e da sede dos seios secos e dos ventres grávidos E dos olhos enxutos e das pedras em pranto Ah! quanto suor trabalhoso e quanto mais se exige Escutai toda a extensão de caminho que ela traz consigo: Desdobra-se o passo caiem horizontes e tão só desponta Nesta noite de amargura e séculos Com o rosto sereno dos mortos que sabiam E das cri...

“The significant relationships of early adulthood are thus construed as the means to an end of individual achievement, and these "transitional figures" must be cast off or reconstructed following the realization of success. If in the process, however, they become, like Dido, an impediment to the fulfillment of the Dream, then the relationship must be renounced, "to allow the developmental process" to continue. This process is defined by Levinson explicitly as one of individuation: "throughout the life cycle, but especially in the key transition periods . . . the developmental process of individuation is going on." The process refers "to the changes in a person's relationships to himself and to the external world," the relationships that constitute his "Life Structure" (p. 195). If in the course of "Becoming One's Own Man," this structure is discovered to be flawed and threatens the great expectations of the Dream, then...