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Pastimes : Calling all SI Poets -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Rainy_Day_Woman who wrote (1907)	2/18/2000 8:07:00 AM
From: Volsi Mimir	Respond to of 2095

the ocean is my love, quenches the soul I wonder why? from Ruth Iannazzi: Ocean Eyes I looked into the deep waters of your soul, And wondered what do they reflect inside... those crystal pools seemed so mysteriously inviting, My body ached to dive in and drown in their coolness.

To: Rainy_Day_Woman who wrote (1907)	2/25/2000 9:29:00 AM
From: Volsi Mimir	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 2095

Butterflies Randy Read The best thoughts are most delicate, fastest, trickiest to capture. Lepidoptera so different on the wing, than when caught, killed, and proudly displayed.

To: Rainy_Day_Woman who wrote (1907)	3/23/2000 1:07:00 AM
From: Volsi Mimir	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 2095

Invaded by Souls ~Tess Gallagher "... but I'm always being invaded by others' souls so I can't see my own soul very well... "-Shuntaro Tanikawa One night you fall asleep with an ungiven kiss on your lips, you fall asleep in your kiss. It is like sending yourself on an all night errand to interview echoes about where they think they're coming from. Where did it come from anway, your falling-asleep kiss? your good-for-eternity soul? How do you know they aren't imposters, your unclouded kiss, your sublimated-soul? To kiss and return a kiss is to be invaded by souls,like a dead artist or a living poet, like the twin sails of a ship in its sky-filled sex act with the wind. Sometimes we are taken charge of by the freedom of all those stones children threw at nothing into the sky or into the ocean from the Stone Age onward. We are invaded by souls,We can't hold ourselves back from each other then. And besides, you've fallen asleep in your kiss. Suddenly you are in a railway station, in a state of undress, naked except for your kiss which, like your soul, is invisible and ungiven. A whistle blows like a missed rendezvous with the rest of your life. Souls are rushing past and into you out of the vast Everthing. There is a dark frame around this absence called "the dream." You are trying to exit the wrong way down a stairwell invaded by souls. You'd like to kiss your way out of this like a gangster of the Starry Moment, but there are too many of them, these lonely, imperishable souls rushing at you full of desire and paradox, with wide pockets of illumination and, as if to prove this is an American dream and these are American souls, some are riddled with bullets, cosmetically punctuated with a certain brutal frankness. But our capacity for love belongs to the birdsong of antiquity which cleanses our dream-eyes and allows them to mix moonlight with starlight in those phosphorescent kisses multitudes of plankton give the night. They kiss with their whole beings, invisibly sucking the fingertips of the dream's halflife. Your own soul is in there too filling up its tank on Infinite Joy and Diversity. I don't know what else to tell you, except you'll know when it happens. A certain restless undulation as with waves under fog. It's the souls, moving in.