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Pastimes : Favorite Quotes -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Volsi Mimir who wrote (2669)	2/8/1999 2:00:00 AM
From: N	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 13015

How exquisite: He sees larkspur, Blue and white, At the edge of the shadow, ... The night is of the colour Of a woman's arm: Night, the female, Obscure, Not ... Can carve What one star can carve, Shining through the grape-leaves. How easily the city is lost How easily the city is lost, leaves me to see only what's at hand: a sliver of red brick and mortar, a pigeon roosting on the rain-slick railing, a postcard of the Penitent Magdalene by George de La Tour. Under fog the world attempts disappearance. Even desire tissues to smoke in the steamy kitchen of the sky. This day a reprieve: a thick cream of mushroom. Anticipateds slip my mind. The morning-scent of coffee and bread are all I need. In Mary's mirror a single flame blossoms from a single candle. She looks away from it, from the picture plane-- which is to say, from the physical. She hungers for no thing. An idea of the ideal is nothing we can see. What happens if we are not surpassed by some Absolute, something shapeless? What happens if we are not transported? Her face cleaving -- half in, half out -- the candle's juniper of light. On her vanity a putty-coloured skull, the delicate white beads. Her arm pure, moony, marionette; the folds of her gown sculptured. This is an arrangement of light and shade, a clair-obscure, We need shape to know we are living -- which is to say, the phenomenal: potatoes sung by earth, a sallow moon clinging to a tree, are of a bruised knee. Archimedes, the story goes, measured even a grain of sand, anxious to know how many grains were needed to fill the universe. There is never a shortage of yearning. I want to be among things that bloom although I do not love flowers. Magdalene, how you glow, how let go, loosened in the brilliant darkness. Once I wore only black by which I meant emptiness. Now I wear blue. When will I pass through what I love into the fog, the meaningless, the truly beautiful? Yerra Sugarman

To: Volsi Mimir who wrote (2669)	2/9/1999 11:46:00 PM
From: Volsi Mimir	Respond to of 13015

The Flower Alexander Pushkin 1828 A flower shrivelled, lacking fragrance, Forgotten in a book I see, And instantly my soul awakens, Filled with a curious reverie: When did it bloom? Last spring? or earlier? And for how long? Where plucked? By whom? By fingers alien? familiar? And why put here, as in a tomb? To mark a tender meeting by it? A parting with a precious one? Or just a walk, alone and quiet, In forests' shade? in meadows' sun? Is she alive? Is he still with her? Where is their haven at this hour? Or did they both already wither, Like this unfathomable flower?

To: Volsi Mimir who wrote (2669)	2/9/1999 11:52:00 PM
From: Volsi Mimir	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 13015

The Snow Man Wallace Stevens One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.