OxfordIt is well that there are palaces of peaceAnd discipline and dreaming and desire,Lest we forget our heritage and ceaseThe Spirit’s work—to hunger and aspire:Lest we forget that we were born divine,Now tangled in red battle’s animal net,Murder the work and lust the anodyne,Pains of the beast ‘gainst bestial solace set.But this shall never be: to us remainsOne city that has nothing of the beast,That was not built for gross, material gains,Sharp, wolfish power or empire’s glutted feast.We are not wholly brute. To us remainsA clean, sweet city lulled by ancient streams,A place of visions and of loosening chains,A refuge of the elect, a tower of dreams.She was not builded out of common stoneBut out of all men’s yearning and all prayerThat she might live, eternally our own,The Spirit’s stronghold—barred against despair.

The ChairI’m writing to you, who made the archaic wooden chairlook like a throne while you sat on it.Amidst your absence, I choose to sit on the floor,which is dusty as a dry Kansas day.I am stoic as a statue of Buddha,not wanting to bother the old wooden chair,which has been silent now for months.In this sunlit moment I think of you.I can still picture you sitting there--your forehead wrinkled like an un-ironed shirt,the light splashed on your face,like holy water from St. Joseph’s.The chair, with rounded curveslike that of a full-figured woman,seems as mellow as a monk in prayer.The breeze blows from beyond the curtains,as if your spirit has come back to rest.Now a cloud passes overhead,and I hush, waiting to hear what restsso heavily on the chair’s lumbering mind.Do not interrupt, even if the wind offers to carryyour raspy voice like a wispy cloud.

- Qu'y-a-t-il au sommet de la montagne ?- Le ciel.- Que dit le loup quand il hurle ?- Joie, force et solitude.- A qui s'adresse-t-il ?- A la lune.- Où va la rivière ?- Remplir la mer.- A qui la nuit fait-elle peur ?- A ceux qui attendent le jour pour voir.- Es-tu vent ou nuage ?- Je suis moi.- Es-tu vent ou nuage ?- Vent.- Es-tu ombre ou lumière ?- Je suis moi.- Es-tu ombre ou lumière ?- Les deux.- Que devient une lame qui se brise ?- Une poussière d'étoile.- Que fais-tu devant une rivière que tu ne peux pas traverser ?- Je le traverse.- Que devient une étoile qui meurt ?- Un rêve qui vit.- Offre moi un mot.- Silence.- Un autre.- Harmonie.- Un dernier.- Fluidité.- L'ours et le chien se disputent un territoire, qui a raison ?- Le chat qui les observe.- Marie tes trois mots.- Marchombre.

I am who I say I am,I'm not some fantasyof how you think you think you knowor who I ought to be.I am a girl who is growing up in my own sweet time,I am a girl who knows enoughto know this life is mine.I am this and I am that andI am everything in-between.I'm a dreamer, I'm a dancer,I'm a part-time drama queen.I'm a worrier, I'm a warrior,I'm a loner and a friend,I'm an outspoken defenderof justice to the end.I'm the girl in the mirror who likes the girl she sees,I'm the girl in the gypsy shawlwith music in her knees.I'm a singer and a scholar,I'm a girl who has been kissed.I'm a solver of equationswearing bangles on my wrist.I am bigger than i ever knew,I am stronger than before,I am every girl I have ever been,and all that are in store.I am who I say I am.I'm not some fantasy.I am the me I am inside.I am whoI choseto be.

the answer is to just let gothe betrayal is to the pastthe cocoon dangles emptythe desire outlasts the objectthe effort lingersthe frustration is in how pointless the effort wasthe ghost does not make itself transparentthe heart knows nothing except its own mindthe ideas are not enoughthe jealousy is always therethe killing blow is sometimes the softestthe life you lead can be detouredthe moment you know cannot be taken backthe new you will try to bury the old methe opportunity has passedthe past is inopportunethe questions all grow from whythe reality will always be contendedthe sadness will ebbthe trouble is the time it might takethe ugly words cannot be erased, only discreditedthe versions are never the samethe wonder is that we make it throughthe x is the unknown variablethe yesterday cannot be repeatedthe zenith is the point when you look down and realize you’re no longer below

I am the slave of the Master of ProphetsAnd my fealty to him has no beginning.I am a slave of his slave, and of his slave’s slave,And so forth endlessly,For I do not cease to approach the doorOf his good pleasure among the beginners.I proclaim among people the teaching of his high attributes,And sing his praises among the poets.Perhaps he shall tell me: “You are a noted friendOf mine, a truly excellent beautifier of my tribute.”Yes, I would sacrifice my soul for the dust of his sanctuary.His favor should be that he accept my sacrifice.He has triumphed who ascribes himself to him!- Not that he needs such following,For he is not in need of creation at all,While they all need him without exception.He belongs to Allah alone, Whose purified servant he is,As his attributes and names have made manifest;And every single favor in creation comes from AllahTo him, and from him to everything else.

Ultimately, we will lose each otherto something. I would hope for grandcircumstance—death or disaster.But it might not be that way at all.It might be that you walk outone morning after making loveto buy cigarettes, and never return,or I fall in love with another …It might be a slow drift into indifference.Either way, we’ll have to learnto bear the weight of the eventualitythat we will lose each other to something.So why not begin now, while your headrests like a perfect moon in my lap …?Why not reach for the seam in this …night and tear it, just a little, so the fallingcan begin? Because later, when we crosseach other on the streets, and are forcedto look away, when we’ve thrownthe disregarded pieces of our togethernessinto bedroom drawers and the smellof our bodies is disappearing like the sweetdecay of lilies—what will we call it,when it’s no longer love?

I wrought me a lyric of fire and fear,And called on the world to heed —Till strong men blenched at my haggard faceAnd shuddered, but would not read.So I stole me the gold of the mines of JoyAnd fashioned a conscious lie —And they gave me the wreath of the kings of SongAnd prayed that I might not die!(For the lie that I wrought was as old as the worldAnd dear as the vision of Heaven —Of the crimson lure of a maiden's lipsAnd the myth of a sin forgiven!)But my heart was sick, and my soul grew less, With the light of my failing days,Because I had lied to my Knowledge-GodFor the pottage of human praise.O I clung to the rim of the cliffs of HellAnd called on an empty Name —Till there dropped the tears of a weeping TruthAnd saved my soul from the flame.So I hid my soul in a maiden's hair,And climbed to a clearer view —And I found I had lied to a lying God,And the myth I had sung - was true!

When Hitler marched across the RhineTo take the land of France,La dame de fer decided,‘Let’s make the tyrant dance.’Let him take the land and city,The hills and every flower,One thing he will never have,The elegant Eiffel Tower.The French cut the cables,The elevators stood still,‘If he wants to reach the top,Let him walk it, if he will.’The invaders hung a swastikaThe largest ever seen.But a fresh breeze blewAnd away it flew,Never more to be seen.They hung up a second mark,Smaller than the first,But a patriot climbedWith a thought in mind:‘Never your duty shirk.’Up the iron ladyHe stealthily made his way,Hanging the bright tricolour,He heroically saved the day.Then, for some strange reason,A mystery to this day,Hitler never climbed the tower,On the ground he had to stay.At last he ordered she be razedDown to a twisted pile.A futile attack, for still she standsBeaming her metallic smile.

A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dippedCarrotOn my bed, my green comforterdraped over my knees like a lumpy turtle,I think about the Berlin Wall of years that separates us.In my own life, the years are beginning to stack uplike a Guinness World Record’s pile of pancakes,yet I’m still searching for some kind of syrup to believe in.In the shadows of my pink sheet, I see your face, Desnos’ face,and two clock faces staring at each other. I see a gaping woundthat ebbs rose petals, while a sweaty armpitholds an orchestra. Beethoven, maybe.A lover sings a capella, with the frothiness of a cappuccino.Starbucks, maybe. There’s an hourglass, too, and beneath the sandslie untapped oil reserves. I see Dali’s mustache,Magritte’s pipe, and bowling shoes, which leaves the question--If you could time travel through a trumpet, would you findtoday and tomorrow too loud?

Jag skriver inte för allaJag skriver för dejDu som fyller huvudet med drömmar och fantasiOch som krockar med verklighetens lyktstolpar om och om igenJag skriver för dejDu som tänker på livet, hur det är och hur det kunde vara Du som tänker på döden Jag skriver för dejDu som gör listor med viktiga sakerDu som försöker förstå hur allt hänger ihopDu som funderar på tiden vi lever i Och varför världen ser ut som den görOch på hur allt ska bli och hur allt skulle kunna varaJag skriver för dejDu som vet att du inte är som de andra Och för dej, du som känner igen dejJag skriver för dej Du som gråter i nattsvart hopplöshetOch för dej Du som skrattar,Som vet att världen är vackerOch att livet är ett spännande äventyrJag skriver inte för alla Jag skriver för dej

No sun—no moon! No morn—no noon—No dawn— No sky—no earthly view— No distance looking blue—No road—no street—no "t'other side the way"— No end to any Row— No indications where the Crescents go— No top to any steeple—No recognitions of familiar people— No courtesies for showing 'em— No knowing 'em!No traveling at all—no locomotion,No inkling of the way—no notion— "No go"—by land or ocean— No mail—no post— No news from any foreign coast—No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility— No company—no nobility—No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member—No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November!

THE POEMS OF OUR CLIMATEIClear water in a brilliant bowl, Pink and white carnations. The lightIn the room more like a snowy air, Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snowAt the end of winter when afternoons return.Pink and white carnations - one desiresSo much more than that. The day itselfIs simplified: a bowl of white, Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,With nothing more than the carnations there.IISay even that this complete simplicityStripped one of all one's torments, concealedThe evilly compounded, vital IAnd made it fresh in a world of white,A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,Still one would want more, one would need more,More than a world of white and snowy scents.IIIThere would still remain the never-resting mind,So that one would want to escape, come backTo what had been so long composed.The imperfect is our paradise.Note that, in this bitterness, delight,Since the imperfect is so hot in us,Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.

Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.Parece que los ojos se te hubieran voladoy parece que un beso te cerrara la boca..Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi almaemerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,y te pareces a la palabra melancolía..Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:Déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo..Déjame que te hable también con tu silencioclaro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo..Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.

دهان ات را می بویندمبادا که گفته باشی دوست ات می دارم.دل ات را می بویندروزگار غریبی ست، نازنینوعشق راکنار تیرک راه بندتازیانه می زنند.عشق را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد