what is happiness
I walk on a bubbly little field
arms open to what I might find
hidden in there
I’ve been taken
by what is safe and sacred
and I’m always returning
beyond my reach
there’s a child
speaking to herself
mumbling words of wisdom
but I do reach out to touch her hand
as she accepts my doubts
and smiles a dead smile
“there’s nothing left to do but run” she says
domingo, 20 de junho de 2010
Poem of the day: The Ecstasy
Phillip Lopate
The Ecstasy
You are not me, and I am never you
except for thirty seconds in a year
when ecstasy of coming,
laughing at the same time
or being cruel to know for certain
what the other's feeling
charge some recognition.
Not often when we talk though.
Undressing to the daily logs
of this petty boss, that compliment,
curling our lips at half-announced ambitions.
I tell you this during another night
of living next to you
without having said what was on our minds,
our bodies merely rubbing their fishy smells together.
The feelings keep piling up.
Will I ever find the time to tell you what is inside these trunks?
Maybe it's the fault of our language
but dreams are innocent and pictorial.
Then let our dreams speak for us
side by side, leg over leg,
an electroencephalographic kiss
flashing blue movies from temple
to temple, as we lie gagged in sleep.
Sleep on while I am talking
I am just arranging the curtains
over your naked breasts.
Love doesn't look too closely...
love looks very closely
the shock of beauty you gave me
the third rail that runs through our hospitality.
When will I follow you
over the fence to your tracks?
The Ecstasy
You are not me, and I am never you
except for thirty seconds in a year
when ecstasy of coming,
laughing at the same time
or being cruel to know for certain
what the other's feeling
charge some recognition.
Not often when we talk though.
Undressing to the daily logs
of this petty boss, that compliment,
curling our lips at half-announced ambitions.
I tell you this during another night
of living next to you
without having said what was on our minds,
our bodies merely rubbing their fishy smells together.
The feelings keep piling up.
Will I ever find the time to tell you what is inside these trunks?
Maybe it's the fault of our language
but dreams are innocent and pictorial.
Then let our dreams speak for us
side by side, leg over leg,
an electroencephalographic kiss
flashing blue movies from temple
to temple, as we lie gagged in sleep.
Sleep on while I am talking
I am just arranging the curtains
over your naked breasts.
Love doesn't look too closely...
love looks very closely
the shock of beauty you gave me
the third rail that runs through our hospitality.
When will I follow you
over the fence to your tracks?
sábado, 19 de junho de 2010
Nevermore: a special band
Nevermore is probably the most interesting band coming out of America for me, apart from Dream Theater. They certainly are one the most relevant bands out there playing progressive music. And all of their 7 albums added something new to the contemporary metal sound. I have most of their albums except their self-title "Nevermore" and "Dreaming Neon Black" which I intend to buy in the near future. The thing with Nevermore is that their lyrics are exceedingly good and socially keen, much superior to what most bands would ever be able to produce, and musically, they are the perfect soundtrack for nihilism and human disillusionment. And they are a thrash band while still being progressive. Very few call pull that off and still manage to create deep emotion with their music. So, again, perfect mix of aggression and emotionally charged music that will be as thought-provoking as it can be. I think no other band has touched so many nerves as Nevermore really, with a highly poetic message that speaks in between the words as well. For that, and many other things that can't be explained, they are one of my favourite bands. And there's no other voice like Warrel Dane's in music today, able to convey so many different states of mind, particularly anger towards injustice. And there's no other guitar player like Jeff Loomis who did more for the guitar world than most of the players of his generation. He's one of the few who actually pushed guitar playing into a new level of innovation and intricacy. He's as complex as they come and I admire him as a player and songwriter. He's an inspiration for me as is Nevermore as a whole train of thought.
"Blame the world or blame yourself
Or just accept what cannot change"
The Day You Built The Wall - Nevermore
sexta-feira, 18 de junho de 2010
Poem of the Day: Beginning with Two Lines from Rexroth
Ray Gonzalez
Beginning with Two Lines from Rexroth
I see the unwritten books, the unrecorded experiments, the unpainted pictures, the interrupted lives, a staircase leading to a guarantee, the glowing frame of wisdom protecting me from harm after I escape the questions of a lifetime. I see the turning of the pages in a book I have not read, its story proclaiming the reader is going to escape without knowing how the equation injured the moment—sacred leaves rotting in a bottle of rubbing oil, their black designs sinking farther than my reach.
I witness what is made for someone else, its motion calling me to wait for the regions of love where we come back, able to dismiss the picture of ourselves where we can't smile because no one is able to capture time that has not happened and never will. There is no agony and waste, only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
Even a shoulder bone cracks in the morning light, a man rising at the end of a century where everyone gives him pictures, including one of a translucent scene where the running youth carries the host, his confusion between danger and desire making the boy stop at thebank of the river, turn, and go home. When he gets to the house, he doesn't cry out. When it goes dark and the arguments begin, it is his portrait that is handed to me first because I already arrived at the junction between the lamp and the staircase to the mocking stars.
Beginning with Two Lines from Rexroth
I see the unwritten books, the unrecorded experiments, the unpainted pictures, the interrupted lives, a staircase leading to a guarantee, the glowing frame of wisdom protecting me from harm after I escape the questions of a lifetime. I see the turning of the pages in a book I have not read, its story proclaiming the reader is going to escape without knowing how the equation injured the moment—sacred leaves rotting in a bottle of rubbing oil, their black designs sinking farther than my reach.
I witness what is made for someone else, its motion calling me to wait for the regions of love where we come back, able to dismiss the picture of ourselves where we can't smile because no one is able to capture time that has not happened and never will. There is no agony and waste, only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
Even a shoulder bone cracks in the morning light, a man rising at the end of a century where everyone gives him pictures, including one of a translucent scene where the running youth carries the host, his confusion between danger and desire making the boy stop at thebank of the river, turn, and go home. When he gets to the house, he doesn't cry out. When it goes dark and the arguments begin, it is his portrait that is handed to me first because I already arrived at the junction between the lamp and the staircase to the mocking stars.
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