Posts from the ‘Poetry’ Category

Apr 5

“To become a philosopher, start by walking very slowly.” —Nassim Nicholas Taleb

Curling a toe
At the pace of the light
Creeping up the face of the night
As owls hoot and cocks crow
Commences the first step
In the art of the flaneur

It is a good idea to be alone in a garden at dawn or dark so that all its shy presence may haunt you and possess you in a reverie of suspended thought.

—James Douglas

Apr 1

“I never saw a painting that would not be improved by the addition of tropical fish.” —John Cooper Clarke

One need not be golden to be pretty, but if not being pretty, one is being seafood.

Sometimes, when the water is quiet, you can almost hear the fish laughing at you.

—Anon

Mar 29

“Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you get neither.” —C. S. Lewis

Of the first heaven of heavenly fame
Second heaven was a reflection
The creator of both the same
The artist in heaven one

The intellect of the wise is like glass; it admits the light of heaven and reflects it.

—Augustus Hare

Mar 23

“Colors, like features, follow the changes of the emotions.” —Pablo Picasso

Three señoritas sit in the sun, phrasing its aesthetic rays.
El Greco! Goya! Velázquez!

I hold the imitation of color to be the greatest difficulty of art.

—El Greco

Mar 18

“All human things of dearest value hang on slender strings.” —Edmund Waller

Strummed strings of melody
Thrumming in harmony
With the lyre of Hermes
Of these we sing

But the lover’s power is the poet’s power. He can make love from all the common strings with which this world is strung.

—Amelia Barr

Mar 15

“Our world isn’t made of earth, air and water or even molecules and atoms; our world is made of language..” —Tom Robbins

The rising and setting of the sun: a metaphor of a day on a spinning ball of words in a universe of verse.

Perhaps things are not things but words: metaphors, words for other things.

—Octavio Paz

Mar 11

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” —Ernest Hemingway

Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.

―Mark Twain

All good books have one thing in common – they are truer than if they had really happened.

―Ernest Hemingway

Feb 28

“They teach you there’s a boundary line to music. But, man, there’s no boundary line to art.” —Charlie Parker

Hear the cosmic gas sighing
Dark chords bleeding together
Primal rhythms replying
Deep-down blues grieve forever

Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.

―Lao-Tzu

Feb 24

“If names are not correct, language will not be in accordance with the truth of things.” —Confucius

In 1920s Charleston, South Carolina,
a scion of its fading aristocracy,
DuBose Heyward, sparks the
Southern Renaissance of novelists,
with the first realistic portrait of
flesh-and-blood Americans of color.
The love’s story’s title is the name
of the principal character, Porgy.

People’s fates are simplified by their names.

―Elias Canetti

Feb 20

“If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.” —Carl Sagan

We played and stomped the ground on the range we once roamed
Squeezing music in and out made a wheezy moan
Breezes teasing reedy grasses, weaving a tune
Down-to-earth as cow pies on a June afternoon

Work and pray, live on hay, you’ll get pie in the sky when you die.

―Joe Hill

Posts from the ‘Poetry’ Category

Curling a toe At the pace of the light Creeping up the face of the nightAs owls hoot and cocks crowCommences the first step In the art of the flaneur

It is a good idea to be alone in a garden at dawn or dark so that all its shy presence may haunt you and possess you in a reverie of suspended thought.

—James Douglas

One need not be golden to be pretty, but if not being pretty, one is being seafood.

Sometimes, when the water is quiet, you can almost hear the fish laughing at you.

—Anon

Of the first heaven of heavenly fameSecond heaven was a reflectionThe creator of both the sameThe artist in heaven one

The intellect of the wise is like glass; it admits the light of heaven and reflects it.

—Augustus Hare

Three señoritas sit in the sun, phrasing its aesthetic rays.El Greco! Goya! Velázquez!

I hold the imitation of color to be the greatest difficulty of art.

—El Greco

Strummed strings of melodyThrumming in harmonyWith the lyre of HermesOf these we sing

But the lover’s power is the poet’s power. He can make love from all the common strings with which this world is strung.

—Amelia Barr

The rising and setting of the sun: a metaphor of a day on a spinning ball of words in a universe of verse.

Perhaps things are not things but words: metaphors, words for other things.

—Octavio Paz

Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.

―Mark Twain

All good books have one thing in common – they are truer than if they had really happened.

―Ernest Hemingway

Hear the cosmic gas sighing Dark chords bleeding together Primal rhythms replying Deep-down blues grieve forever

Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.

―Lao-Tzu

In 1920s Charleston, South Carolina, a scion of its fading aristocracy, DuBose Heyward, sparks the Southern Renaissance of novelists, with the first realistic portrait of flesh-and-blood Americans of color. The love’s story’s title is the name of the principal character, Porgy.

People’s fates are simplified by their names.

―Elias Canetti

We played and stomped the ground on the range we once roamed Squeezing music in and out made a wheezy moan Breezes teasing reedy grasses, weaving a tune Down-to-earth as cow pies on a June afternoon

Work and pray, live on hay, you’ll get pie in the sky when you die.

―Joe Hill

Curling a toe
At the pace of the light
Creeping up the face of the night
As owls hoot and cocks crow
Commences the first step
In the art of the flaneur

Of the first heaven of heavenly fame
Second heaven was a reflection
The creator of both the same
The artist in heaven one

Three señoritas sit in the sun, phrasing its aesthetic rays.
El Greco! Goya! Velázquez!

Strummed strings of melody
Thrumming in harmony
With the lyre of Hermes
Of these we sing

Hear the cosmic gas sighing
Dark chords bleeding together
Primal rhythms replying
Deep-down blues grieve forever

In 1920s Charleston, South Carolina,
a scion of its fading aristocracy,
DuBose Heyward, sparks the
Southern Renaissance of novelists,
with the first realistic portrait of
flesh-and-blood Americans of color.
The love’s story’s title is the name
of the principal character, Porgy.

We played and stomped the ground on the range we once roamed
Squeezing music in and out made a wheezy moan
Breezes teasing reedy grasses, weaving a tune
Down-to-earth as cow pies on a June afternoon