but maybe for just a minute more?

MorleyOneMinute

(If you click on the picture once it will take you to Morley’s blog; if you click on the picture again there it will zoom in so you can read it all more easily.)

I don’t know, maybe I’m greedy. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I need too much external validation; I always want more than just that one minute.

. . .What kind of paradise am I looking for?
I’ve got everything I want and still I want more;
Maybe some tiny, shiny key will wash up on the shore. . .

More Ani, plus. . .

. . .They say that the truth will set you free,
but then, so will a lie;
It depends if you’re trying to get to the promised land,
or just trying to get by. . .

Reminds me of Auden:

. . .We are free to choose our paths,
but choose we must.
And the tales we tell of our past must be true.

Not writing much lately. Just living, and thinking, and telling the truth to myself as much as I can.

I read something once, and of course, being me, can’t remember who wrote it or what I read it in, but it was about how we must always tell the truth. First to ourselves, and then, if it will “help,” in any way, to others.

It’s that “if” that’s the real doozy.

Ani

. . . and I don’t always feel lucky, but I’m smart enough to try;
cuz humility has 
buoyancy, and above us only sky. . .

 

. . .any more pent-up emotion and I think I’m gonna explode. . .

 

. . .when I look down, I miss all the good stuff;
when I look up, I trip over things. . .

 

~Ani DiFranco

perhaps the hardest thing to know

when to speak

when to keep silent

do we have arguments
we know we’ll lose
because of the importance of
what must be said?

I have a vision, sometimes,
of bricking myself in
brick by brick by brick
leaving just a little slot for water and
the occasional sandwich
a small opening at the top
to let in the rain

maybe if I figure out how to paint it
that will do
and the fact that some
won’t know what I meant
will be the blessing rather
than the curse

 

The Time of Secrets

A huge red sun would be setting far away in a sulphurous sea, our shadows would already be long: their feet sticking to our soles, they would slide on our right over the surface of the kermes oaks, be slashed in two, in passing, by a pine tree trunk and suddenly loom vertical against a golden rock face. The first hardly perceptible evening breeze flowed towards us from the hilltops. In the sky, a black flight of starlings dived and soared again, changing in size and shape along unexpected curves, like an ant-hill carried away by the wind, and then, amid the resinous silence of the pine-woods, a few lost notes of the angelus of Allauch would evangelize the echoes of the cliffs.

I had not forgotten my love, but my grief took on the tinge of the season: it was a wistful regret, a tender melancholy which recomposed my memories. I had obliterated the humiliating ordeals, the poet on all fours on the road and the devastating last appearance of the Cassignol family. I saw two violet-blue eyes across a sheaf of irises, a bunch of blue grapes before half-open lips, and, on the singing swing, the brown nape of a little girl who was pointing her white sandals towards the quivering boughs of an olive tree . . . Then, in my dreams at night, I would hear distant music and the little red queen would glide away, infinitely sad and lonely, under the gloomy arches of the forests of long ago.

~ Marcel Pagnol

 

I know it’s not, technically, “poetry,” but anything this lovely, and said this beautifully, is.