Posts Tagged quotes

WRITING OFF A LONG SENTIENCE :On the road with Jim Morrison

 James Douglas “Jim” Morrison (December 8, 1943 – July 3, 1971)

We dream out of a poetry karaoke
below the constellated shine,
let’s just create one, if there be nay
for random words to be yours and mine.
 “Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything;
 it just ticks off the possibilities. 
Opens all doors. 
You can walk through anyone that suits you.* 

The audience, they,
were quiet vampires
Nights are fiction in a subway,
where lovers and pens write their quires.
I talk of spirits woven in the air
I am the voice of a diegesis
Her laughter, the shadows of a mimesis
there are streaks of whiteness in the dark chambray
  “I believe in a long, prolonged, derangement  
 of the senses 
in order to obtain the unknown”*
Someday on that stone there will be a coda
and your ashes will become  dandelion dust
The day is inflamed, aroused till the final star
so will us gain, by the bathos of death, harvest.
“Death makes angels of us all 
and gives us wings where we had shoulders
 smooth as ravens claws.”*  

  THIS IS NOT THE END OF THIS END.  


 
[* all italicized quotations 
in green above belong to Jim Morrison"]

 











Jim's gravestone bears the Greek inscription:
  ΚΑΤΑ ΤΟΝ ΔΑΙΜΟΝΑ ΕΑΥΤΟΥ, 
 literally meaning
  "according to his own daemon" 
and usually interpreted as  
"true to his own spirit"
(wikipedia :en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Morrison)

©Rangam Chiru, 26/2/12

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Who is worthy and who is not ?

Souls are not displayed
on mannequins
at the neighborhood mall,
nor hang at the butcher’s shop
to choose a fine breast
that just covered a finer heart,
to feed my own. 

But was it you whom I heard when I was deaf ?
deaf to banal words, but yours were absorbed
Was it you who shew the next obstacle,
when I was blind?
they gave a myriad sights, yet I preferred
a simple hold of your arm, the candor in your voice

Apartments of books lean on a burdened bookend
the pock-marked bespectacled librarian,
with intermittent beard
(like moss on burnt brick)
picks out the thickest
with a keenest intent ;
Glad he lightens the weight on a deadwood.

It would take the time of libraries
to know all authors and pages
Next time you pay the bookman,
look at the unbelievable shelf-stack of attractive wisdom
But gaze longer at that book, when you
put your hands in the backpocket
and pay for the one you just chose;
It’s not necessary for its little press time
or its author’s household connect,
that you’d put it later
on your own shelf.

Who is worthy and who is not?
I rang the bell of my neighbor
to return a well-liked book
she says, “keep it, I just didn’t like it”
I said,” Thank you so much”
and my shelf was happy
for my well-read trophy.

[Author notes] : Prompt : True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends,But in the worth and choice.

Benjamin Jonson

http://allpoetry.com/poem/6901921

For me, a friend is so much a book at first, that allows to grow itself into books.
And in a library world of all sorts of books, true happiness is found only in the selected ones you borrow for a lifetime.

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