Nothing like a walk through an “empty” forest to awaken ones senses.
Transgender AishaMarch 22, 2018, 2:34 PM
I first read that as “Bitches”.
ghostsniperMarch 22, 2018, 7:09 PM
I likes me sum birches, but alas they are rare in these parts.
There is no such thing as an empty forest – they are full of life that is unrecognizable to the inexperienced.
EdMarch 23, 2018, 2:38 AM
I used to swing maples. They grew thick along a hedgerow bordering our field. Lotsa fun. Cheap thrills. Didn’t hurt anything.
bob sykesMarch 23, 2018, 4:48 AM
In northeast rural Massachusetts, birches grow wild in clumps. And, yes, we did climb and ride them down.
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
NEW Real World Address for Complaints, Brickbats, and Donations
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this
air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
— Walt Whitman
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
— The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot
“From a student radical/hippie/leftist of the Free Speech Movement/Vietnam Day Commitee era and a full-on Democratic Liberal in the decades after, I think I’ve evolved a politics that is neither right nor left but is, in its elemental nature, draconian. In the last 20 years, I’ve taken apart my beliefs with a sledgehammer. Now I’ve got to put the surviving parts back together with tweezers and other ‘shabby equipment, always deteriorating’.”
Real World Address for Donations, Mash Notes and Hate Mail
Gerard Van der Leun
1692 MANGROVE AVE
APT 379
Chico, Ca 95926
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
Gerard Van der Leun
When all Earth’s seas shall Levitate,
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
Comments on this entry are closed.
Nothing like a walk through an “empty” forest to awaken ones senses.
I first read that as “Bitches”.
I likes me sum birches, but alas they are rare in these parts.
There is no such thing as an empty forest – they are full of life that is unrecognizable to the inexperienced.
I used to swing maples. They grew thick along a hedgerow bordering our field. Lotsa fun. Cheap thrills. Didn’t hurt anything.
In northeast rural Massachusetts, birches grow wild in clumps. And, yes, we did climb and ride them down.