MIchael and all his friends(back from the dead alias thriller Jackasshole)

There are rumours that Michael jackson is still alive and that he lives in a medieval castle in Hungary….

michael-jackson-death-hoax-diary-found-final-proofm-hes-still-alive

the crying clown

I don’t understand how could you
be everything but true
smell on her skin the dew
of the night as if she were true
like I was to you

thunderbolts in my heart as I saw
a thing to see much too raw
standing all the time in awe
a thing that did me appall

you sure did have it all
the howling wind is one
of my unconscious thoughts
when I muse on this drought

and this lack of love
that was alive in my blue fantasy
diamonds and pearls I envisaged

she was a creature of hypochrisy
sensed by me as a mortal enemy
she was able to drive me crazy

when I pictured her in your eyes
glittering as a star while I

was too shy even to hope
that you would consider me a fantasy

hope so vain like a sailor lost at sea
powerless to compete with her glamour
I could especially see your splendour

therefore my misery and
to what extent I was a dreamer

feeling the ridicule on me like a second skin
my dignity too thin

and scanty
my figure too shabby
funny pitiful yet polite clown
afraid to ask and eager to please

this audience of mine
eyes wide open staring at me
waiting for the inevitable fall of style

biting my tongue
everything I said was wrong

tears falling down I do sympathize with the rain
and the nightfall that all my hopes do drain

the howling dog,the crying baby,the pronstitute
and the mentally ill in the institute
yes ,my emotions I do pronstitute

I do cry at command just to make you feel better
and endlessly your ego flatter

regardless of myself who had died a million of times
I sacrifice my self esteem to please you

always willing to show you that I am humble
able to cause nothing else than trouble
my personality always double

considering that I feign an aplomb
that I don’t posess
able only to obsess
never to play the victim I cess
you I only want to posess
or nobody else
should I put this or some other dress?
You I wanted to impress

in the heat of the moment icebergs I wrought
just hit me with one of your best shots
be cool be a jerk ,be self centered and detached
and superb how only you can be,sober and manly
act with what is your supreme specialty
your huge and infinite cruelty

to love her and break her heart
was a privilege you gave her
me not even woman you did consider

the Gods of love above had more pity
than you had
who acted so bad
make me feel as if I were mad
make me feel this sad
in melancholy always clad

come to my aid now,
restore in me the faith in men
show some humanity
and sensitivity
be irrational and angry
once in a while show me
some irrationality
even if it may seem ordinary
I don’t think she had a delicacy
in which she exceeded me
maybe only apparently and phisically

oh,how could you not see?
was your superiority
just a fantasy
that you had
being in reality just
some vile monster
with a heart of stone?
would you just throw me a bone?
extract from my side this thorn?

how can you reconcile your greatness with your superficiality?
have you any sense of reality?
self awareness of your mentality?
or just react to those you consider your enemies?

but if,you want to suprise me
do something stupid and irrational
an act of boldness
something mediocre
just leave who we were
change the present
create a future
for you and me
even if not true
shout out that you love me.

frozen man

I knew you were just a new boy
stranger in this town ,did you by chance
feel just like a toy?

did you have still love to someone to envoy?
but after a while love here you tried to enjoy

but it was all useless since your heart was already contaminated
with endless lies which were repetedly mistaken
at an innocent age your heart forsaken

and your heart broken
as your judgement was mistaken

was it then that your heart did become unable to love?
started to steal everbody else’s feelings and
nourrish on their naiveness

laugh at their necessity to build their own nest
where to go and rest like birds
bringing home to their children
their trophies of love
the impulse to have a family
even in animals finds its legitimacy
so why can’t you be with me
just in your fantasy?

what big wound did cause this damage in you
who have no curfew

no boundaries no simpathy
that would entangle you to another
human being

I know you are not the only case in human race
to hide his face

from love afraid of being captured like a prisoner
but this i have remarked in you so far
a peculiar reluctancy to love, like a warrior in a battle
who won’t give up the fight with stuborness
unwilling to let the enemies prey on his homeland
persisting in striving with his gang
to prevent others on their praries command

do you have any memories of wickedness
ruling your soul oh dark dark scream in the night
wander with fright

lost ,no arms to pick you up
lovingly and soothe you
still a child and already a frozen man
with its heart closed who always ran

where did your mother go lad?
you are always in this stiffness clad

let me be your loving mother and your wounds heal
some love from you steal

always justifying your weakness
with some higher level ideology
which revealed itself to be just a utopy
but it was already late to live a life normally
have you understood now what is your mistake finally?

I would like to be there with you to see
how is it now,have you changed your mind?
did you learn anything?

to be grateful for the love that is being given you even if
you are just passively receiving it like a one way train

from me to you who can’t figure out what to do
to be finally be loved by you
alas there’s nothing we can do

the destiny is you who have already
decided to let your eyes wander quickly
in search of someone new.

To my grandmother

When I was a child
I was not afraid to run wild

through the streets of your ancient days
I would run from afternoon and turn it to evening
my screams calling the other kids echoing

eager to play untill supper time
that was of my life the prime

joy and freedom were the key words
jumping and dancing with joy for anything
unlike today those things don’t ring
me a bell anymore

life in peaceful silent streets
where a car you would rarely meet

people living outdoors
my grandmother sewing
and singing

religious songs
that she to me taught

warnings on things of life
to which I never thought

affection and love and novelty
was in the air
no trace yet of despair

of you telling me
of your past life
how much you had to strife

of you running like me
wildly
into the air untill you were seventeen

you orphan at the age of five
your first husband that died
how many times you cried

then on summer afternoons
the idyll between me and you

never broke except temporarily
to go and play with my friends happily

life was so full of hope and expectations
to be a star I had the expectation

where did all those expectations go?
I don’t know….

I then returned to the stories of your life
that seem to me now like the foretelling of my own future strife

then there were those peaceful starry nights on the country side
with my family when you weren’t by my side
reading outside
and plunging into a new world

but you were always my haven during my school days back in town
on your face rarely a frown

except when you told how your father died during the war
when you ran crying after his cart
that was taking him away from you
then making him stop to reassure you
just a five year old baby were you

those wild free pure days devoid of any care
right up to infinity I dared to stare
we had something special to share

sweet nonna that love song you sang to me
of what was going to be:

“ah,com’é triste il mar
se non c’é un sorriso del tuo bel viso qui vicino a me
tu m’insegnasti ad amar….”

in Sicily, time seems has stopped
I wish those days had cristallised
and me in happiness with you stopped

I miss those carefree days
I miss you grandma
and those old sicilian days
my heart with you always stays

you infused in me your courageous
spirit that made you famous
in your own town and neighbourhood

I am proud to be your grandchild
never got over of the day you died

the last time I saw you
to me your arms you opened wide

never will play hide
and seek again
in your street again
those days,the best of my life
are lost forever
but I am glad that we were together
I was with you in spirit to enjoy the last days of your life
that were to be the last days of freedom and of my own child life.

Oblivion

Blinded by science
you have pondered its convenience
of youself of past ages you have reminiscence
you are all about commonsense

I am a godess to all species
except the human one
sweet bundle of love
adoring eyes we have in common

you are to me like a devote lover
warm and loving and tender
the same needyness we share
for love there is nothing we won’t bear

I do my best to make you feel loved
I can’t help it,it’s in my blood

cause I know it’s on me you rely
for we have this empathy
to you my love I won’t deny
my little kitty

If you treated me as I treated him
I wouldn’t accuse you of your sin
towards me

you are longing for indifference
to avoid all of your sufference
of loving without being loved
in return

of nature you see the indifference
praise its magnificence

for you think her we should
understand without questioning
quit the ignorance and pretending

yet something tells me that
yourself and others you did question
you being right was out of question

for criticism is your religion
you see all its constructivism

all the rest is treason
everything is based on reason
for you are devoid of all romanticism

instead of violins and roses
words every day in big doses
meaningless and superficial
of your world and ideal

but being humble means first of all
being true to yourself and feelings
not suppressing the emotions

not being lofty as a marble statue
or haughty as the falcon’s flight

but try to do for us all you might
not one another fight
on to your pride hold on tight

you say we are heading for disaster
for our oblivion
but you are the most oblivious of all
for having between us built this wall.

The violence of your silence

the truth is simple
words of violence
break the silence

I should have reckoned
long ago that you
I had to let go

I just wanted to say hello
thinking that I met you a year ago
my love you did away throw.

you said you had to go
that there was nothing left for you here

of my love you didn’t want to hear
you decided that you had to
choose someone of a higher sphere
somebody you won’t find here

and when I all this did hear
from my eyes fell down a tear
you made it simple and clear

like a judge that made his sentence
to which there is no appeal
I thought this was going to be
something real
but with your feelings I have to deal
who decided long a go that love for me
you didn’t feel.

Memories

Memories pressed between the pages of my mind
in this boook of love of mine

love for you which seems to be unending…
this feeling for you never be repenting

this life of mine on you I have shapen
this love from you that was to be forsaken

from you my love for granted taken
to the core I still am shaken

a weird feeling in me awaken
how could I be about you so mistaken

your entire being and your presence
stirs me and a feeling of reverence

towards something precious
that this feeling for you is
the passion inside, fills me
like a high sea level tide

this torment ravages my soul
like a flood ravages a plain

the weeds of my feelings torn
the cosyness of homes and gardens,
villages and people and streets,
all reassuring things away sweeped

all that is left is emptiness
a life repetitive and monotenous
my creed painstakingly monogomous

to a man made a vow
in my soul as if I were
married to you now
please could you show
to live without you how?

unable to look for someone else
it is easier to look at myself
at this distorted image of mine
in this mirror that is this life of mine

for you I would always find time
to dream about you to fantasize

don’t take away from me this pain of mine
for I have nothing else left from you

my friends keep telling me to forget you
that I still tend to protect you
that they meaness and selfishness detect in you
that I always justify you
praise you
as if things done by you were mine
alway being proud about you

that I am a masochist
that if I continue like this
I will soon need a psychiatrist

that I am putting my own sanity to risk
if in this obsession I continue to insist
but the thought of you I cannot resist

or maybe I don’t want to forget you
for I know that nobody will compare to you
you turned my grey skies blue

the repetitive notes of my lamentation
the regular beat of the thoughts in my head
the silences by me unread
i should have done differently
do something else instead

to conquer you to win you
so now I would still see you
and forever be with you.

the cycle of life

If you knew what you have done to me
you would think I am silly
oh but can’t you see?
It’s me you don’t see

I am like a tree with withered leaves
a bird without feathers
a clime without weathers
a mind that thinks never

I am dull and stupid
a useless and empty shell
always living in hell

sometimes I wish I were never born
for I am forever torn
being unable to sing this song
which is life in tune

the sound of my voice is painful
the choice of words distasteful
the spirit that animates it dreadful
the music uncareful

now the thought of death haunts me at night
when I go to sleep I think about it
and the whole thought of it
has a grip on my heart
squeezes it and makes it bleed
like a weight on my heart it is
and anguishes me till I succumb to sleep
unable now I am to weep
no more tears as
my heart instead does weep

my face is like a desert without rain
my soul would from it certainly gain
to wash away my pain

you certainly think that i am a freak
that i am weak
that i am willing to offer the other cheek
that my passion for you should be more meek
that I am at all chic

am I being punished for you I didn’t seek?
for the fact that good I didn’t you treat?

no pride just submission from me
that’s what you wanted to see

no more words between us
no relation no flattering

no congratulation
no frienship
no worship
no trip
nor tip
by you
who doesn’t know what I am going through

I who had the arrogance to think
that from this cup you could drink
the cup of love

but the cup of friendship you disdained too
despising it as something untrue
understood my real feelings for you

so know I am being punished by you
for loving you

and on and on I will go
telling everyone
like the dalai lama
this painful truth

now that they have enough of it
I am seeking other devices
to express this flowing love
to be productive
to find an outlet
for this wave of love

don’t worry my friends
for now I have found another
vehicle for my love
so I can continue to ride
the street of this feeling
hopeful that it would lead me
somewhere worthwile

to another love
lucky this time
for already a year has passed
since I first knew you
a microcosm of life
all the seasons and cycles passed
might the death and rebirth of nature
give the same impulse to me
that after death
I should be reborn again.

On the road to Damascus

each day that passes by,
the pages are summing up
I understand it’s getting tough
of it myself I am starting
to be fed up

but this reality is getting rough
well I guess I needed a pretext
to write this text

of mine to you
I built a shrine
with on top a glass of wine

filled the cup is with my blood
mortal juices you the marble statue
indifferent to the pain of this martyr
that I am ,thorns on my side

portrayed on the canvass
you the God to preach to the mass
repent I would if that would help
i did repent anyway
but too late I did

I have pronounced a thousand times
the hail mary the holy father and the creed
but this doesn’t erase the sin of this need

for you,the guilt maybe
but you are as indifferent
as an abstract entity could be
no pity no forgivness no way out
no place or space for you to doubt
in your mind

even mary magdalene was forgiven by christ
you did not think twice our feelings to waste

but you should know that her passion
wasn’t the half of mine
only that I am the one to be on the cross right now
but alas no one at my feet to cry my death
not even you who art the cause of my crucifixtion
bothers to waist a tear for me
bitter tears on the altar
of my faith

the words that you ourshout to the crowd
I hear out loud and of you I am proud

but I am the only one
to become your apostle
and your word go out and spread
my life is holding on a thread
I walk in the steps you tread

jesus loved his apostles,
so why can’t you love me?
why did you these things teach me?
were you just showing off?
driven by the hormones of yours
twisting in your sobriety
and thinking of torturing me?

my feelings have a thousand layers
oh,wouldn’t you hear my prayers?

the apostles who loved
and even betrayed you
you did love
and like one of those
I was enllightened by you on the road
to damascus

of this I always make a fuss
even if my hopes had turned to rust
the hours turned to dust

this is the Testament you left me
the old and the new
the holy Grail your love
the old and new thing
for which I would put on a ring
to me not just a fling
the one thing to which I cling
in your name this song I sing
you that are my everything.

A forest

I’m sick and tired
I’m depressed
willing forever to stay
in this cosy nest

I am too lazy to live
too much of a coward to die
sick of having this tie of illness
that attaches me to you

You are like a little rascal
mean selfish and superficial

I need you I hate you
I need your indifference which is killing me

pathetic I need to be
I’m a masochist I need to suffer
I am the weekest
of my gender
I want you to love me tender
for ever and ever

I hope these poems of love -hate to you
you discover,ugly,mispelled
and wrong as I am
can’t take it anymore of this sham

which this life is
I am not a saint
I am not perfect
I will never be so
everyone is superior to me
I’d like to tear my flesh to shreads
annihilate myself
roar like thunder
and vanish in the air
for I disgust myself

horrid creature I am
revolting in shape
this stale scent
tossing and turning in
my dessembled bed
with the sheats of my heart torn
willing-as I perceive
this unconscious float rising up
I picture myself in a wood
fresh air a beautiful sensation of northern

death,then the flood covering
the mud on top of me
but I am happy
because it’s the end of this useless
parasite life of mine

a child scared of the dark I still am
crying alone,abandoned in this rotten house
decayed dreams of mine
merge in this sympathetic flood
that buries me ,the scent
I smell of dewberry the horrific scent in the air
such an aching pain
of impotence to change my life
too afraid to loose to afraid to win
I have turned old before learning
to live
spectral I am in this mirror of the times
of my life

looking each day for something to live
everybody would be better off without me
or indifference in you
would you cry knowing that I am no longer here?
would you waste for me a tear?
I am spilling my guts
I am paralized, I am grotesque gross and silly
I am a worm crawling on the ground,filthy
not at ease in my own skin,enormous and clumsy

I am exploding softly killing myself
repellent creature of the night
no sunshine I bring to those
who have the disgrace of loving me.

another time and another place

Am I to you like those plump girls in the paintings?
Do you think that my hair is honey coloured and dainty?

Do you think I am beautiful and sweet and sticky
like honey?

Are you secretly loving me without telling me?
I have had a hunch
or two ,of hints a bunch

but nothing to prove
that you dream of my skin smooth

I would move
the world
for you to move
and you wrong prove

for something tells me
that your love for me you are denying
while I’m here dying
forever crying

thinking about you, messing up my life
waiting for this fruit to get ripe

an apple I did handle you
of temptation
just like Eve
but it in your hand you didn’t receive
for my love for you you didn’t conceive

a creature of another time and space
me and you almost not of the same human race

I cannot understand why this love you are denying
for what sake or ideology,
I want to know tell me,
do you think you have the right to decide for me ?

I think you are wrong
not hearing my song
to think that without me you can get along.
I hope you one day will understand that you were wrong.

Trembling in your hands

If I were  a tiny little child,would you hold me in your hands?

If I were born today ,would you dry my tears?

If I were alone in this world ,would you take care of me?

Or ,all the same you would discard me?

 

If I were a baby girl I would cling  to your neck

would you still be able to make me feel like a wreck?

Trembling  on your hand I would look  at you with adoring eyes

no more excuses from you no more ties

 

 

you just would have to surrender your love for me

and finally in this life  set me free

 

But alas !I’m just a goophy elephant

 in the china store of your heart and of your thoughts

what do I have to do to make you love me?

Tear to peaces this flesh of mine?

set myself on fire?

roll myself in mire?

but your heart of me

feels only tired

you confined me

 behind this barbed wire

never letting me into your soul

rejecting me continously

pushing me away

setting my walk from you astray

but maybe will come the day

when you will feel sorry that you have
my heart  thrown away.

Bolero

brave heart

I know that I know nothing

I am suprised by the attitude of certain young sicilian people who could use some Socrates advice….

“I know that I know nothing” (Ancient Greek: ἓν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα hen oída hoti oudén oída; Latin: scio me nihil scire) is a well-known saying which is attributed to the Greek philosopher Socrates.

Contents [hide]
1 Meaning
2 Origin
3 See also
4 References
5 Literature

[edit] Meaning
The well-known, paradoxical translation of οἶδα οὐκ εἰδώς, oída ouk eidós misses the point of the statement. It literally means “I know as a non knowing” or “I know that I don’t know”. The phrase “I know that I know nothing” would be translated into Ancient Greek as “οἶδα οὐδὲν εἰδώς”, oída oudén eidós, [oi̯dɐ ou̯ˈdɛn ei̯dɔːs].

The impreciseness of the English translation stems from the fact that the author is not saying that he does not know anything but means instead that one cannot know anything with absolute certainty but can feel confident about certain things[1]; it could perhaps better be rendered “I know, though not knowing”.

[edit] Origin
The citation is probably borrowed from Socrates’ Apology which Plato handed down:[2]

[…] οὖτος μὲν οἴεταί τι εἰδέναι οὐκ εἰδώς, ἐγὼ δέ, ὥσπερ οὖν οὐκ οἶδα, οὐδὲ οἴμαι
—This one means to know anything, although he doesn’t know it, but I, as I don’t know it now, don’t believe it either.

Socrates then continued Xenophanes’ thoughts from 500 B.C.:

δόκος δ᾿ ἐπὶ πᾶσι τέτυκται
—To seem to know is prepared on all.

Socrates also deals with this phrase in Plato’s dialogue Meno where he says:[3]

[...] σὺ δὲ μέντοι ἵσως πρότερον μὲν ᾔδησθα, πρὶν ἐμοῦ ἅψασθαι, νῦν μέντοι ὅμοιος εἶ οὐκ εἰδότι
—[...] certainly you maybe knew anything, before you came in contact with me, now you’re certainly similar to a non knowing.

Here, Socrates aims at the change of Meno’s opinion, who was a firm believer in his own opinion and whose knowing Socrates disproved before. This also happened with Protagoras, who changed his mind after Socrates’ objection.

It is essentially the question that began philosophy. Socrates begins all wisdom with wondering, thus one must begin with admitting one’s ignorance

THE FALLING OF THE LEAVES

AUTUMN is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.

The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.

by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Open wounds

My words are like scars
and open wounds
on the pages of your mind
they still bleed with the swet
show the shamelessness of my disgrace
taint your soul and other minds unaware

reveal all my wretchedness
symptoms of my wildness
of this old illness of mine
called loneliness

I was waiting for so long
took my chances but they are already gone
we both built a thick wall of stone
you king I queen sitting on a throne

oh silver moon ,silver rain
be my guide
in this senseless life of mine

why do we humans writhe and pine?
always lost in time?

Lonely and obscure
remains the cure

the violins of our hearts
did weep under the wind’s stroke

that brought us apart sweeping like
withered leaves and our heart endlessly broke.

The bridges of madison county

My favourite film ever…..

the sound of music

Les Deux Magots

Les Deux Magot is a famous café in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés area of Paris, France. It once had a reputation as the rendezvous of the literary and intellectual élite of the city. This derived from the patronage of Surrealist artists, intellectuals such as Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre, and young writers, such as Ernest Hemingway. Other patrons included Albert Camus and Pablo Picasso. It is featured in the 1973 film The Mother and the Whore directed by Jean Eustache.

The Deux Magots literary prize has been awarded to a French novel every year since 1933.

The “Deux Magots” inside the caféThe café’s name comes from the two wooden statues of Chinese commercial agents (magots) that adorn one of the pillars.

My mood elevator(constant)

My big fat greek wedding

arabian nights

Where you stand
you see my broken land

misterious creature
did you understand my nature?

wish you were here
to see the flowers
in the window of my heart

pathetic lines of mine
tell me not to make
promises on arabian nights
and talent not to fake
but to see the light

oh ,but how to reinvent
this world of mine
with a cheerfulness that is not mine

starry starry nights
that filled the skies with tears
rain on this atom of wickedness
which is this world
of you mistakenless,

and I am told that this is a wonderful
indeed world,why then I cannot find happiness
in these blue skies of pain?
try to paint on my palet the haze of my crazieness

which fades to dimness
and depression
in people I leave this impression
do I have to continue this confession
or just enjoy the hidden beauty
which stubbornely obliges me to smile

but heroine I have to bestow this proudness
display an atmosphere cloudless
when it would be more honest to dig in happiness
mindless and flawlesss rather than my restfulness

I continue dancing with myself in this life
which is
a solo apart or frenzy undignified monolouge
spill out the energy out of my life

of a glass that was already empty
to things I attach like a drowning man holding on
to another human being sinking him as well
now that you are dead
for myself I feel only dread

responsible for you crucifixation
with eyes fixed to the skies in terror
not able to look at myself in the mirror
loving and caring like a goophy mother
you will always be my hero

no other man will be ably to substitute you
and this is my sweet damnation to revenge you
legitimate punishment for an ungrateful daughter

you always doted on her saying that she was best
you I was unable to impress
but that night I did your heart break with my sadness

and restlessness
my heart too intense
the devotion to you dense
and sacred but her you always favoured
and for my impatience never cared
oh why I was so scared?

maybe I knew what was ahead of me
deserts of sahara with no rain
nothing but pain
is driving me insane
of the creatures i’m the most vain
I myself disdain

to make happy and find someone to
fulfill my dreams darn it endlessly
and ask for more making you legally fed up
so that i can unloved and unhappy remain
so I can remove that stain

from my honour
charm me oh artist with your passion
so I can for your soul feel compassion
and push you away by irritating you
with my neediness

this does apply to anyone, woman or man
I’ll do what I can
so maybe bang bang
on my door heart and maybe one day
this infinite debt to you pay.

I’ll pray every day
prayers I have lost in the tides of time
tyring to make this rime
of foolishness
but damnation is all I can find

listening to an endless music
that doesn’t belong to me
to dance like a monkey I will feign
thick as only fools can be
up my sleeve no more tricks
but of past withered flowers now wrecks
this is what remains of love without sex

from your side
I just tried but failed
this ship has now sailed

waiting for you,however you are,
to come and save this heart of cheap glass save
flowing together on this life that is just a stage.

your eyes

the light of your eyes makes me wanna cry
the shape of your body makes me want to die

the entire being of you makes me want to rime
you are still in your prime
voluptous frame
manly,love for you just a game

secretely your life live
under anonymous vestiges
to few you give the privilege

of your dedication
to no one about you information
of you difficult is the penetration
you are the best of your generation
blessed the moment when your mother gave to you generation
you always lead me into temptation
strong on me is always your fascination

your voice so deep
at night, with the sound of it
in my ears , I do sleep
oh why is love so hard to keep
and makes me all this time feel so week
my hand i would use to caress your cheek
these emotions for you make me feel a freak
the image of you in my head always seek

Repentance

Did you have pangs of sorrow
after we met, on the following morrow?
Did you perceive the action
of life against me and its theft?

The depression,greedy as an eagle
feasting on my soul
did make you feel low?
Did it make you want to throw away my soul?

Well I have come here at this point
to give it to you,you made your point
your finger against me you did point
but you’d rather than meeting me again,light a joint
and free yourself from this sense of oppression
that i gave you transforming you in an obsession.

I am bidding to you farewell
now that you left me in this hell
I hope you are there better off and well
I might as well send you to hell
who put on me this spell
and turned my life into a pel mel
I might as well throw myself into a well
rather than enduring this life cruelle
damned cruelly in this life eternelle
but before that ,I want to
tell you

of all the times
in which I sat
purring at you like a cat
you must know that
I’m sorry for this uneasyness and
embarrassment that I gave you
as I already told you

and one thing I demand you
that in spite of all if could you
maintain me in your mind always
the way I was: dear ,sweet and true.

Don’t patronize

Don’t patronize
please don’t patronize

to you I’m just a fool
without any conscience
just crazy and insensate
maybe to passionate
my love suddenly turned to hate

but how can I change my nature?
I pretended to be someone else to please you
it’s not the first time,in love it never works
in the long run it will only hurt

don’t judge me
don’t be a prophet

come down from the podium
if ,according to you I’m wrong
too much value give to a song
you are the most strong

then help me to be stronger
to change my ways
waiting for better days

if you think that your way of living
is more commonsense
would you in me instill more sense?
but please not with your indifference

your coldness is killing me
for the way you are treating me
won’t you please cure me?

as if I were a plant to water
or of mine the father
who cares and yes for me bothers
to fight in the name of the love for eachother

from me you want an attitude more steady
but I don’t think I’m ready
please don’t tease me

be sincere with me
but not brutal
for I don’t think I deserve it
you say I should take the risk
and give you a kiss
but in my dreams I’ve done more than this
I would die peacefully in the bliss

of your embrace
but now this I have to face
it’s a risk I should take
but now it’s too late

I’m all out of faith
for you I can but wait
invain

standing under the rain
of my tears
haunted by fears
waiting for you to gain
please don’t leave me in pain
come back to me again.

Canada

Oh Canada!
Our home and native land
but here I am alas,stuck in the sand
of a bitter dry land
which I cannot bear anymore,I cannot stand

I refuse to be marked
as ungrateful
to this land
but for me
it’s too painful to see
that there is no tree
nothing I foresee
there’s nothing here for me
it’s with you I want to be
oh Canada,I love your trees

your maples,your forests,your rivers and waterfall
for you I would willingly fall

to show you my love for you
that I am a patriot
in your peaceful land
very rare is a riot

and, as I know
for many years still
I am going to be a no show
and if I’ll come to see you again I don’t know

there,on your land
I did grow
I was given birth in a beautiful land
my destiny is here now

but,why do I feel
like a woman married
to a man I don’t love?
always looking out for you
all these years
always shedding tears
surrounded here,just by fears

your attractivness and charm are to me clear
while I’m standing here
dreaming about you and your breeze
the breeze of life
that I so much lack
I know I will never come back

just for a short time maybe
and I remember the time ,when I was just a baby
you did rock me steady

with the sounds of your waterfall
big spaces and myths
of you from far away I feel the mirth

but strangers despise you so
they say you give no more
as in the old days
that had gone away

with my lover you have so much in common
the impossibility of being with you both
but,of seeing you one day I still have the hope.

your landscapes

You once told me that we are revolving and evolving in the universe
that our dreams were much too diverse
that our love wasn’t worth….

although my cherry lips you did see
with those almond eyes of yours
the high mountains and the rivers
and the big waterfall
your landscapes red with passion
not as greedy as mine
when we were bathing in the golden light

you did turn your gaze away
afraid of words you couldn’t say

the trees did sway in time with
the silence of our hopes
oh we could just mourn anticipating the funeral
and spread the ashes fearlessly

and give up before time
would ask us to make a decision

the sun you and me would set the world free
green green is the big tree

of our love like the wings of a dove
starry starry night of a cloudless clime
us who have no more time

left to think and hope
like the dead swinging from a rope

dangling helplessly their feet
like a withered flower
like a fruit gone sour

a patient who gets worse hour after hour
a much too high built tower
a building out of power
this is what had become of our love
which died even before ever being brought to life

At night

Here at night,
lying in my bed
you are always in my head,
always remembering what you said

infinite the tears always shed
at thinking of the fact that

maybe your face became all red
for the things unsaid

during that trip to death
that was in my heart
to which you took part
always holding your breath

you tried to confort me
always silently
showing me
that I am not the only one
to suffer vividly
remembering the darkness of the night
creeping inside me furtively
this beast called loss always haunting me

afraid of hurting my feelings
you did surrender all your splendour

my heart always tender with gratelfuness
for this restfulness that you gave me
always in my dreams with this cheerfulness

of yours and willing to hold you tight to my bosom
as if you were a child and confort you

for all this emptiness inside
a cure to your frailty provide

take all the adult cruelty of you outside
go for a ride on the seatide

or on a boat ,breathe in all the purity of our love
no ifs and or buts
we could go nuts

with happiness
fly away with our wings
our hearts devoid of toughness

together alone in this world
holding on to eachother
and living for eachother
for nothing bother

floating in the skies as if on water
smiling at the clouds passing by

reaching for heaven and crying with joy
knowing that I have this boy

holding me in your arms
and rocking me like a baby
I feel so light and serene
peach trees and parfume of paradise
i do fall asleep and to you I give in

no care in this world
just saviouring
how indeed bold
you are for suffering

with all this dignity
and sharing this with me

I am a tremendously rebellious
kind of creature
blindly follow my nature
you were my favourite teacher
in hell on me forever
you cast this spell
why I can’t tell….

in my dreams I become tame and submissive
like in real life, my thoughts you read

of all perfect actions you take the lead
that’s way it’s you I always need

on this longing for you I always feed
why is that me you never see?
God shall never part my thoughts from thee
even if I know you will never come back to me.

parallel universe

If you happen to feel my thoughts
and see the tears running down my eyes
I will not try to disguise
anymore my love for you
and to you always be true
when I first met you

I did at first not love you
it was just when I started to talk to you
that I started feeling a connection to you

are we sure that it wasn’t a dream ,that we really met?
did you me already forget?

to tell you the truth ,every step of the way I think of you
in the universe somewhere you are breathing with me

while to you I’m already dead
frozen distant image in your head
and mind

and a thought terrible although beautiful of you
for its tragedy
that a time there will be

when we will get older
snow on our hair
cracks on our plains
will wither our skin
faces more and more grim

growing older apart
ignoring what’s going on in our seperate lives
the breath will escape our bodies at the same time?
yours or mine?

When you will grow old
will there be a loving hand to hold yours?
will you remember me looking back
at the days of your youth as the girl
that you met occasionaly on the road
of your life who
did a lot in this world strife?

we will lead then parallel lives
maybe performing the same gestures
at the same time without knowing
in a parallel universe

My fields of gold and your marshes black
to life will never come back

will they merge together one day under the earth?
will that the only way to find together our mirth?

then again we could be given birth and perhaps
one day in a different world and a different life then
meet again.

My friend

You were the only one to understand me
picked me up when I fell and encouraged me
inspired me and flattered me,
now that the sun shines,the way it should be,you betrayed me.
Betrayed my trust now that I opened up to you.
I wanted to help you like you helped me
tell you my intimate secrets,you accepted me,
two peas in a pod ,we thought the same way,
sincerity ,I thought was the basis of our friendship,
but sincerity and caring was what drove you away
and now here today,I am as lonely as yesterday.

The wild garden

Here I am staring from my window
taking in the view

the trees that I see
in front of me

are like imbued by a yellow light
I like to watch the side
where the sun more shines as perceived by the eye

the wind sweeps in their tops
the sky is streaked by scattered clouds

the birds flying down
above the small little nice town

there is a big abandoned garden in front of my house
tattered are the tiles of a building which used to be an elegant house

insignificant are the other ones that surround it
the once splendour of it you can just devine it

the spirit that animated it you can still perceive it
of a well to do gentle family

none of their fault it was probably
to loose themselves so easily
for they were stroke by a maladie

a sexual disease he was said to be afflicted by
their children were affected by it too ,oh my

their shapes horrible and so the colour of their skin
the features of their faces they hid in shame

for love for the head of the family was just a game
he was the only one to blame

now his widow alone is left
old to brood on his theft
everything to his family will be left

I am like that once house of splendour
lost at an age to tender

I was classy and elegant in shape
now I look at myself and I feel just shame

the grace that once distinguished me
is no longer a characteristic of me

now the young and insignificant houses are being built
they are full of life never feel guilt

they are taking over and prospering
they already have around their finger a ring

I feel like that lonely house
with pigeons ravaging it’s beauty

discarded and misunderstood
we both did what we could

but there is no time for us left anymore
too late,no one wants us anymore

while insignificant and happy new houses thrive around
no personality they have but love does fill them and surround

like arms loving and caring
but to us dear house is left nothing but staring.

The field of silver light

Once upon a long ago
my footsteps randomly did go

another land ,a different one
once I got lost there, stricken by the sun

especially by it’s golden light
to that image I still hold on tight
when I close my eyes at night

it cuddles me to sleep
remembering me when I was more weak

down the green slope magic was in the air
the wind blowing refreshing through my hair

on the right hand there was an artificial river
the water silvery sparkling more than ever

the green grass gently swaying at the wind
my soul to breath did begin

the silence was overwhelming
just like in a dream

to my heart warmth it brought
a thing to happen I never thought

although the air was crispy and humid
to sunshine I was driving mildly

down the winding road at sunset
the nature was willing me to protect

I ran away from hypocrisy
and all sort of human falsity

the country side on the suburbs of that city
of my soul did have pity

I unconsciously ended up on that road
I don’t no if I will find that Paradise anymore
for that portion of land did my heart restore

breathing in that air
tore me away from dispair
for the life I was leading at the time I couldn’t bear

was it a sign of divinity ?
why did I in those outskirts feel infinity ?

I guess far away from home
that field became my home

maybe it was just destiny
that at that moment nature, you were to confort me.

Waiting for something to happen

How do you forget a smile?
how do you forget all the miles

of streets road together?
how do you forget the wings of feather

that I put each time I saw your face?
how do I stop thinking of you and myself embrace?

I can but for you wait
bealive in fate

in my fantasy
imagine that you love me

see your beautiful face
think about this disgrace

that has happened to me
to know that you are free
and don’t care for me

think of your company
the best thing that has ever happened to me

my heart aches to think about it, the most useless
creature in the world I am forever crying,dying,sighing

please love me ,send me a letter,call me
say that you love me,how can you just get rid of me?

I wouldn’t treat my worst enemy
the way you treated me

yes,mercy ,mercy me
you would better kill me
set me free
take me away from this life which is misery

nothing ever happening
each day the same to the other

I would rather die than spending
one more day without you
countless the days without you
can’t stand it anymore

waiting for something to happen
just a prisoner’s life I am leading
my heart is bleeding
on my knees I am pleading
for a cause that has been long ago lost

I will not accept it
you were suppossed to love me
marry me
love me
live with me

have my kids
build a bridge between your heart and mine
to me be kind
love me as nobody has ever had
don’t be bad to me
don’t ill treat me
ah poor me

how am I supposed to get out of this?
creating each day the void around me

no friends no family
waiting for something to happen

I feel as if I were buried alive
always left to strive

no way ,no way out
let me out ,let me out
my heart forever will shout

of my love there is no doubt
how could you throw it away?

a disease it has become
unsolvable,unrecognizable

waiting for something to happen
my life without you will never be the same

The well

The truth is said to be like a well :
on the surface there is either the moonshine
or the sunshine
but at the bottom of the well
lies the truth because there is nor
sunshine nor moonlight…..

you are the moonlight in my night
my immense sun ,the warmth,my delight
willing you to hold me tight

in you I mirror myself
see and judge myself

for you are the only truth
I have ever known
the only motion to make
my heart beat

or stop in awe
frightened by what in you I saw

in my mind I stare at your precious image
at your white pearl skin

at your nudity never seen
only imagined,you are the truth ,
you are love,you are the mind you are the thought
you are my dream, my perfection,my hope,my everything.

Spring

Where are you going little boy?
Haven’t heard from you a little while…

What are you running from?
Or whom you are running from?

Take it easy,I know you better than you
know yourself
putting everybody on a shelf
like you did with myself

Oh to keep you caged
would be like delaying
spring

You are just a bird
afraid to fly
in the skies of love

what happened to you boy?
Did your daddy leave your mummy
sweet boy

Are you afraid of love?
The fact that your parents stopped
loving eachother
doesn’t mean that that would happen to us
for I’ll love you for us
both
give you hope

I would heal your wounds
kiss aways your fears
to you always be real
let’s make a deal
did your cry bitter tears
for your suffering mummy?

Decided to be strong
and prove everybody else wrong?

Show everybody that you don’t care
that your daddy left you
That of yourselves you will take care?
For you it was more than you could bear

Oh to keep you caged
would be delaying
spring

Always your feelings trying to tear and destroy
the girls you set your eyes on treat like toys
for you won’t allow them to treat you
the way your father treated your mother and you

for you identify with your mother
fall in love with fragile women see in them your mother

then afraid of hurting them
you abandon them

inevitably you both get hurt
as soon as I devined your hurt

you escaped like a bird
always in search for something

afraid to loose control
you say you have it all
goodlooking and tall
you think you will never fall

Oh to keep you caged
would be delaying
spring

you keep your feelings caged
afraid of involvement
and keep me in sadness caged

you are afraid of yourself
as soon as somebody gets closer to you
you feel freightened
that they will use it against you
that’s why you migrated

like a bird in search of warmer
climates of indifference
afraid of melting for love
and being carried away
by he hurricaine of your feelings

but that happened already long ago
and devastating
were the effects
on your tormented soul
so you became a no show
always ready to go

for you were born to run
with women only having fun

merciless killing us all
don’t deny it it’s what you do to us all
but you are the one who looses after all

for you are escaping in search of a different reality
new people another mentality

no time allow yourself to become enchanted
otherwise in your feelings will always be stranded
as boring you would be branded
the opportuinities and chances
of life will like nothing vanquish

Oh to keep you caged
would be delaying
spring

under the weight of years passed by
you are already don’t know for what to cry
not even able to say goodbye
while looking in my eyes
suffering for the tie
you already felt to me

but the thought of me
will haunt you forever
I know you heart is imbued with me
that you will think at every step of me

that you will never forget me
because you know deep down
that I was the only one who would never let you down
that you were truely ,madly,deeply loved by me.

Oh to keep you caged
would be delaying
spring

The sea

Walking on the shore
I want to think about you more

climbing on the cliffs
the truth me hits

I am like the sea
who always wants to be with thee
all the trees don’t have the same effects on me

for I and the sea are one
I knowledge that when we the same become

the sea rises up
with it’s violent waves
when thinking of better days

the violence of its passion
reminds me of the violence of my passion
for you

when I first knew you
my passion was sweet and mild
now with the wind of your distance it has grown wild

my heart is like a wild horse
riding the waves of the sea

up I go with the foam
rising up to the sky

filling the air with its scent
the sand of the cliffs of your heart willing to tent

day by day month after month,year after year
you always more clearly I hear

wave after wave drop after drop
I reach to the top of the rocks
dissolve the sand
I take a stand
trying to tear with the force of my passion
your rocks down

the violence and my fierceness have no equal
some time you might even think I am evil

I am agressive and powerful like the sea
especially when my heart outraged you can see
by the cold wind of your indifference

the birth of my love is like a slow sure river
that drops into the sea and becomes more tumultuous than ever

especially at night in the winter
you as hard as ever
are the rock,indifferent
all my colours you don’t see

thr blue sapphire sky
the violet hue and the pink
mellow gold light
and mad purple

you,are strong like a rock
and cold as one,you decided to me not to talk

of its awesomeness I think about it
especially at night ,the whirling wind

the waves become more scary
oh it looks so dreary

fot the sea thinks at its lonliness
longing for you for happiness

of warm summer days
I miss those days

but I am bold,year after year
that evil bulk of yours with my infinite motion I will erode.

Badge of dishonour

Trying to make sense where there is not
I will forgive you not

More practical in sense
you are all about common sense

You think of reality
of my liability

you sure see my potentiality
but that’s all there’s going to be
between you and me

of my future you have thought
I appreciate it
I will forget it not

this is what you have been asked to
something you easily comply to

but you know better than me
that’s it’s not all about money
that that’s not the way it should be

have you ever caressed the hope that between
you and me there was something else not just a between
relationship?

you try very hard to be hated by me
saying things that surely can’t be stood by me

insinuate things,laugh a little
dismiss me like if I were little

my infatuation and foolishness
made you smile,poor idiot you thought
you don’t know what love is all about
I know better than you what love is all about

you speak the language of love like you know
what it means taunting me all the time you did me overthrow

making fun of my intensity
to you I clung desperately

mocking my naiveness
try to persuade me not to love with your double cruelness

smile at me as if you had soul
congratulations you did everything blow
it’s your speciality after all

I am now like a sea shell on a sea shore
swept away by your mighty power that you exercise on all

everyone is fascinated by you ,
men,women who don’t have a clue

are sucked by the vortex of your mind
annihilated we are like by a rising tide

from my heart I can’t hide
God knows when we were together how I tried

I am a puppet in everybody’s hands
smile at me and I’ll make a stand

for you forever,discard myself
put you on top of my priororities even on top of myself

show off myself waving this badge of dishonour
which my feelings are
feigning that my anguish
all mediocrity of mine will vanquish

willing to hurt myself defying my feelings
for they won’t show up,just my imagination
some romantic idea that are part of my literal and heroic invention.

hiding those feelings even to myself
didn’t want to think about it at the time ,realise there was no help

that you would walk away and leave me burn
into the flames of this hell, knowing that your back on me you would forever turn.

The lost days

I can ‘t prevent myself from thinking
that all the days that I have spent
indoors are days wasted
that will not return anymore
the periwinkle,the roses and sycamore

lost in the past can’t see those anymore
for they are lost in the past chances
lost romances
and fantasies
golden light and delicacies

brooding on what?
for the helplessness and unability
to achieve fuilfillment and its consequent wrath?

youth ,beauty,love
fresh open adventure and air
sunsets and seasides
walks in the wild
where have they gone?
the sun is going down I can’t stop it
what can I do to improve my life immediately
to prevent this suffering of mine?
all is planned
all is programmed
no escape from this guilded prison
no time left to breath no time to enjoy myself
no space left for instinctivity
and finally be free.

the best days of my youth are gone
spent musing and on books
taking in as much as I could
but the best is lost for good

I Need your love

Like the deserts need rain
I need you

Like a town needs a name
I need you

like a child needs his mother
I need you

Like a country needs a flag
I need you

like a sinner needs to repent
I need you

like an old man needs to rest
I need you

like a church needs a Bible
I need you

like a plant needs water
I need you

like a plant needs its roots
I need you

like a car needs fuel
I need you

like a fruit needs sun to get ripe
I need you

like a hero needs an ideal to fight for
I need you

Because you are special

like a masochist needs torture
I need you

like a scholar needs a teacher
I need you

like a suicider needs depression
I need you

llike a war needs a weapon
I need you

like an insecure person needs attention
I need you

like a learner needs concentration
I need you

like a poet needs a muse
I need you

like a plant needs oxygene
I need you

like a bee needs honey
I need you

like a flower needs sunshine
I need you

like a sailor needs his ship
I need you

like a patient needs a medecine
I need your love

like a bird needs to fly
I need your love

like ashes need fire
I need your love

like a house needs a stone
I need your love

to be free,to be happy,to be complete I need your love
because without you I’m no one

Extreme measure

Of high concepts of literature
I might not know a thing
always studying
trying not to leave out anything

Styles currents,definitions,not my thing
rationalism,relativism,decadentism,simbolism

all I know is that I love you
each time I study I see you
everything compare to you

there is a double world going into my head
maybe because with my studies I am fed
and to touch another book I dread
I would like to do something else instead…
lying with you in bed
Even angels fear to tread
can’t take this crazy notion out of my head….
remember all the things you said

if I were to take an exam on you
I wouldn’t fail know everything about you

top of marks for me ready
you are a subject for me not heavy

if I would compare you to a subject
to Rationalism and Enlightment ,you are to no one subject

I woul be Romanticism
with a bit of Baroque and manierism

infinitly passionate and ready
to riot

you Idealism with a pinch of utopionasism
with all these isms I am going crazy
starting to become intellectually lazy

all I know is that beauty and cruelty are your speciality
on positivism entirely you rely on

my hopeless Romanticism to you is just foolishness
don’t see the beauty and poeticness
of it inside of me

to you I am just a gross mad creature
with no sense or irrational and aimless

aiming as you are to perfection
to perfection in a perfect world

as you are inherently perfect
devoid of any defect
to you I am just a nasty insect
having the deluded hope that my love you wouldn’t suspect
but if I look at it all in retrospect
from all it there’s nothing I get
because since we met
I feel more miserable and horrible than ever
like those great greek heroic tragedies kill myself I would rather
and I hope that the scandal of all it would reach to your ear who would then bother

to take interest in me
and my tragedy

all consumed for you leaving some written lines on it
you could not be mistaken
perhaps by it slightly shaken
you who my heart and dignity have broken
you whose thoughts of my heart have posession taken

perhaps you would think I were I fool
but at least I would be able to arise some guilt for me in you.

Music

Wow Wow Wow!!!!!!!!!!!!
A friend of mine gave me this video which was considered an obscure video of the 80s untill now!!!!!
Beautifuuuul song from 1985,I was 11! and grew up with it!!!!
Enjoy!!!

Honey sleep

When I am on the threshold of sleep
the sensations of you get more deep
sensual and delicate you are in my dreams rocking me to sleep

you said you don’t want to go on like that with me that we are both living in a fantasy

but sweet sweet is your touch warm are your kisses
this is the most natural of all bliss

I am a lily flower floating in your stream
the lullaby of your embrace makes me dream

soft sugar scent is on my tongue and nostrils
when you love me pineapple dew on my tongue you instill

cream your touch on my skin
milk my skin against yours

what a symphony of joy
being just a toy
in your hands

crucified I am by your love
such the ecstasy of being with you

in my dreams that brings tears to my eyes
and wipes away my fears

soft,oh soft your skin on my skin
my heart is so hungry for you

and I am finally sated
the feeling so fullfilling no hatred

your chocolate eyes so beautiful
my honey hair envelops you
honey love is made

meringue feelings and sensations
sticky and hot these flowing feelings

of honey dew
all it’s possible thanks to you
peach ,nectarine and grape juice

the sweetest of all is your love
your grip on me is caring
I would bite you off like a strawberry candy
fire on your heart I will be

inhale you like the parfume of wet grass
swallow your vital juice
chew your marshmellow softness

posess you and make you mine
build you a shrine

pull your syrup hair from your head
hurt you with my love and torture you
with my passion just as a foreplay in truth

my butter caresses will show you that I am
still yours
and that I will wait for you forever
the open arms of my seas will receive your
flowing rivers
I will be your mermaid won’t you save me ?

hazelnut peanuts and walnuts
we could go nuts
all night long feed on eachother

hold on your strong candy body
when I look at you ,lust you embody

daylight breeze
we would tease
in the night we would freeze
regardless of everything

shaking in every fiber with madness
not enough of your violent tenderness

we defy time
in our arms is not enough
our love is like a prayer
and a swear

loving eachother with despair
judging our life unfair
going on a funfair
loving eachother in the air
together again,fully and completely will love eachother somewhere

Freedom

I wake up crying in the morning
feeling so fragile and useless

I wipe away my unexpected tears
I wake up together with all my fears

in my room the shutters remain closed
afraid to show to the world my lonely heart
not even knowing where to start

I wake up late when the sun is already high
I watch the people happily go by
when all I want to do is cry

sighs of love endless
how did I get into this mess ?
it’s a desease called lonliness

I am not rich and therefore
don’t have the luxury of sleeping away
the days as I used to do before

depression more subtle sieging me
like a monster drowning me

I gap to the surface show a silly smile
devoid of joy
a laughter of circumstance
to hide the embaressement
of not being able to shake off romance

I laugh but rarely smile
eat my food with gusto

go on for inertia
without joy or enthusiasm
I am tired of this hypocrite sun

day after day smiling without me
we have no empathy
because all I feel is empty
just follow my destiny with resignation
because it’s not the way my life should be
go on aimless without a destiny

with the sense of oppression on my heart
without you unable to breath in air

and smell its scent
this intoxication of you had a severe consequence

run away more
so I can love you more

are you happy now
that you validated your thesis
that you did on me score ?

has your male pride risen now
to the sky?

you didn’t have to hard try
because you know you are a fantastic guy

to make me fall
and crawl
Mr know it all

you arrogance
have in abundance

decided to retreat
after you the enemy treated
with your feet
for you defeat
wasn’t enough
you had to add scorn
after you my heart had torn

regardless of my emotions
you too late decided to take notion
there’s nothing in this life not even promotion
can tear me away from this emotion

you won ,the strong man you are
I am the week fragile woman
surrender to my feable nature

all I want to know is why did you
hate me so much to enchant me
and then leave me
knowing that you could never be with me

and don’t tell me that you had not the purpose to make me
fall
you knew it all
since the beginning
to test me all
willing your accomplices where

just like an unknowing dummy
that’s not the way to treat me

over and over again regardless of my feelings
what kind of humain being could have such cruelty?
just let me be

one of my kind
don’t try to change my mind

for I am not a beast
for no matter how many times
I fall in love
I will never learn
or give you the satisfaction at least
of being right

go on,Lidia likes to play the victim
her personality on the wrong things is too firm

let’s shake her prejudices
she doesn’t know how much in life she misses

she has so much still to learn
let’s hurt her some more so she will more learn
to grief her back on turn

let’s make her meet some handsome guy
so she can again uselessly cry

that the world does not revolve around her
to grow up improve her
and make her more mature

but go to hell and screw you all
I put a curse on you all

you are all my enemies
and false friends

you and all your rotten pretence
for I wish to those would to be teachers
to suffer like I am revenge for all the weakest

for I always promise myself never to fall in love again
and then along come another ten men
then I always finish liking them
then my life for them suspend

but then I am never the one for them
again

but again I will never be good enough for anyone
so I am always on the run

likely to loose
to fight is of no use

I think I will go on like this to the day of my death
waiting for somebody to love me
and stay with me
uselessly
endless lonely days untill death will come and get me
and finally set me free.

Mistery

Mystery is me and you
mistery is me loving you

mistery is you leaving me
mistery is you not wanting to see me
mistery is the misticism between you and me

solving the mystery of you and me
it’s something impossible for you and me

the mystery of stonehenge and the pyramids
is nothing compared to the mystery of what I feel for you

love is a mystery nothing to do with science
a weird thing it is ,the heart allows no guidance

so come on over if with me if you want to make history
if forever you will be with me I assure you a good time I can garantee.

TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIME

RED Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man’s fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

Come near, come near, come near — Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
The field-mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.

by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

“To the Rose Upon the Rood of Time” is reprinted from The Rose. W.B. Yeats. 1893.

Always look at the bright side of life….

If the previous post on Yeats represents the ideal form of poetry which is delightful to study and which belonged to another period(an early one of mine studying english literature)this post represents what I am presently and reluctantly studying for italian literature ei sepolcri from Ugo Foscolo….
This is the most depressing and nauseating thing I have ever studied in my whole life it deals with the task of sepulchres in italy during Napoleon’s empire/domination.
You should learn to read italian just to aprreciate the ugliness that its verses conveys I think it would find an equivalent in the musical video of michael jackson’s thriller ….only that at least michael jackson’s video might result amusing but this one I assure you is tediously realistic and therefore may I say yuuuuk!!!!
trust me ,if you can avoid it do it ,but if we want to look on the bright side of it I could say this is the worst thing you couold ever read disinjoy…..

UGO FOSCOLO
Dei Sepolcri
DEORUM MANIUM IURA SANCTA SUNTA – XII^ TABULA

All’ombra de’ cipressi e dentro l’urne
confortate di pianto è forse il sonno
della morte men duro? Ove piú il Sole
per me alla terra non fecondi questa
bella d’erbe famiglia e d’animali,
e quando vaghe di lusinghe innanzi
a me non danzeran l’ore future,
né da te, dolce amico, udrò piú il verso
e la mesta armonia che lo governa,
né piú nel cor mi parlerà lo spirto
delle vergini Muse e dell’amore,
unico spirto a mia vita raminga,
qual fia ristoro a’ dí perduti un sasso
che distingua le mie dalle infinite
ossa che in terra e in mar semina morte?
Vero è ben, Pindemonte! Anche la Speme,
ultima Dea, fugge i sepolcri: e involve
tutte cose l’obblío nella sua notte;
e una forza operosa le affatica
di moto in moto; e l’uomo e le sue tombe
e l’estreme sembianze e le reliquie
della terra e del ciel traveste il tempo.
Ma perché pria del tempo a sé il mortale
invidierà l’illusïon che spento
pur lo sofferma al limitar di Dite?
Non vive ei forse anche sotterra, quando
gli sarà muta l’armonia del giorno,
se può destarla con soavi cure
nella mente de’ suoi? Celeste è questa
corrispondenza d’amorosi sensi,
celeste dote è negli umani; e spesso
per lei si vive con l’amico estinto
e l’estinto con noi, se pia la terra
che lo raccolse infante e lo nutriva,
nel suo grembo materno ultimo asilo
porgendo, sacre le reliquie renda
dall’insultar de’ nembi e dal profano
piede del vulgo, e serbi un sasso il nome,
e di fiori odorata arbore amica
le ceneri di molli ombre consoli.
Sol chi non lascia eredità d’affetti
poca gioia ha dell’urna; e se pur mira
dopo l’esequie, errar vede il suo spirto
fra ‘l compianto de’ templi acherontei,
o ricovrarsi sotto le grandi ale
del perdono d’lddio: ma la sua polve
lascia alle ortiche di deserta gleba
ove né donna innamorata preghi,
né passeggier solingo oda il sospiro
che dal tumulo a noi manda Natura.
Pur nuova legge impone oggi i sepolcri
fuor de’ guardi pietosi, e il nome a’ morti
contende. E senza tomba giace il tuo
sacerdote, o Talia, che a te cantando
nel suo povero tetto educò un lauro
con lungo amore, e t’appendea corone;
e tu gli ornavi del tuo riso i canti
che il lombardo pungean Sardanapalo,
cui solo è dolce il muggito de’ buoi
che dagli antri abdüani e dal Ticino
lo fan d’ozi beato e di vivande.
O bella Musa, ove sei tu? Non sento
spirar l’ambrosia, indizio del tuo nume,
fra queste piante ov’io siedo e sospiro
il mio tetto materno. E tu venivi
e sorridevi a lui sotto quel tiglio
ch’or con dimesse frondi va fremendo
perché non copre, o Dea, l’urna del vecchio
cui già di calma era cortese e d’ombre.
Forse tu fra plebei tumuli guardi
vagolando, ove dorma il sacro capo
del tuo Parini? A lui non ombre pose
tra le sue mura la citta, lasciva
d’evirati cantori allettatrice,
non pietra, non parola; e forse l’ossa
col mozzo capo gl’insanguina il ladro
che lasciò sul patibolo i delitti.
Senti raspar fra le macerie e i bronchi
la derelitta cagna ramingando
su le fosse e famelica ululando;
e uscir del teschio, ove fuggia la luna,
l’úpupa, e svolazzar su per le croci
sparse per la funerëa campagna
e l’immonda accusar col luttüoso
singulto i rai di che son pie le stelle
alle obblïate sepolture. Indarno
sul tuo poeta, o Dea, preghi rugiade
dalla squallida notte. Ahi! su gli estinti
non sorge fiore, ove non sia d’umane
lodi onorato e d’amoroso pianto.
Dal dí che nozze e tribunali ed are
diero alle umane belve esser pietose
di se stesse e d’altrui, toglieano i vivi
all’etere maligno ed alle fere
i miserandi avanzi che Natura
con veci eterne a sensi altri destina.
Testimonianza a’ fasti eran le tombe,
ed are a’ figli; e uscían quindi i responsi
de’ domestici Lari, e fu temuto
su la polve degli avi il giuramento:
religïon che con diversi riti
le virtú patrie e la pietà congiunta
tradussero per lungo ordine d’anni.
Non sempre i sassi sepolcrali a’ templi
fean pavimento; né agl’incensi avvolto
de’ cadaveri il lezzo i supplicanti
contaminò; né le città fur meste
d’effigïati scheletri: le madri
balzan ne’ sonni esterrefatte, e tendono
nude le braccia su l’amato capo
del lor caro lattante onde nol desti
il gemer lungo di persona morta
chiedente la venal prece agli eredi
dal santuario. Ma cipressi e cedri
di puri effluvi i zefiri impregnando
perenne verde protendean su l’urne
per memoria perenne, e prezïosi
vasi accogliean le lagrime votive.
Rapían gli amici una favilla al Sole
a illuminar la sotterranea notte,
perché gli occhi dell’uom cercan morendo
il Sole; e tutti l’ultimo sospiro
mandano i petti alla fuggente luce.
Le fontane versando acque lustrali
amaranti educavano e vïole
su la funebre zolla; e chi sedea
a libar latte o a raccontar sue pene
ai cari estinti, una fragranza intorno
sentía qual d’aura de’ beati Elisi.
Pietosa insania che fa cari gli orti
de’ suburbani avelli alle britanne
vergini, dove le conduce amore
della perduta madre, ove clementi
pregaro i Geni del ritorno al prode
cne tronca fe’ la trïonfata nave
del maggior pino, e si scavò la bara.
Ma ove dorme il furor d’inclite gesta
e sien ministri al vivere civile
l’opulenza e il tremore, inutil pompa
e inaugurate immagini dell’Orco
sorgon cippi e marmorei monumenti.
Già il dotto e il ricco ed il patrizio vulgo,
decoro e mente al bello italo regno,
nelle adulate reggie ha sepoltura
già vivo, e i stemmi unica laude. A noi
morte apparecchi riposato albergo,
ove una volta la fortuna cessi
dalle vendette, e l’amistà raccolga
non di tesori eredità, ma caldi
sensi e di liberal carme l’esempio.
A egregie cose il forte animo accendono
l’urne de’ forti, o Pindemonte; e bella
e santa fanno al peregrin la terra
che le ricetta. Io quando il monumento
vidi ove posa il corpo di quel grande
che temprando lo scettro a’ regnatori
gli allòr ne sfronda, ed alle genti svela
di che lagrime grondi e di che sangue;
e l’arca di colui che nuovo Olimpo
alzò in Roma a’ Celesti; e di chi vide
sotto l’etereo padiglion rotarsi
piú mondi, e il Sole irradïarli immoto,
onde all’Anglo che tanta ala vi stese
sgombrò primo le vie del firmamento:
- Te beata, gridai, per le felici
aure pregne di vita, e pe’ lavacri
che da’ suoi gioghi a te versa Apennino!
Lieta dell’aer tuo veste la Luna
di luce limpidissima i tuoi colli
per vendemmia festanti, e le convalli
popolate di case e d’oliveti
mille di fiori al ciel mandano incensi:
e tu prima, Firenze, udivi il carme
che allegrò l’ira al Ghibellin fuggiasco,
e tu i cari parenti e l’idïoma
désti a quel dolce di Calliope labbro
che Amore in Grecia nudo e nudo in Roma
d’un velo candidissimo adornando,
rendea nel grembo a Venere Celeste;
ma piú beata che in un tempio accolte
serbi l’itale glorie, uniche forse
da che le mal vietate Alpi e l’alterna
onnipotenza delle umane sorti
armi e sostanze t’ invadeano ed are
e patria e, tranne la memoria, tutto.
Che ove speme di gloria agli animosi
intelletti rifulga ed all’Italia,
quindi trarrem gli auspici. E a questi marmi
venne spesso Vittorio ad ispirarsi.
Irato a’ patrii Numi, errava muto
ove Arno è piú deserto, i campi e il cielo
desïoso mirando; e poi che nullo
vivente aspetto gli molcea la cura,
qui posava l’austero; e avea sul volto
il pallor della morte e la speranza.
Con questi grandi abita eterno: e l’ossa
fremono amor di patria. Ah sí! da quella
religïosa pace un Nume parla:
e nutria contro a’ Persi in Maratona
ove Atene sacrò tombe a’ suoi prodi,
la virtú greca e l’ira. Il navigante
che veleggiò quel mar sotto l’Eubea,
vedea per l’ampia oscurità scintille
balenar d’elmi e di cozzanti brandi,
fumar le pire igneo vapor, corrusche
d’armi ferree vedea larve guerriere
cercar la pugna; e all’orror de’ notturni
silenzi si spandea lungo ne’ campi
di falangi un tumulto e un suon di tube
e un incalzar di cavalli accorrenti
scalpitanti su gli elmi a’ moribondi,
e pianto, ed inni, e delle Parche il canto.
Felice te che il regno ampio de’ venti,
Ippolito, a’ tuoi verdi anni correvi!
E se il piloto ti drizzò l’antenna
oltre l’isole egèe, d’antichi fatti
certo udisti suonar dell’Ellesponto
i liti, e la marea mugghiar portando
alle prode retèe l’armi d’Achille
sovra l’ossa d’Ajace: a’ generosi
giusta di glorie dispensiera è morte;
né senno astuto né favor di regi
all’Itaco le spoglie ardue serbava,
ché alla poppa raminga le ritolse
l’onda incitata dagl’inferni Dei.
E me che i tempi e il desio d’onore
fan per diversa gente ir fuggitivo,
me ad evocar gli eroi chiamin le Muse
del mortale pensiero animatrici.
Siedon custodi de’ sepolcri, e quando
il tempo con sue fredde ale vi spazza
fin le rovine, le Pimplèe fan lieti
di lor canto i deserti, e l’armonia
vince di mille secoli il silenzio.
Ed oggi nella Troade inseminata
eterno splende a’ peregrini un loco,
eterno per la Ninfa a cui fu sposo
Giove, ed a Giove diè Dàrdano figlio,
onde fur Troia e Assàraco e i cinquanta
talami e il regno della giulia gente.
Però che quando Elettra udí la Parca
che lei dalle vitali aure del giorno
chiamava a’ cori dell’Eliso, a Giove
mandò il voto supremo: – E se, diceva,
a te fur care le mie chiome e il viso
e le dolci vigilie, e non mi assente
premio miglior la volontà de’ fati,
la morta amica almen guarda dal cielo
onde d’Elettra tua resti la fama. -
Cosí orando moriva. E ne gemea
l’Olimpio: e l’immortal capo accennando
piovea dai crini ambrosia su la Ninfa,
e fe’ sacro quel corpo e la sua tomba.
Ivi posò Erittonio, e dorme il giusto
cenere d’Ilo; ivi l’iliache donne
sciogliean le chiome, indarno ahi! deprecando
da’ lor mariti l’imminente fato;
ivi Cassandra, allor che il Nume in petto
le fea parlar di Troia il dí mortale,
venne; e all’ombre cantò carme amoroso,
e guidava i nepoti, e l’amoroso
apprendeva lamento a’ giovinetti.
E dicea sospirando: – Oh se mai d’Argo,
ove al Tidíde e di Läerte al figlio
pascerete i cavalli, a voi permetta
ritorno il cielo, invan la patria vostra
cercherete! Le mura, opra di Febo,
sotto le lor reliquie fumeranno.
Ma i Penati di Troia avranno stanza
in queste tombe; ché de’ Numi è dono
servar nelle miserie altero nome.
E voi, palme e cipressi che le nuore
piantan di Priamo, e crescerete ahi presto
di vedovili lagrime innaffiati,
proteggete i miei padri: e chi la scure
asterrà pio dalle devote frondi
men si dorrà di consanguinei lutti,
e santamente toccherà l’altare.
Proteggete i miei padri. Un dí vedrete
mendico un cieco errar sotto le vostre
antichissime ombre, e brancolando
penetrar negli avelli, e abbracciar l’urne,
e interrogarle. Gemeranno gli antri
secreti, e tutta narrerà la tomba
Ilio raso due volte e due risorto
splendidamente su le mute vie
per far piú bello l’ultimo trofeo
ai fatati Pelídi. Il sacro vate,
placando quelle afflitte alme col canto,
i prenci argivi eternerà per quante
abbraccia terre il gran padre Oceano.
E tu onore di pianti, Ettore, avrai,
ove fia santo e lagrimato il sangue
per la patria versato, e finché il Sole
risplenderà su le sciagure umane.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Love of my life

I feel I have touched the bottom of my life
to not think about you I always strive

common daily tasks for me
like to climb a mountain it seems

for there is nothing common about you
I’d rather hide in the forest of my soul
than going outside and my face to sunshine show
for errands and stuff I have to go
to forget you ,how to do I don’t know…

Nothing else to add,nothing else to see
after the love of my life I did meet

no hope inside whatsoever
just because I know we will never be together

the “coolest” doctor in the world

the poverty contest

Madness

I understand know how you see me
as an impediment of your will to be free

you just don’t get it,you think I am mad
I wish I were so I wouldn’t feel this sad

you might be right on that in every aspect
I am bad
but if I look in retrospect
I can detect something perfect
and those seeds of cruelty in you for I have

always been mad ,
didn’t really notice the difference
but now I understand that all my uneasyness in appearance

was quite clear to you I didn’t shine at my best
of the reason why take a wild guess

for your presence in me generated love
which I was unable to fight
holding on on a false image of myself too tight

unaware of all the sadness that was to come
justifying all my weekness, thought it came
another source from

but the reason were you,I humble for mediocrity
ashamed of my inequity
afraid to take a chance on you and me

so now all said
and done I must avow

that if I am mad it’s all because of you
mad of love for you

don’t blame it all on me
just bring it on home to me

Hungry man

that don’t impress me much

It’s the end of the world as we know it

He looked like he had a good idea for a second there, tryng to hang himself with the microphone!Is he suggesting that we might do the same?Did he throw the microphone to the public because he wanted them to hang themselves or sing? hehe

R.E.M. – It’s The End Of The World Lyrics
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Title: R.E.M. – It’s The End Of The World lyrics

Artist: R.E.M. Lyrics

Visitors: 50201 visitors have hited It’s The End Of The World Lyrics since May 27, 2008.

Send “It’s The End Of The World” Ringtone to Cell

That’s great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and
snakes, an aeroplane and Lenny Bruce is not afraid.
Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn – world
serves its own needs, dummy serve your own needs. Feed
it off an aux speak, grunt, no, strength, the Ladder
start to clatter with fear fight down height. Wire
in a fire, representing seven games, and a government
for hire at a combat site. Left of west and coming in
a hurry with the furys breathing down your neck. Team
by team reporters baffled, trumped, tethered cropped.
Look at that low playing. Fine, then. Uh oh,
overflow, population, common food, but it’ll do to Save
yourself, serve yourself. World serves its own needs,
listen to your heart bleed dummy with the rapture and
the revered and the right, right. You vitriolic,
patriotic, slam, fight, bright light, feeling pretty
psyched.

It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

Six o’clock – TV hour. Don’t get caught in foreign
towers. Slash and burn, return, listen to yourself
churn. Lock it in, uniforming, book burning, blood
letting. Every motive escalate. Automotive incinerate.
Light a candle, light a motive. Step down, step down.
Watch your heel crush, crushed, uh-oh, this means no
fear cavalier. Renegade steer clear! A tournament,
tournament, a tournament of lies. Offer me solutions,
offer me alternatives and I decline.

It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

The other night I dreamt of knives, continental
drift divide. Mountains sit in a line, Leonard
Bernstein. Leonid Brezhnev, Lenny Bruce and Lester
Bangs. Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom! You
symbiotic, patriotic, slam bug net, right? Right.

It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel
fine…fine…

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Leitmotiv

The sun is a hot tide in which I bathe
the love I feel ,it lifts me in a wave

now of all the things I have to do
my duty and pressure is driving me insane

with this tired,old leitmotiv of mine
each day hoping that you would be kind

to me, always striving,hoping and measuring
the indifference of everything

is the loss of spring of my time
leading my life as if I were blind

there’s no time and no space for us
all is decided for us

no hope,no hope is left
of promises never kept

life goes on sweeping away each illusion
and covers you instead with misfortune in profusion

explain why I keep going on in this delusion
that purfumes my life and allows no intrusion

colours my fantasies and creates
love and with it fiction daisies

imagines gentle phrases
fluctuating in perfect spaces

life is just something that you engages
of unhappiness I am the worst of cases

have no choice to be a woman who life embraces
and act a life I have not chosen on one of the lonely stages.

Decadent

You are so decadent
there is no use to pretend
you are always to shallow beauty tend
of women who follow the trend

I am so disillusioned by you
and to think that I thought
you were too good to be true

but now I know what is true
I had enough of you
for the only person to be right is you
the only intelligent person is you
the best loooking person is you
it’s all about you
what is liked by you
what is important to you
what is told by you
what is recalled by you

everybody else is futillity
for what they think is of inutility

you proclaim yourself a hero
for you fight for all that’s real

no silly thought of yours
I nothing else than a spot soar
a futile thought never your heart tore

for I am the shallow one
you the one that always scores

what drives me wild
is that you are in reality a child

the most uncoherent creature I have ever known
not patient enough to harvest the seeds you’ve sown

how do you reconcile your idealism
with your terrible realism?
You say you hate capitalism
that I am a victim
always me you are teasing

idealistic in principle
in love you are invincible

willing to despise those who beauty have not
but by the beautiful any thought
you accept even if clever it is not
even if they are mediocre and morality they have not

despise money
but a huge car used to have your honey

you never love anybody but yourself
because me,you have put on a shelf
I who had be living for no one else.

Decadent poets…..and Joyce(with an historical introduction)

At the end of the nineteenth century,positivism died.
There were other philosophical influences that were taken it’s place one of these philosopher’s name was Henry Bergson :

Relationship with James and Pragmatism
Bergson came to London in 1908 where he met William James, the Harvard philosopher who was Bergson’s senior by seventeen years, and who was instrumental in calling the attention of the Anglo-American public to the work of the French professor. The two became great friends. James’s impression of Bergson is given in his Letters under date of 4 October 1908:

“So modest and unpretending a man but such a genius intellectually! I have the strongest suspicions that the tendency which he has brought to a focus, will end by prevailing, and that the present epoch will be a sort of turning point in the history of philosophy.”

As early as 1880 James had contributed an article in French to the periodical La Critique philosophique, of Renouvier and Pillon, entitled Le Sentiment de l’Effort. Four years later a couple of articles by him appeared in the journal Mind: “What is an Emotion?” and “On some Omissions of Introspective Psychology.” Of these articles the first two were quoted by Bergson in his 1889 work, Time and Free Will. In the following years 1890-91 appeared the two volumes of James’s monumental work, The Principles of Psychology, in which he refers to a pathological phenomenon observed by Bergson. Some writers, taking merely these dates into consideration and overlooking the fact that James’s investigations had been proceeding since 1870 (registered from time to time by various articles which culminated in “The Principles”), have mistakenly dated Bergson’s ideas as earlier than James’s.

It has been suggested that Bergson owes the root ideas of his first book to the 1884 article by James, “On Some Omissions of Introspective Psychology,” which he neither refers to nor quotes. This article deals with the conception of thought as a stream of consciousness, which intellect distorts by framing into concepts. Bergson replied to this insinuation by denying that he had any knowledge of the article by James when he wrote Les données immédiates de la conscience. The two thinkers appear to have developed independently until almost the close of the century. They are further apart in their intellectual position than is frequently supposed. Both have succeeded in appealing to audiences far beyond the purely academic sphere, but only in their mutual rejection of “intellectualism” as final is there real unanimity. Although James was slightly ahead in the development and enunciation of his ideas, he confessed that he was baffled by many of Bergson’s notions. James certainly neglected many of the deeper metaphysical aspects of Bergson’s thought, which did not harmonize with his own, and are even in direct contradiction. In addition to this, Bergson can hardly be considered a pragmatist. For him, “utility,” far from being a test of truth, was in fact the reverse: a synonym for error.

Nevertheless, William James hailed Bergson as an ally. Early in the century (1903) he wrote:

“I have been re-reading Bergson’s books, and nothing that I have read since years has so excited and stimulated my thoughts. I am sure that that philosophy has a great future, it breaks through old cadres and brings things into a solution from which new crystals can be got.”

The most noteworthy tributes paid by him to Bergson were those made in the Hibbert Lectures (A Pluralistic Universe), which James gave at Manchester College, Oxford, shortly after meeting Bergson in London. He remarks on the encouragement he has received from Bergson’s thought, and refers to the confidence he has in being “able to lean on Bergson’s authority.”

The influence of Bergson had led him “to renounce the intellectualist method and the current notion that logic is an adequate measure of what can or cannot be.” It had induced him, he continued, “to give up logic, squarely and irrevocably” as a method, for he found that “reality, life, experience, concreteness, immediacy, use what word you will, exceeds our logic, overflows, and surrounds it.”

These remarks, which appeared in James’s book A Pluralistic Universe in 1909, impelled many English and American readers to an investigation of Bergson’s philosophy for themselves. A certain handicap existed in that his greatest work had not then been translated into English. James, however, encouraged and assisted Dr. Arthur Mitchell in his preparation of the English translation of Creative Evolution. In August 1910 James died. It was his intention, had he lived to see the completion of the translation, to introduce it to the English reading public by a prefatory note of appreciation. In the following year the translation was completed and still greater interest in Bergson and his work was the result. By a coincidence, in that same year (1911), Bergson penned a preface of sixteen pages entitled Truth and Reality for the French translation of James’s book, “Pragmatism”. In it he expressed sympathetic appreciation of James’s work, coupled with certain important reservations.

In April (5th to 11th) Bergson attended the Fourth International Congress of Philosophy held at Bologna, in Italy, where he gave an address on “Philosophical Intuition”. In response to invitations he visited England in May of that year, and on several subsequent occasions. These visits were well received. His speeches offered new perspectives and elucidated many passages in his three major works: Time and Free Will, Matter and Memory, and Creative Evolution. Although necessarily brief statements, they developed and enriched the ideas in his books and clarified for English audiences the fundamental principles of his philosophy.

[edit] The lectures on Change, and Bergson’s later life
Bergson visited the University of Oxford, where he delivered two lectures entitled The Perception of Change (La perception du changement), which were published in French in the same year by the Clarendon Press. As he had a delightful gift of lucid and brief exposition, when the occasion demands such treatment, these lectures on Change formed a most valuable synopsis or brief survey of the fundamental principles of his thought, and served the student or general reader alike as an excellent introduction to the study of the larger volumes. Oxford honoured its distinguished visitor by conferring upon him the degree of Doctor of Science.

Two days later he delivered the Huxley Lecture at the University of Birmingham, taking for his subject Life and Consciousness. This subsequently appeared in The Hibbert Journal (October, 1911), and since revised, forms the first essay in the collected volume Mind-Energy (L’Energie spirituelle). In October he was again in England, where he had an enthusiastic reception, and delivered at University College London four lectures on La Nature de l’Ame.

In 1913 he visited the United States of America, at the invitation of Columbia University, New York, and lectured in several American cities, where he was welcomed by very large audiences. In February, at Columbia University, he lectured both in French and English, taking as his subjects: Spirituality and Freedom and The Method of Philosophy. Being again in England in May of the same year, he accepted the Presidency of the British Society for

Psychical Research, and delivered to the Society an impressive address: Phantoms of Life and Psychic Research (Fantômes des vivants et recherche psychique).

Meanwhile, his popularity increased, and translations of his works began to appear in a number of languages: English, German, Italian, Danish, Swedish, Hungarian, Polish and Russian. In 1914 he was honoured by his fellow-countrymen in being elected as a member of the Académie française. He was also made President of the Académie des Sciences morales et politiques, and in addition he became Officier de la Légion d’honneur, and Officier de l’Instruction publique.

Bergson found disciples of many varied types, and in France movements such as Neo-Catholicism or Modernism on the one hand and Syndicalism on the other, endeavoured to absorb and to appropriate for their own immediate use and propaganda some of the central ideas of his teaching. That important continental organ of socialist and syndicalist theory, Le Mouvement socialiste, suggested that the realism of Karl Marx and Pierre-Joseph Proudhon is hostile to all forms of intellectualism, and that, therefore, supporters of Marxian socialism should welcome a philosophy such as that of Bergson. Other writers, in their eagerness, asserted the collaboration of the Chair of Philosophy at the College de France with the aims of the Confédération Générale du Travail and the Industrial Workers of the World. It was claimed that there is harmony between the flute of personal philosophical meditation and the trumpet of social revolution.

While social revolutionaries were endeavouring to make the most out of Bergson, many leaders of religious thought, particularly the more liberal-minded theologians of all creeds, e.g., the Modernists and Neo-Catholic Party in his own country, showed a keen interest in his writings, and many of them endeavoured to find encouragement and stimulus in his work. The Roman Catholic Church, however, which still believed that finality was reached in philosophy with the work of Thomas Aquinas in the thirteenth century, and consequently had made that mediaeval philosophy her official, orthodox, and dogmatic view, took the step of banning Bergson’s three books, accused of pantheism (that is, of conceiving of God as immanent to his Creation and of being himself created in the process of the Creation [4]) by placing them upon the Index of prohibited books (Decree of 1 June 1914).

In 1914, the Scottish Universities arranged for Bergson to deliver the famous Gifford Lectures, and one course was planned for the spring and another for the autumn. The first course, consisting of eleven lectures, under the title of The Problem of Personality, was delivered at the University of Edinburgh in the Spring of that year. The course of lectures planned for the autumn months had to be abandoned because of the outbreak of war. Bergson was not, however, silent during the conflict, and he gave some inspiring addresses. As early as 4 November, 1914, he wrote an article entitled Wearing and Nonwearing forces (La force qui s’use et celle qui ne s’use pas), which appeared in that unique and interesting periodical of the poilus, Le Bulletin des Armées de la République Française. A presidential address, The Meaning of the War, was delivered in December, 1914, to the Académie des sciences morales et politiques.

Bergson contributed also to the publication arranged by The Daily Telegraph in honour of the King of the Belgians, King Albert’s Book (Christmas, 1914). In 1915 he was succeeded in the office of President of the Académie des Sciences morales et politiques by Alexandre Ribot, and then delivered a discourse on The Evolution of German Imperialism. Meanwhile he found time to issue at the request of the Minister of Public Instruction a brief summary of French Philosophy. Bergson did a large amount of travelling and lecturing in America during the war. He participated to the negotiations which led to the entry of the United States in the war. He was there when the French Mission under René Viviani paid a visit in April and May 1917, following upon America’s entry into the conflict. Viviani’s book La Mission française en Amérique (1917), contains a preface by Bergson.

Early in 1918 he was officially received by the Académie française, taking his seat among “The Select Forty” as successor to Emile Ollivier, the author of the large and notable historical work L’Empire libéral. A session was held in January in his honour at which he delivered an address on Ollivier. In the war, Bergson saw the conflict of Mind and Matter, or rather of Life and Mechanism; and thus he shows us the central idea of his own philosophy in action. To no other philosopher has it fallen, during his lifetime, to have his philosophical principles so vividly and so terribly tested.

Bergson in 1927. He was awarded the 1927 Nobel Prize in LiteratureAs many of Bergson’s contributions to French periodicals were not readily accessible, he agreed to the request of his friends that these should be collected and published in two volumes. The first of these was being planned when war broke out. The conclusion of strife was marked by the appearance of a delayed volume in 1919 . It bears the title Spiritual Energy: Essays and Lectures (L’Energie spirituelle: essais et conférences). The advocate of Bergson’s philosophy in England, Dr. Wildon Carr, prepared an English translation under the title Mind-Energy. The volume opens with the Huxley Memorial Lecture of 1911, “Life and Consciousness”, in a revised and developed form under the title “Consciousness and Life”. Signs of Bergson’s growing interest in social ethics and in the idea of a future life of personal survival are manifested. The lecture before the Society for Psychical Research is included, as is also the one given in France, L’Ame et le Corps, which contains the substance of the four London lectures on the Soul. The seventh and last article is a reprint of Bergson’s famous lecture to the Congress of Philosophy at Geneva in 1904, The Psycho-Physiological Paralogism (Le paralogisme psycho-physiologique), which now appears as Le cerveau et la pensée: une illusion philosophique. Other articles are on the False Recognition, on Dreams, and Intellectual Effort. The volume is a most welcome production and serves to bring together what Bergson wrote on the concept of mental force, and on his view of “tension” and “detension” as applied to the relation of matter and mind.

In June 1920, the University of Cambridge honoured him with the degree of Doctor of Letters. In order that he may be able to devote his full time to the great new work he was preparing on ethics, religion, and sociology, Bergson was relieved of the duties attached to the Chair of Modern Philosophy at the Collège de France. He retained the chair, but no longer delivered lectures, his place being taken by his disciple, the mathematician and philosopher Edouard Le Roy, who supported a conventionalist stance on the foundations of mathematics, which was adopted by Bergson [7]. Le Roy, who also succeeded to Bergson at the Académie française and was a fervent Catholic, extended to revealed truth his conventionalism, leading him to privilege faith, heart and sentiment to dogmas, speculative theology and abstract reasonings. As Bergson, his writings were put to the Index by the Vatican.

Bergson then published Duration and Simultaneity: Bergson and the Einsteinian Universe (Durée et simultanéité), a book on physics which was followed by a polemical conversation with Albert Einstein at the French Society of Philosophy [4]. The latter book has been often considered as one of his worst, many alleging that his knowledge of physics was very insufficient, and that the book did not follow up contemporary developments on physics [4]. It was not published in the 1951 Edition du Centenaire in French, which contained all of his other works, and was only published later in a work gathering different essays, titled Mélanges. Duration and simultaneity took advantage of Bergson’s experience at the League of Nations, where he presided starting in 1920 the International Commission on Intellectual Cooperation (the ancestor of the UNESCO, which included Einstein, Marie Curie, etc.) [4].

Living with his wife and daughter in a modest house in a quiet street near the Porte d’Auteuil in Paris, Bergson won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1927 for having written The Creative Evolution. Because of serious rheumatics ailments, he could not travel to Stockholm, and send instead a text which has been published in La Pensée et le mouvant [4].

After his retirement from the Collège, Bergson began to fade into obscurity, because he was suffering from a degenerative illness (rheumatics, which left him half paralyzed [4]). He completed his new work, The Two Sources of Morality and Religion, which extended his philosophical theories to the realms of morality, religion and art, in 1935 . It was respectfully received by the public and the philosophical community, but all by that time realized that Bergson’s days as a philosophical luminary were past. It was at this time, however, that Bergson, with a newly found passion for the domestic, began to experiment in cuisine. He developed a small following around the neighborhood, and eventually took home several red and blue ribbons at the annual area block party. While trying to determine the perfect heat and duration for a newly developed recipe, Bergson hit upon the difficulty of affecting change on materials that are within the flow of time from a position of consciousness outside of that same durational flow. It was this epiphany that led to his self-published work, printed in a small edition in 1936, entitled Forward-durational Rechauffage or the Theory of the Three-Sided Bacon Tranche. This led to a new, late-life popularity for Bergson, which upon reflection, bothered him in that he wished to remain known for his earlier accomplishments. He was, however, able to reiterate his core beliefs near the end of his life, by renouncing all of the posts and honours previously awarded him, rather than accept exemption from the antisemitic laws imposed by the Vichy government. Though wanting to convert to Catholicism and having personally become a Christian in 1921 [1], he held off instead and showed solidarity with his fellow Jews by signing the registry books.

A Roman Catholic priest said prayers at his funeral per his request. Henri Bergson is buried in the Cimetière de Garches, Hauts-de-Seine.

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[edit] Philosophy
One of Bergson’s main problems is to think novelty as pure creation, instead of as the unraveling of a predetermined program. His is a philosophy of pure mobility, unforeseeable novelty, creativity and freedom, which can thus be characterized as a process philosophy. It touches upon such topics as time and identity, free will, perception, change, memory, consciousness, language, the foundation of mathematics and the limits of reason.[8]

Criticizing Kant’s theory of knowledge exposed in the Critique of Pure Reason and his conception of truth — which he compares to Plato’s conception of truth as its symmetrical inversion (order of nature/order of thought) — he attempted to redefine the relations between science and metaphysics, intelligence and intuition, and insisted on the necessity of increasing thought’s possibility through the use of intuition, which would be, according to him, the only way of approaching a knowledge of the absolute and of real life, understood as pure duration. Because of his (relative) criticism of intelligence, he makes a frequent use of images and metaphors in his writings in order to avoid the use of concepts, which he considers fail to touch the whole of reality, being only a sort of abstract net thrown on things. For instance, he says in The Creative Evolution (chap.III) that thought in itself would never have thought it possible for the human being to swim, as it cannot deduce swimming from walking. For swimming to be possible, man must throw itself in water, and only then can thought consider swimming as possible. Intelligence, for Bergson, is a practical faculty rather than a pure speculative faculty, a product of evolution used by man to survive. If metaphysics is to avoid “false problems”, it should not extend to pure speculation the abstract concepts of intelligence, but rather use intuition [9].

The Creative Evolution was in particular an attempt to think the continuous creation of life, which explicitly pitted itself against Herbert Spencer’s evolutionary philosophy — Spencer had attempted to transpose Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution in philosophy and to construct a cosmology based on this theory; he was also the inventor of the expression “survival of the fittest.” Although Spencer is considered as an important influence of Bergson, some have downplayed it, as it seems that Bergson would have very early criticized him [4]. Henri Bergson’s Lebensphilosophie (Philosophy of Life) can be seen as a response to the mechanistic philosophies of his time [10], but also to the failure of finalism [4]. Indeed, he considers that finalism is unable to explain “duration” and the “continuous creation of life”, as it only explains life as the progressive development of an initially determined program — a notion which remains, for example, in the expression of a “genetic program” [4]; such a description of finalism was adopted, for instance, by Leibniz [4]. Bergson thought that it was impossible to plan beforehand the future, as time itself unraveled unforeseen possibilities. Indeed, a historical event could always be explained retrospectively by its conditions of possibility. But, in the introduction to the Pensée et le mouvant, he explains that such an event created retrospectively its causes, taking the example of the creation of a work of art, for example a symphony: it was impossible to predict what would be the symphony of the future, as if the musician knew what symphony would be the best for his time, he would realize it. In his words, the effect created its cause. Henceforth, he attempted to find a third way between mechanism and finalism, through the notion of an original impulse, the élan vital, in life, which dispersed itself through evolution into contradictory tendencies (he substituted to the finalist notion of a teleological aim a notion of an original impulse).

[edit] Duration
See also: Duration (Bergson)
The foundation of Henri Bergson’s philosophy is his theory of Duration, which he discovered when trying to improve the inadequacies of Herbert Spencer’s philosophy.[10] A theory of time and consciousness, the Duration is introduced in his doctoral theses Time and Free Will: An Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousness as a response to another of his influences: Immanuel Kant.[11]

Kant believed freewill could only exist outside of time and space, that we could therefore not know whether or not it exists, and that it is nothing but a pragmatic faith.[11] Bergson’s response was to show that Kant, along with many other philosophers, had confused time with its spatial representation.[12] In reality, the Duration is unextended yet heterogeneous, and so its parts cannot be juxtaposed as a succession of distinct parts, with one causing the other. This made determinism an impossibility and freewill pure mobility, which is what Bergson identified as being the Duration.[13]

[edit] Intuition
See also: Intuition (Bergson)
The Duration then is a unity and a multiplicity, but, being mobile, it cannot be grasped through immobile concepts. Hence the only way to grasp it is through Bergson’s method of intuition. Two images from Henri Bergson’s An Introduction to Metaphysics may help us grasp intuition, the limits of concepts, and the ability of intuition to grasp the absolute. The first is that of a city. Analysis, or the creation of concepts through the divisions of points of view, can only ever give us a model of the city through a construction of photographs taken from every possible point of view, yet it can never give us the dimensional value of walking in the city itself. This can only be grasped through intuition, as can the experience of reading a line of Homer. One may translate the line and pile commentary upon commentary, but this commentary too shall never grasp the simple dimensional value of experiencing the poem in its originality itself. The method of intuition, then, is that of getting back to the things themselves.[14]

[edit] Élan Vital
See also: Élan vital
The third essential concept of Bergson’s, after Duration and intuition, is the Élan vital. An idea with the goal of explaining evolution, the Élan vital first appeared in 1907’s Creative Evolution. Élan vital is a kind of vital impetus which explains evolution in a less mechanical and more lively manner, as well as the creative impulse of mankind. This concept led Bergson to be characterized by several authors as a supporter of vitalism—although he criticized it explicitly in The Creative Evolution, as he thought, against Driesch and Johannes Reinke (whom he cited) that there is neither “purely internal finality nor clearly cut individuality in nature”[15]:

Hereby lies the stumbling block of vitalist theories (…) It is thus in vain that one pretends to reduce finality to the individuality of the living being. If there is finality in the world of life, it encompasses the whole of life in one indivisible embrace.[16]

[edit] Laughter
In the idiosyncratic Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic, Bergson develops a theory not of laughter, but of how laughter can be provoked (see his objection to Delage, published on the 23rd edition of the essay).[4] He describes the process of laughter (refusing to give a conceptual definition which would not approach its reality[4]), used in particular by comics and clowns, as the caricature of the mechanism nature of humans (habits, automatic acts, etc.), one of the two tendencies of life (degradation towards inert matter and mechanism, and continual creation of new forms).[4] However, Bergson warns us that laughter’s criteria of what should be laughed at is not a moral criteria and that it can in fact cause serious damage to a person’s self-esteem.[17] This essay made his opposition to the Cartesian theory of the animal-machine obvious.[4]

[edit] Criticisms and reception
From his first publications, Bergson’s philosophy attracted strong criticism from different angles, although he was also very popular and durably influenced French philosophy — the epistemologist Gaston Bachelard, for example, explicitly alluded to him in the last pages of his 1938 book (The Formation of the Scientific Mind). The mathematician Edouard Le Roy was Bergson’s main disciple. Others influences count Vladimir Jankélévitch, who wrote a book on him (Henri Bergson) in 1931, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin or Gilles Deleuze who wrote Le bergsonisme in 1966 (transl. 1988). Bergson is also often classified as an influence upon the process philosophy of (beside Deleuze) Alfred North Whitehead, as well as the phenomenology of Merleau-Ponty and Emmanuel Lévinas.[18] The Greek author Nikos Kazantzakis studied under Bergson in Paris and his writing and philosophy were profoundly influenced as a result.[19]

Many writers of the early 20th century criticized his intuitionism, indeterminism, psychologism and unique interpretation of the scientific impulse. Among those who explicitly criticized Bergson (either in published articles or letters) were Bertrand Russell (see his short book on the subject), George Santayana (see his study on the author in “Winds of Doctrine”), G. E. Moore, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Julien Benda (see his book on the subject), T. S. Eliot, Paul Valéry (despite some recent claims otherwise), Andre Gide (see below), Marxists philosophers such as Theodor W. Adorno (see “Against Epistemology”), Lucio Colletti (see “Hegel and Marxism”), , Jean-Paul Sartre (see his early book Imagination — although Sartre also appropriated himself Bergsonian thesis on novelty as pure creation – see Situations I, Gallimard 1947, p.314) and Georges Politzer (see the latter’s two books on the subject: Le Bergsonisme, une Mystification Philosophique and La fin d’une parade philosophique: le Bergsonisme both of which had a tremendous effect on French existential phenomenology), as well as (the non-Marxist) Maurice Blanchot (see Bergson and Symbolism), American philosophers such as Irving Babbitt, Arthur Lovejoy, Josiah Royce, The New Realists (Ralph B. Perry, E. B. Holt, and William P. Montague), The Critical Realists (Durant Drake, Roy W. Sellars, C. A. Strong, and A. K. Rogers), Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler, Roger Fry (see his letters), Julian Huxley (in Evolution: The Modern Synthesis) and Virginia Woolf (for the latter, see Ann Banfield, The Phantom Table).

Bergson was accused by the Vatican of being pantheistic, while free-thinkers, who formed a large part of the teachers and professors of the French Third Republic, accused him of spiritualism. Still others have characterized his philosophy as a materialist emergentism — Samuel Alexander and C. Lloyd Morgan explicitly claimed Bergson as their forebearer [4]. According to Henri Hude (1990, II, p.142), who supports himself on the whole of Bergson’s works as well as his now published courses, accusing him of pantheism is a “counter-sense”. Hude alleges that a mystical experience, roughly outlined at the end of Les Deux sources de la morale et de la religion, is the inner principle of his whole philosophy, although this has been contested by other commentators.

C. S. Peirce took strong exception to being aligned with Bergson. In response to a letter comparing his work with that of Bergson he wrote, “a man who seeks to further science can hardly commit a greater sin than to use the terms of his science without anxious care to use them with strict accuracy; it is not very gratifying to my feelings to be classed along with a Bergson who seems to be doing his prettiest to muddle all distinctions.” William James’s students resisted the assimilation of his work to that of Bergson’s. See, for example, Horace Kallen’s book on the subject James and Bergson. As Jean Wahl described the “ultimate disagreement” between James and Bergson in his System of Metaphysics:

“for James, the consideration of action is necessary for the definition of truth, according to Bergson, action…must be kept from our mind if we want to see the truth.” Gide even went so far as to say that future historians will over-estimate Bergson’s influence on art and philosophy just because he was the self-appointed spokesman for “the spirit of the age.”

As early as the 1890s, Santayana attacked certain key concepts in Bergson’s philosophy, above all his view of the New and the indeterminate:

“the possibility of a new and unaccountable fact appearing at any time,” he writes in his book on Lotze, “does not practically affect the method of investigation;…the only thing given up is the hope that these hypotheses may ever be adequate to the reality and cover the process of nature without leaving a remainder. This is no great renunciation; for that consummation of science…is by no one really expected.”

According to Santayana and Russell, Bergson projected false claims onto the aspirations of scientific method, which Bergson needed to make in order to justify his prior moral commitment to freedom. Russell takes particular exception to Bergson’s understanding of number in chapter two of Time and Free-will. According to Russell, Bergson uses an outmoded spatial metaphor (“extended images”) to describe the nature of mathematics as well as logic in general. “Bergson only succeeds in making his theory of number possible by confusing a particular collection with the number of its terms, and this again with number in general,” writes Russell (see The Philosophy of Bergson and A History of Western Philosophy).

Further still, the élan vital was seen to be a projection of the inner life, a moral feeling, onto the world at large. The external world, according to certain theories of probability, provides less and less indeterminism with further refinement of scientific method. In brief, the moral, psychological, and aesthethic demand for the new, the underivable and the unexplained should not be confused with our imagination of the universe at large. A difference remains between our inner sense of becoming and the non-human character of the outer world, which, according to the ancient materialist Lucretius should not be characterized as either one of becoming or being, creation or destruction (De Rerum Natura).

On the economic level,Karl Marx

…

introduced some radical changes which favoured the creation of socialism and it’s fear to which the right reacted moderately at first in Italy ,with giovanni Crispi

then at the beginning of the nineteenth century with giolitti

and then extremely with fascisism and Mussolini

A great critic of italian literature of the time was benedetto croce

Heavily influenced by Hegel and other German Idealists, such as Fichte, Croce produced what was called, by him, the Philosophy of Spirit. Croce was an ardent idealist, and denied any reality other than “pure concept”, or simply ideas. “Pure Concept” to him are largely Plato’s Ideas, and are similar to Kant’s categories, which are concepts like quantity, quality, evolution, more or less any idea we have that can be described as a universal idea. He came to the conclusion that if all of reality was an idea, all of reality could be reduced to purely logical concepts, and most of his works from there on are expositions on logic. He rejected all forms of religion as not logical enough and came to view most metaphysics in the same manner. He felt that all metaphysics are simple justifications of religious ideas and not full, viable philosophical ideas. Nevertheless, he held onto his idealism.

[edit] History
Croce also held great esteem for Vico, and shared his view that history should be written by philosophers. Croce’s On History sets forth the view of history as “philosophy in motion”, that there is no greater “cosmic design” or ultimate plan in history, and that the “science of history” was a farce. This led him to scorn theorists like Marx and Hegel who attempted to reduce history to a few guiding principles. He largely agrees with Rousseau, saying that history is a series of lies, where we must choose the one that seems closest to the truth.

Italians were influenced by the decadent french poets :

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Baudelaire :L’albatross

Souvent, pour s’amuser, les hommes d’équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

A peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l’azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d’eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu’il est comique et laid!
L’un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L’autre mime, en boitant, l’infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l’archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l’empêchent de marcher.

Rimbaud :Ma bohème fantaisie

Je m’en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ;
Mon paletot aussi devenait idéal ;
J’allais sous le ciel, Muse ! et j’étais ton féal ;
Oh ! là là ! que d’amours splendides j’ai rêvées !

Mon unique culotte avait un large trou.
- Petit-Poucet rêveur, j’égrenais dans ma course
Des rimes. Mon auberge était à la Grande Ourse.
- Mes étoiles au ciel avaient un doux frou-frou

Et je les écoutais, assis au bord des routes,
Ces bons soirs de septembre où je sentais des gouttes
De rosée à mon front, comme un vin de vigueur ;

Où, rimant au milieu des ombres fantastiques,
Comme des lyres, je tirais les élastiques
De mes souliers blessés, un pied près de mon coeur !

Verlaine :Clair de lune
Votre âme est un paysage choisi
Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques
Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi
Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.

Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur
L’amour vainqueur et la vie opportune,
Ils n’ont pas l’air de croire à leur bonheur
Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune,

Au calme clair de lune triste et beau,
Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres
Et sangloter d’extase les jets d’eau,
Les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbres.

The most important italian decadent poet is d’annunzio :

La pioggia nel pineto

——————————————————————————–

Taci. Su le soglie
del bosco non odo
parole che dici
umane; ma odo
parole più nuove
che parlano gocciole e foglie
lontane.
Ascolta. Piove
dalle nuvole sparse.
Piove su le tamerici
salmastre ed arse,
piove sui pini
scagliosi ed irti,
piove su i mirti
divini,
su le ginestre fulgenti
di fiori accolti,
su i ginepri folti
di coccole aulenti,
piove su i nostri volti
silvani,
piove su le nostre mani
ignude,
su i nostri vestimenti
leggeri,
su i freschi pensieri
che l’anima schiude
novella,
su la favola bella
che ieri
t’illuse, che oggi m’illude,
o Ermione.

Odi? La pioggia cade
su la solitaria
verdura
con un crepitio che dura
e varia nell’aria secondo le fronde
più rade, men rade.
Ascolta. Risponde
al pianto il canto
delle cicale
che il pianto australe
non impaura,
né il ciel cinerino.
E il pino
ha un suono, e il mirto
altro suono, e il ginepro
altro ancora, stromenti
diversi
sotto innumerevoli dita.
E immensi
noi siam nello spirito
silvestre,
d’arborea vita viventi;
e il tuo volto ebro
è molle di pioggia
come una foglia,
e le tue chiome
auliscono come
le chiare ginestre,
o creatura terrestre
che hai nome
Ermione.

Ascolta, Ascolta. L’accordo
delle aeree cicale
a poco a poco
più sordo
si fa sotto il pianto
che cresce;
ma un canto vi si mesce
più roco
che di laggiù sale,
dall’umida ombra remota.
Più sordo e più fioco
s’allenta, si spegne.
Sola una nota
ancor trema, si spegne,
risorge, trema, si spegne.
Non s’ode su tutta la fronda
crosciare
l’argentea pioggia
che monda,
il croscio che varia
secondo la fronda
più folta, men folta.
Ascolta.
La figlia dell’aria
è muta: ma la figlia
del limo lontana,
la rana,
canta nell’ombra più fonda,
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!
E piove su le tue ciglia,
Ermione.

Piove su le tue ciglia nere
sì che par tu pianga
ma di piacere; non bianca
ma quasi fatta virente,
par da scorza tu esca.
E tutta la vita è in noi fresca
aulente,
il cuor nel petto è come pesca
intatta,
tra le palpebre gli occhi
son come polle tra l’erbe,
i denti negli alveoli
son come mandorle acerbe.
E andiam di fratta in fratta,
or congiunti or disciolti
( e il verde vigor rude
ci allaccia i melleoli
c’intrica i ginocchi)
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!
E piove su i nostri volti
silvani,
piove su le nostre mani

ignude,
su i nostri vestimenti
leggeri,
su i freschi pensieri
che l’anima schiude
novella,
su la favola bella
che ieri
m’illuse, che oggi t’illude,
o Ermione.

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Literature Network » James Joyce » Ulysses » Episode 3 – Proteus

Episode 3 – Proteus

——————————————————————————–
INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE VISIBLE: AT LEAST THAT IF NO MORE, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.

Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o’er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably. I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a’.

Won’t you come to Sandymount,
Madeline the mare?

Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.

See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end.

They came down the steps from Leahy’s terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the shelving shore flabbily their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwife’s bag, the other’s gamp poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your omphalos. Hello. Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.

Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin.

Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler’s will. From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever A lex eterna stays about him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring his life long on the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred heresiarch. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.

Airs romped around him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of Mananaan.

I mustn’t forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half twelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile. Yes, I must.

His pace slackened. Here. Am I going to Aunt Sara’s or not? My consubstantial father’s voice. Did you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? No? Sure he’s not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? Couldn’t he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And and and and tell us Stephen, how is uncle Si? O weeping God, the things I married into. De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers. And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less. Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ.

I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

– It’s Stephen, sir.

– Let him in. Let Stephen in.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

– We thought you were someone else.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the upper moiety.

– Morrow, nephew.

He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of Master Goff and Master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde’s Requiescat. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.

– Yes, sir?

– Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?

– Bathing Crissie, sir.

Papa’s little bedpal. Lump of love.

– No, uncle Richie…

– Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!

– Uncle Richie, really…

– Sit down or by the law Harry I’ll knock you down.

Walter squints vainly for a chair.

– He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

– He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our Chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw air here; the rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but backache pills.

All’erta!

He drones bars of Ferrando’s aria de sortita. The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.

His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.

This wind is sweeter.

Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh’s library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine faces. Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell. Lantern jaws. Abbas father, furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff! Descende, calve, ut ne nimium decalveris. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (descende), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, bald poll! A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar’s horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.

And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx. Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Dringdringl Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.

Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were awfully holy, weren’t you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O si, certo! Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still! On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: naked women! What about that, eh?

What about what? What else were they invented for?

Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand year, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once…

The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath. He coasted them, walking warily. A porter-bottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.

He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara’s. Am I not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

– Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?

– C’est le pigeon, Joseph.

Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father’s a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny’s face. Lap, lapin. He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jésus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.

– C’est tordant, vows savez. Moi je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en l’existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire à mon père.

– Il croit?

– Mon père, oui.

Schluss. He laps.

My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. You were a student, weren’t you? Of what in the other devil’s name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone: when I was in Paris, boul’ Mich’, I used to. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c’est moi. You seem to have enjoyed yourself.

Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: a dispossessed. With mother’s money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Must get. Fermé. Hired dog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? O, that’s all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that’s all right. Shake a shake. O, that’s all only all right.

You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Euge! Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment? Rich booty you brought back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge, a blue French telegram, curiosity to show:

– Mother dying come home father.

The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That’s why she won’t.

Then here’s a health to Mulligan’s aunt
And I’ll tell you the reason why.
She always kept things decent in
The Hannigan famileye.

His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.

Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife’s lover’s wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hands. In Rodot’s Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan breton. Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.

Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer’s ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Un demi setier! A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at his beck. Il est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez? Ah oui! She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you know that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial. Well: slainte! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy’s fang thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You’re your father’s son. I know the voice. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Félix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, bonne à tout faire, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, she said. Tous les messieurs. Not this Monsieur, I said. Most licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldn’t let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose tobacco shreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy’s hat. How the head centre got away, authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.

Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tell you, I’ll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his day’s stations, the dingy printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d’Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcastman, madame, in rue Gît-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing’s. Spurned and undespairing. Tell Pat you saw me, won’t you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. Mon fils, soldier of France. I taught him to sing. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow’s castle on the Nore. Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.

O, O the boys of
Kilkenny…

Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them. Remembering thee, O Sion.

He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil. Turn back.

Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the barbicans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when this night comes. A shut door of a silent tower entombing their blind bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no answer. He lifted his feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon’s midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore’s tempting flood.

The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike.

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. Un coche ensablé, Louis Veuillot called Gautier’s prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. And there, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout’s toys. Mind you don’t get one bang on the ear. I’m the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloods odz an Iridzman.

A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand. Lord, is he going to attack me? Respect his liberty. You will not be master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. From farther away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two. The two maries. They have tucked it safe among the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I see you. No, the dog. He is running back to them. Who?

Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter sun. Danevikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers’ knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters. Their blood is in me, their lusts my waves. I moved among them on the frozen Liffey, that I, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke to no-one: none to me.

The dog’s bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of my enemy. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Terribilia meditans. A primrose doublet, fortune’s knave, smiled on my fear. For that are you pining, the bark of their applause? Pretenders: live their lives. The Bruce’s brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York’s false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and Lambert Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. All kings’ sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a cur’s yelping. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. House of… We don’t want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did? A boat would be near, a lifebuoy. Natürlich, put there for you. Would you or would you not? The man that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden’s rock. They are waiting for him now. The truth, spit it out. I would want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Water cold soft. When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Can’t see! Who’s behind me? Out quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sands quickly, shell cocoacoloured? If I had land under my feet I want his life still to be his, mine to be mine. A drowning man. His human eyes scream to me out of horror of his death. I… With him together down… I could not save her. Waters: bitter death: lost.

A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowskimming gull. The man’s shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.

Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and, stooping, soused their bags, and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf’s tongue redpanting from his jaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf’s gallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffing rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog’s bedraggled fell. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody. Here lies poor dogsbody’s body.

– Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel.

The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight. He slunk back in a curve. Doesn’t see me. Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. He trotted forward and, lifting his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor. His hindpaws then scattered sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Something he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in the sand, dabbling delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand again with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in spouse-breach, vulturing the dead.

After he woke me up last night same dream or was it? Wait. Open hallway. Street of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That man led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In. Come. Red carpet spread. You will see who.

Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians. His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she followed: the ruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face her hair trailed. Behind her lord his helpmate, bing awast, to Romeville. When night hides her body’s flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O’Loughlin’s of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogue’s rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell. A shefiend’s whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally’s lane that night: the tanyard smells.

White thy fambles, red thy gan
And thy quarrons dainty is.
Couch a hogshead with me then.
In the darkmans clip and kiss.

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: thy quarrons dainty is. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.

Passing now.

A side-eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit I am not. Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun’s flaming sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. Omnis caro ad te veniet. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth’s kiss.

Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss. No. Must be two of em. Glue ‘em well. Mouth to her mouth’s kiss.

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her womb. Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy’s letter. Here. Thanking you for hospitality tear the blank end off. Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled words. That’s twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter.

His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with his augur’s rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who ever anywhere will read these written words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Hold hard. Coloured on a flat: yes, that’s right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far, flat I see, east, back. Ah, see now. Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls, do you not think? Flutier. Our souls, shame-wounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.

She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin at Hodges Figgis’ window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet books you were going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through the braided jess of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park, with a grief and kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a pickmeup. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Where are your wits?

Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.

He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pocket, his hat tilted down on his eyes. That is Kevin Egan’s movement I made nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Et vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona. Alo! Bonjour, welcome as the flowers in May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. I am caught in this burning scene. Pan’s hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far.

And no more turn aside and brood.

His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck’s castoffs nebeneinander: He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another’s foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt’s shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. Tiens, quel petit pied! Staunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde’s love that dare not speak its name. He now will leave me. And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all.

In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float away. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing chafing against the low rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary: and, whispered to, they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. To no end gathered: vainly then released, forth flowing, wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.

Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one he said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing landward, a pace a pace a porpoise. There he is. Hook it quick. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. We have him. Easy now.

Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.

A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father Ocean. Prix de Paris: beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Come. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there? Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. No. My cockle hat and staff and his my sandal shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.

He took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end. By the way next when is it? Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet. Già . For the old hag with the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. Già . My teeth are very bad. Why, I wonder? Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to a dentist, I wonder, with that money? That one. Toothless Kinch, the superman. Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps?

My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up?

His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn’t. Better buy one.

He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock, carefully. For the rest let look who will.

Behind. Perhaps there is someone.

He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.

the tides of time

Curbed on my desk
thinking how
I could have been your mistress
I weep in distress

Wide waves of ocean seperate us now
don’t worry people,dont bow
to my dignified ineptitude

victimism and pathetism I do ooze
you I met a year ago in these days
and month, who would have thought
that after many things you have me taught
from you was going to be pushed away my thought?
after many lies I’ve wrought
here I’m left to rot

alive in this lonliness forced to dive
prisoner of my lies
every day my will power dies
laziness in me thrives
infinite in me the cries
open your eyes
my blood fries
like oil sizzling
oh sarcastic how the frown I denied

was the thing I relied on to save me
from you but alas victim of my own
incoherent game rebounded with the thought of you

your eyelashes entangled you to my heart
back in time was the start that was going to tear us forever apart.

Happy

Today ,I feel happy and hopeful
of life I want to take a handful

change my ways I will
because with myself I made a deal

I don’t know how it happened
but I have learned to bend

I want to stroll like a cloud
scream out loud

I want to run in the wind
while I think of him

let the sun caress my skin
the air breathe in

with nature be one
like with you I feel one

cause I know it’s what you would want
do the same thing,whatever you want

you gave me the idea
that this life is real

not to give up on myself
to think about my health

for life is so short
so I want more

this you have givin me
this need to be free

I will have a cup of the
saviour it and think about thee

do the same things that make you free
that’s the way that with you forever I will be.

falling rain

You have given me nothing but shattered dreams
and here comes the rain
to wash away my pain

I call your name in vain
I am without you going insane

you are like a fugitive ray
of sun that hides behind the cloud
of my stormy heart
hills and treetops

I see coloured with grey
even when there’s a blue sky day
I am nothing today
you who are the sun ran away

and left me here standing in the dark
sitting on the bench of a lonely park
by the noisy streets to walk
in impossible things embark
the rain withheld from the clouds
of my heart till now
is now finally pouring down
on my face, just a frown
of someone who has been let down
and in his tears left to drown.

My mother

Days of ancient glory
days of ancient hope
It all changed after that stroke

Day after day striving to pay
saying that everything is ok
when I see you my night turns into day
come what may
I am here today
to change my ways
stop thinking of the glory days
together we can make a better day
if you to me a little attention pay
we will make it ,don’t be afraid

an all time shining star
you are
the most magnificent of all

have a little faith in me
I will make it up to you
I promise you
I will show you

like you showed me
I will try to be free
what life is all about I will see
the best of all be
live under the trees
surrounded by bees
don’t have any dreams
stick to reality
rich I will be
if that is what it takes
to make you happy
you are still very pretty
every mother like you should be

hard work and wrinkled hands
for your family you will always make a stand

sometimes,yes sometimes
you think you can’t make it

his loving hand no more to take yours
you,that him always adored
a better life you desreve for sure

tired of fighting you still go on
alway find the strengh to carry on
forever I could go on
willing to make a cozy home
for me,for me you carry on
for since he is gone
you wouldn’t want to carry on
but you are strong
the strongest woman I’ve ever known
I am proud that by you I was grown
never want to see on your face a frown
never ever will let you down
always living in your town
for ever on me you can count
for nobody will ever love me like you do
forgive me for the pain I always have given you
happily at the same time buried in the grave I would be with you.

the massacre of glencoe

samson’s hair

This pain of mine
turned into a glass of wine

that inebriates me
impowering me

to overcome the difficulty in my life
makes me think that I could become your wife
at least in my dreams

it has the effect on me of weed
no matter how many books i read
i always think about of our love
and at its seed

that generated in me this strengh
like that of samson and his hair
that if cut off

deprives him of everything
and makes him unaware
similarly i am at loss

without my dreaded fall
without me feeling small
did you think of it at all?

that you were able to me enthrall
these feelings in me install

but i’m the lonely one after all
you act like you’ve seen it all
i wonder if you did ever fall

for a woman like you
regardless of this enchanting poison
that dazes me and confuses me

sucking out the marrow of my life
of this love that was never ripe
oh me that never asked twice

with that sad look on my face
and my faith accepted to embrace
the most resigned i am of the human race.

Paris under the snow?(let’s make the point of the situation)

I am looking on internet the weather to figure out if the week from the first to the 5th it is snowy or not…

the temperature today in Paris is of 4 degrees,according to channel france 24,(that is cold),but according to the weather in paris today,it snowed at one o’clock in the night ,a mixture of snow and rain,i love snow ,but i don’t think it will snow that much,and if, will we be able to see enough?
my mother,my sister ,my brother in law and I will leave from catania at 13,30.
we will then arrive at 16,30 in milan,where we have to change from linate to malpensa we will arrive in paris in the evening in the airport charles de gaulles.
from the airport then we have to take the shuttle roissy bus which drops us off at bastille opéra….from there,we have to take the métro to rue della charonne which is really close to champs élisées….

Come arrivare:Metro 1: Bastille 12 minuti a piedi
Metro 9: Charonne 5 minuti a piedi
Metro 8: Ledru Rollin 5 minuti a piedi

line 9 is the one to arrive from opéra bastille as soon as we get off from shuttle roissy bus…

Elenco delle fermate della linea 9

Pont de Sévres
Billancourt
Marcel Sembat
Porte de St-Cloud
Michael-Ange Molitor 10
Michel-Ange Auteuil 10
Jasmin
Ranelagh
La Muette
Rue de la Pompe
Trocadéro 6
Iéna
Alma-Marceau
Franklin D. Roosevelt 1
Miromesnil 13
St-Augustin 3 7 8 12 13 14
Havre-Caumartin 3 7 8
Chaussée d’Antin — La Fayette 7
Richelieu-Diderot 8
Grands Boulevards 8
Bonne Nouvelle 8
Strasbourg-Saint-Denis 4 8
République 3 5 8 11
Oberkampf 5
Saint-Ambroise
Voltaire
Charonne
Rue des Boulets
Nation 1 2 6
Buzenval
Maraîchers
Porte de Montreuil
Robespierre
Croix de Chavaux
Mairie de Montreuil

But,from Bastile Opéra,it is close enough to take the taxi to the hotel….
the métro is active from 5 thirty in the morning to one o’clock in the night…
so we will try to squeeze in as much as possible!!!!

I am trying to decide the best itinerary possible to not waste time:
on the evening of the first,if not too tired it will be nice to have dinner in the champs elysées…..
on day 2 we will go to my uncle in acherès ,trying to get back as soon as possible(don’t think so after 5 years of not seing him….

if we do have time champs elysées is always the closest on foot
on day three try to see the arc of triomphe,les tuileries,le louvre,arc de défence,place de la concorde,les halles(on two different directions of the same trajectory),le centre pompidou(all on the rive droite)…

Attached to the champs elysées but from where you can see the Tour Eiffel is the quartier of Chaillot with place trocadero and its beautiful fountains…

North of the quartier of Opéra there is Montmatre which we will hopefully see the day after ….

plus Notre dame which is in ile de la cité,(in the seine between rive gauche and rive droite)plus Tour Eiffel,Musée d’Orsay,St Germain des prés,Jardin du Luxembourg,MOntparnasse (Quartier Latin),Jardin des plaintes.(rive gauche)…

well in 5 days in total,we could see the most important things….
the things i have to absolutely see r montmatre,notre dame,musée d’orsay,tour eiffel…
Ok.
Next to M.d’O. there is tour eiffel and so on…..

So basically ,after 3 hours,I have arrived to the conclusion that the most interesting stuff is to be found along 2 diferent parallel lines on the rive gauche and on rive droite with notre dame in the middle of the 2 ideal lines,only montmatre is alone in the north of interest with the moulin rouge….

if we consider the late evening of our arrival of the first day,the late evening the second day coming back from my uncle and the early morning before departure at ten of the last day,these are valuable moments to fill in with far off route places like moulin rouge and montmatre,notre dame….
yes but which ones when?
Somebody who has been to paris help me figure it all out,cause I am going out of my mind…..
here is a video to keep up the french vibe….aurevoiraaaa!!!!
(hopefully not coming back looking like them …or yes?)

Hope

I hope to escape from this obsession with you
I hope to get closer to you
I hope to learn from you
I hope to hate you
I hope to be loved by you
I hope to know more than you
I hope to be better than you
I hope to forget you
I wish I never met you
I wish I never saw the beauty in you
I hope you suffer from it too
I hope to find sense in it too
I hope you learnt something from me too
I hope you are trying to give sense to it too
I hope you miss me too
for everything has a reason and so does us meeting in this life me and you.

What kind of stalker are you?

Stalking is a pejorative term applied to the behaviour of individuals (and perhaps to bodies of persons) towards others which has no universally accepted definition. The difficulties associated with precisely defining this term (or defining it at all) are well documented.[4] It seems to have been first applied to the harassment (in a general sense) of celebrities by strangers who were described as being obsessed. This usage of the word appears to have been coined by the tabloid press in the United States[1] and has been adopted as a term of art in psychology and, in some jurisdictions, as the name of a criminal offence.

It has been applied to the obsessive following, observing, or contacting of another person, or the obsessive attempt to engage in any of these activities. This includes following the person to certain places, to see where they live or what the person does on a daily basis, it also includes seeking and obtaining the person’s personal information in order to contact him or her; e.g. looking for his or her details on computers, electoral rolls, personal files and other material containing the person’s private information without his or her consent.

Contents [hide]
1 Psychology and behaviors
1.1 Gender studies related to stalking
1.2 Types of stalkers
2 Laws on harassment and stalking
2.1 Canada
2.2 Japan
2.3 United Kingdom
2.4 United States
3 Effects of stalking
3.1 On a victim’s mental health and emotional state
3.2 On a victim’s physiological health
4 False claims of stalking
5 Further reading
6 See also
7 References
8 External links

Psychology and behaviors
Stalking exists in many forms. Victims may or may not be aware that it is happening, and the perpetrators may or may not have malicious intent. Stalkers may even have a sincere but misguided belief that their victims love them, or have a desire to help the victims.[2] Stalking consists of a series of actions which in themselves can be legal, such as calling on the phone, sending gifts, or sending emails.[3]

Stalkers will often denigrate and objectify their victims. This can help stalkers to abuse their victims without experiencing empathy, and may reflect or fuel a belief that they are entitled to behave as they please toward the victims. Viewing victims as “lesser,” “weak” or otherwise seriously flawed can support delusions that the victims need to be rescued, or punished, by the stalkers. Stalkers may slander or defame the character of their victims which may isolate the victims and give the stalkers more control or a feeling of power.

Stalkers may use manipulative behavior such as bringing legal action against their victims. They may also attempt to diagnose victims with false mental illnesses. Stalkers may even threaten to commit suicide in order to coerce victims to intervene – all methods of forcing victims to have contact with the stalkers.

Stalkers may use threats and violence to frighten their victims. They may engage in vandalism and property damage. They may use physical attacks that are mostly meant to frighten. Less common are sexual assaults or physical attacks that leave serious physical injuries.[2]

Gender studies related to stalking
The factual accuracy of this section is disputed.
Please see the relevant discussion on the talk page.(November 2008)

The majority of stalkers are male. The demographic characteristics and psychiatric status of male and female stalkers do not differ, except that male stalkers are more likely to have a history of criminal offenses and substance abuse. The duration of the time invested in stalking and the frequency of associated violence are equivalent between male and female stalkers. Women are more likely to target someone they have known — such as a professional contact — and rarely target strangers. Women often target other women, whereas men generally stalk women only.[4][5]

This article contains instructions, advice, or how-to content. The purpose of Wikipedia is to present facts, not to teach subject matter. Please help improve this article either by rewriting the how-to content or by moving it to Wikiversity.

In “A Study of Women Who Stalk”, Purcell, Pathé and Mullen concluded that the two major psychiatric variables that differentiate female from male stalkers are the motivations for stalking and the choice of victims. Female stalkers more often seek intimacy with their victim, who is usually someone they already know. Victims frequently work in professional helping roles such as doctors, nurses, therapists and counselors. Context was found to differ, but the conclusion was that the intrusiveness and harmfulness did not. For the safety of the victims, female stalkers should be regarded as potentially as dangerous as any male stalker, in spite of the vast majority of stalking-related violence being committed by males.[4]

Types of stalkers
Psychologists often group individuals who stalk into two categories: psychotic and nonpsychotic.[6] Many[quantify] stalkers have pre-existing psychotic disorders such as delusional disorder, schizoaffective disorder, or schizophrenia. Most stalkers are nonpsychotic and may exhibit disorders or neuroses such as major depression, adjustment disorder, or substance dependence, as well as a variety of Axis II personality disorders, such as antisocial, avoidant, borderline, dependent, narcissistic, or paranoia. Some of the symptoms of “obsessing” over a person is part of obsessive compulsive personality disorder. The nonpsychotic stalkers’ pursuit of victims can be influenced by various psychological factors, including anger and hostility, projection of blame, obsession, dependency, minimization and denial, and jealousy. Conversely, as is more commonly the case, the stalker has no antipathic feelings towards the victim, but simply a longing that cannot be fulfilled due to either in their personality or their society’s norms.[7]

In “A Study of Stalkers” Mullen et al. (2000)[8][5] identified five types of stalkers:

Rejected stalkers pursue their victims in order to reverse, correct, or avenge a rejection (e.g. divorce, separation, termination).
Resentful stalkers pursue a vendetta because of a sense of grievance against the victims – motivated mainly by the desire to frighten and distress the victim.
Intimacy seekers seek to establish an intimate, loving relationship with their victim. To them, the victim is a long-sought-after soul mate, and they were ‘meant’ to be together.
Incompetent suitors, despite poor social or courting skills, have a fixation, or in some cases a sense of entitlement to an intimate relationship with those who have attracted their amorous interest. Their victims are most often already in a dating relationship with someone else.
Predatory stalkers spy on the victim in order to prepare and plan an attack – usually sexual – on the victim.
Many stalkers fit categories with paranoia disorders. Intimacy-seeking stalkers often have delusional disorders involving erotomanic delusions. With rejected stalkers, the continual clinging to a relationship of an inadequate or dependent person couples with the entitlement of the narcissistic personality, and the persistent jealousy of the paranoid personality. In contrast, resentful stalkers demonstrate an almost “pure culture of persecution,” with delusional disorders of the paranoid type, paranoid personalities, and paranoid schizophrenia.[8]

Laws on harassment and stalking

Canada
Section 264 of the Criminal Code of Canada, titled “criminal harassment”[9] addresses acts which are termed “stalking” in many other jurisdictions. The provisions of the section came into force in August of 1993 with the intent of further strengthening laws protecting women.[10] It is a hybrid offence, which may be punishable upon summary conviction or as an indictable offence, the latter of which may carry a prison term of up to ten years. Section 264 has withstood Charter challenges.[11]

Japan
In 2000, Japan enacted a national law to combat this behaviour, after the Shiori Ino murder.[12] Acts of stalking can be viewed as “interfering [with] the tranquility of others’ lives”, and are prohibited under petty offence laws.

United Kingdom
In England, stalking was criminalised by the enactment of the Protection from Harassment Act 1997,[13] which came into force on June 16, 1997. It makes it a criminal offence, punishable by up to six months imprisonment, to pursue a course of conduct which amounts to harassment of another on two or more occasions. The court can also issue a restraining order, which carries a maximum punishment of five years imprisonment if breached. Already before the enactment of the Act, the Malicious Communications Act 1998[14] and the Telecommunications Act 1984 criminalised indecent, offensive or threatening phone calls and the sending of an indecent, offensive or threatening letter, electronic communication or other article to another person.

In Scotland, provision is made under the Protection from Harassment Act against stalking. It is not a criminal offence, however, but falls under the law of delict. Victims of stalking may sue for interdict against an alleged stalker, or a non-harassment order, breach of which is an offence.

United States
The first state to criminalize stalking in the United States was California in 1990[15] due to several high profile stalking cases in California, including the 1982 attempted murder of actress Theresa Saldana,[16] the 1988 massacre by Richard Farley,[17] the 1989 murder of actress Rebecca Schaeffer,[18] and five Orange County stalking murders also in 1989.[19][17] The first anti-stalking law in the United States, California Penal Code Section 646.9, was developed and proposed by Municipal Court Judge John Watson of Orange County. Watson with U.S. Congressman Ed Royce introduced the law in 1990.[19][20] Also in 1990, the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) began the United States’ first Threat Management Unit, founded by LAPD Captain Robert Martin.

Within three years[19] thereafter, every state in the United States and some other common-law jurisdictions followed suit to create the crime of stalking, under different names such as criminal harassment or criminal menace. The Driver’s Privacy Protection Act (DPPA) was enacted in 1994 in response to numerous cases of a driver’s information being abused for criminal activity, examples such as the Saldana and Schaeffer stalking cases.[21][22] The DPPA prohibits states from disclosing a driver’s personal information without consent by State Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV). The National Defense Authorization Act for Fiscal Year 2006[23] made stalking punishable under the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). The law took effect on 1 October 2007.[24] This law brings the UCMJ in line with federal laws against stalking. Laws against stalking in different jurisdictions vary, and so do the definitions. Some make the act illegal as it stands, while others do only if the stalking becomes threatening or endangers the receiving end. In England and Wales, liability may arise in the event that the victim suffers either mental or physical harm as a result of being stalked (see R. v. Constanza). Many states in the US also recognize stalking as grounds for issuance of a civil restraining order. Since this requires a lower burden of proof than a criminal charge, laws recognizing non-criminal allegations of stalking suffer the same risk of abuse seen with false allegations of domestic violence.[citation needed]

Effects of stalking
Stalking does not consist of single incidents, but is a continuous process. Stalking can be a terrifying experience for victims, placing them at risk of psychological trauma, and possible physical harm. As Rokkers writes, “Stalking is a form of mental assault, in which the perpetrator repeatedly, unwontedly, and disruptively breaks into the life-world of the victim, with whom they have no relationship (or no longer have). Moreover, the separated acts that make up the intrusion cannot by themselves cause the mental abuse, but do taken together (cumulative effect).”[3]

On a victim’s mental health and emotional state
This section does not cite any references or sources.
Please help improve this section by adding citations to reliable sources. Unverifiable material may be challenged and removed. (November 2008)

Denial and self-doubt (the victim does not believe what is happening to them, and will doubt their perceptions)
Self-blame
Guilt, shame or embarrassment
Frustration
Sadness
Low self-esteem
Self-consciousness or insecurity
Shock and confusion
Irritability
Fear and anxiety; phobias and panic attacks
Anger; feeling violent towards the stalker
Depression
Emotional numbness
Flashbacks
Isolation/disconnection from other people
Feeling on guard most of the time (hypervigilance); being easily startled
Difficulties with concentration or attention
Feeling suicidal
A loss of trust in others
Problems with intimacy
Decreased ability to perform at work or school, or accomplish daily tasks
Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) or complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD)

On a victim’s physiological health
Stalking can have the following effects on a victim’s physiological health:[25][26]

Sleep disturbances, nightmares
Sexual dysfunction
Fatigue
Gastrointestinal problems
Fluctuations in weight
Dermatological breakouts
Headaches
Dizziness
Shortness of breath
Self-medication with alcohol/drugs
Heart palpitations and sweating

False claims of stalking
In 1999, Pathe, Mullen and Purcell said that popular interest in stalking was promoting false claims.[27] A 2004 study by Sheridan and Blaauw reported that an estimated 11.5% of claims in a sample of 357 reported claims of stalking were false. [28]

sunset

When you saw the sunset in my eyes

did you find any beauty in them?

 

When you saw the sun in my hair

did you think I was fair?

Well,what I feel for you has  no compare

 

When you saw the stars in my eyes

Was I unable the love for you to disguise ?

The seas of my passion floating in my eyes

Were detected by you who hated lies?

 

Through the woods we wandered,

speaking without words,

floating on air ,holding my breath

did you hear my beating heart?

 

Did you taste the tears yet not shed?

I stll can’t get you out of my head

thinking of you here lying on my bed

my soul torn to shreads

 

crying,unable to go on in this life

 which is just a strife

i’d just better clench a knife

 

and spill the blood out of my veins

I that love you so invain,

hoping that the stain

 

of red that shapes

in vermillion grapes

 

could remind you the form of a flower

beautiful and scented dewy and wet with my tears

to wash away  the injustices that cause your fears

 

to simbolize the love I have for you

and the memory of me in you always make  alive and true.

Damnation

Was my passion too big for you?
the moment you detected it
did you try to forget it ?

Was I a supersized clumsy
humaing being
for the time being?

did I to you bring shame
for my ways were too rough ?
unrefined my manners too much?

my shameless iniquity
are covering me in infamy

I need a treaty
to restore my heart
my enemies too many

my personality too
unsteady I am too needy
I am without dignity

why won’t you all forgive me?
I am addressing it all
not only to my family
but to you my friends
and to you too
to whom I never spoke clearly
always speaking to you immaturely
and to you too weakly
again without maturity
displaying my heart
too easily
lamenting my sanity
you can’t deny it
you have your responsibility
to make me feel uneasy
and useless
the most selfish bitch
you have ever found, a victim
of my own inadequatecy
a too squallid reality
I express simply
unable to adjust
to reality
of life
which is so harsh

forgive me for not being able to shock you
in a positive way
for embarassing you
because of the way
I move my hands
too eager to grab
anything that comes my way
to cling on what I find and to who
I meet,even in the street
I am always prone to deceit
to delusion
and to illusions
my ingenuity
my infamous hopes of greatness
of who has no measure of his own misery
I am so vulgar in my ways
eager to justify myself
for the pain that I have endured
like as if the pain of the others
I have never heard
I am a too much absurd
kind of person
unable to emphatize
with the miseries of others
only pain I am eager to discover
self centered
and yet eager to cry out my humbleness
how unlucky I have been,
and to show off and to other’s people’s face
throw it,as it were a badge of honour
relying on somebody splendour
as if it were mine
my prime
I have wasted abundantly
brooding on unesistent superiority
hiding away from life
hidden in the shadow
of my foolish despair
creeping in the darkness
ranting about anything
cursing destiny
loosing the beauty
of the sun and nature passing by
loosing it forever
alienating people from me
God knows why.

to the thought of you I escape….

What is haunting me lately
is something that should not be
are you turning out to be me?
are you just unable to be free
just like me ?

I am wondering: have I done to you
what he is been doing to me?
am I to you a cruel beast without heart
like he’s been to me?

Am I too good for you like he’s for me?
the pangs of love for me ,do they hurt you
like for him they are hurting me?
Did he guilty,send you to spy on me?
because I am still unable to find somebody that loves me
because he did too much hurt me?

Oh but,I am starting to interrogate myself,
maybe he is being more fair to me
than I am being to you?

He decided to break up with me then and there
because he understood of this love
that is devouring me
but unlike him
I am continuing to feed
your illusions
make you burst with
love and shame
am I the one to blame?

kidding myself
convincing myself

that you don’t love me anymore
that I can harm you no more

because my body
has become heavy
like my heart
but to you
nothing has changed
just as like I was then
a tart

you watched in silence
my love for the other one
who before this one did come

that love was long ago
left just ashes
his heart which badly trashes
the ones who love him
more complicated than a triangle it is

he my heart did trash
you were watching in silence helpless ,aghast

not able to speak
or say something
to stop that ongoing tragedy

to which you witnessed
and then at Christhmas

you would wonder and think
that you were of hell on the brink

never stopped thinking about me
after many years you came looking for me
and you did find me
asking me

have I did anything bad to you?
now I wonder how much those words were true

affecting an ignorance you don’t have on me and him
you maybe on me started to fantasize
why I couldn’t love you you didn’t realize

feeding on your fantasies of me and him
you wondered why you couldn’t be him

of details of me squallid
you did ponder
on those obscene thoughts fond

but now in this effort of mine
to be your friend and with you dine
has in a way stopped your time
because you want it to be true
in you alive is the hope of a love between me and you

but now I just feel embarrassement
for all I have done and my commitment
of helping you seems to fall through
as something useless and vain
and that you I am driving insane
your face red
your sweety forehead
are all symptoms that you have lost your head

after me you do tread
always thinking of me in bed
with him whose face turnes into you
a more polite and kind lover you would be
all in your dreams
for I don’t love you or desire you

and now I love another man
you do all you can
wishing to be loved by me
next to me you stand
watching me falling in love with other men

I do with my love now have something
in common ,
the knowledge that something has gone rotten
that friendship between you and me
does not exist and that perhaps it never has
that our jazz
has turned to blues
just like mine did when I realized
that you my love

wouldn’t love me even if i did love you
so now my love more I understand you
and I want you to know that I don’t hate you

that to me you have been more honest
than I have been to him

so I partially absolve you
I don’t despise you
instead I do admire you
for trying to disintangle me from you.

Rejection

Sometimes,when I read romantic stories
or poetry
of which I heard many theories,

especially of those ones
whose main female character
of myself bear remainder
I give my attention

in particular,one very nice
that I a lot do like
does me strike

it telles the story
of a lady
abandoned by a man who loved her
most of all for her simplicity,

he was entangled to her
for the simplicity of her
he left her because of their love
the impossibility

so unlike the other women he had met
so noble,so simple,so sweet
never another one like her he did meet

like her I hoped you would see me
once we had met in my street

always trying to be neat
I was only falling at your feet
day after day
detecting in your eyes the ray
of light sparkling like a star you were

there was an abyss between you and me
you so independent ,so free,
only my defects you could see
I hoped that you romanticly
could too see
what was inside of me
that I could your complexity
complete with my ingenuity
I sign from you only waiting vainly
you like women sophisticated

seductive and fragile in appearance
with lots of them you have experience
but apparently you were scared by my authenticity
you couldn’t cathegorize me
nor generalize
generalisation you so much criticised in me
how,how could it be
you wondered that to this reality she doesn’t accustomize?
why doesn’t this world and life the way it is she realize?
oh,but too big were my thighs
this hugeness of mine did you suprise
my form and attire you did despise

how could I how could I only dream
to insert myself in that which was your main stream
of thoughts
to listen to the drops
of rain
under the same roof with you
in a cosy nice town
different from my own
but the only kingdom in which I reign
is the one in which I think of you invain
and where I hear my tears drop
like a scientist you dissect and criticize
each thought of mine
only thinking of your time
selfishly, whereas I
eagerly spent mine
wasting it on you
ungrateful as ever a cold detached bastard you
are,you have no soul,no heart,no feelings,no meetings,no truce
like a beast you are fierce
I hate you with all my heart I despise ,I love you I want you
I want to be with you
I want to be like you
you disgust me
you repell me
no emotions,no sensitivity
I was just one of your experiments
I was only tense
of not loving you always making pretence
always on self defence
of you who don’t repent
who made me fall in love with no intent
my illness and everything
submitted to your ego
while in me fuego,fuego
and then tornado tornado
how to do I don’t know
to turn you into a human being
and make you see the poetry
of you and me
who together ought to be
but we never tried did we?
no sympathy
no remedy
no fantasy
just a muppet in your hands
a fool to dismiss
someone you would never miss
you never thought of me
romanticly
simple creature to love and protect
just a funny pet
no regrets
no debts
no threts
you were just making fun of me
no respect for me
nothing to see
just my misery
I can’t help myself
for this curse you threw on me
making me feel small and humiliating me
for always unexplainebly rejecting me.

You

I love you
I love you
I’m mad about you
what can I do
you know I’m true
I need you
another squallid day without you

delirious I am
you you and
again you
I have never enough of you
the thought of you
enough never is
your eyes two stars everything
your voice is an enchanting

instrument playing the strings of my heart
I quiver and shiver
under the pangs of my lonely heart
my heart is bleeding forevermore
since I know I will see you nevermore
my heart to pieces you tore
still bleeding more and more
never felt this way before

the emotion of having you near
willing to hang on every word that
of you I hear
you,who will always be my dear
so special and precious in my heart
this feeling is so sacred beyond any rationalism
I really love you
and I know that I will never encounter someone like you
Oh you,you forever you

this despair of mine is so sweet
to me it’s almost a treat
why do I live in this deceit

of thinking about you
here again this torment goes
but sweet sweet it is
the waves of warmth that come over me

when I think about you
to know that you exist to me is everything
your smile so sweet

your laughter like that of a child
makes me in my fantasy go wild

with you
to be sincere of you I always daydream
the warmth of your body I imagine
which alas I never touched
if not accidentally
apparentlly…

oh the delight in being held in your arms
it would be like dying and going to heaven
well,here’s one thing,I hope that if heaven

exists outside of my thoughts
when I’m thinking of you
I hope to meet you there
and that you might hold my hand
running together on a green land.

daydream

The rays of light that I feel on my skin
are so pleasant,
would your touch on me be the same?
Or more pleasant?

The breeze moving my hair
would your fingers move it with the same sweetness
or more?
The water that I drink
would your kiss be sweeter?

the shawl that embraces my shoulders
and the warmth that I feel
would your arms make me the same feel?
I would like to find the look of love on your face
understand of all human race
why do I happen to be a disgrace?

to everybody love seems like a common thing
a normal practice a normal thing
feeling like a real woman
the lottery they have one
with her love she is like one
while here on my own
to live I hadn’t even begun
sometimes I feel I should go outside and run

away from everything from all my pain
bathe in the sunlight near a waterfall
roll myself in the grass
feel free and
carefree
lie down on a beach
and look at the sea

go for a swim and float in your arms
I am beautiful you love me
no care in this world
no insecurity
feel that in this world

something I have achieved
have children that look like you and me
climb on a mountainside
breathe in the air
dissolve all my despair

look at our reflexion in a lake
smell the cherries in the air

go for a walk in the woods
lit a fire
smile at eachother
enjoy the nature
see our baby child
running around
and I will try to paint her

to see on her face the happiness
a gift from me given to her

and then cry tears of joy for saviouring
a love so pure
to have someone whose love for me is mature
a tenderness a gesture
for me will be the cure
my grey skies would turn to blue
once you would have told me I love you.

Mona Lisa

Mona Lisa,
Mona Lisa,
did ya see her
did ya see me

singing a song
walking along
on a side a thorn

did ya see her
did ya see her in me

Mona Lisa
with my enigmatic smile
did you see me in the frame?

Mona Lisa
Mona LIsa
in Italy made
you were by Davinci
did you see her in me in Italy?
smiling at you,smiling at me

oh come to see me in Italy
how I am free
simple and free in Italy
the myth,art Mona Lisa is me
in black and white you did see me
Mona Lisa,Mona Lisa
I know you do miss me.

Desolation

What a desolate morning
there is sun and I don’t see the light
there is warmth and all I see is night
long hours I’ll do what I might
there is love all around but not for me
a lucky star above but not for me
I don’t know what else I have to do to make you love me
a big hunger I have
hunger for you
a big uneasyness and desolation inside of me
striving intensely to make you hold me tight
but black black black is the night

Demon

The Mediterrenean passion which is in me
doesn’t at all set me free
no beauty you see in me

no slender body of mine
no dark hair
or tanned skin
no orange parfume
or zagara flowers in my hair

no sunlight on my skin

no naturalism detected in my ways
of dressing,
talking and thinking

I am like a flower torn from its habitat
unable to the present one to adjust
no attractivness or appeal I have
to your eyes
unable to do what I must
you unable me to trust

a demon in my blind passion for you
I did loose you before winning you.

Nevermore

You came ,you saw
you withdraw
when me you saw
ravaging my heart

you a bitter commander
I a poor slave
your blade into me sunk
the first cut,it was the deepest

in my flesh
replineshed
with your lies
you came under disguise

of a saviour
your verses of love
of which I was fond

to you every thought was driven
almost every proof of love given

you did not have enough of it all
I did built a wall
you did torn it down

to you a surrendered
you I bealived
untill you decided forever to let me down.

Response

You think of your delusions
of your life you make a balance
you’ll take a chance
regardless of romance
for the people’s awareness to enhance

people that have baffled you
who were despicable to you

only hatred they offered to you
the positive response gathered by you

on the other hand
has nothing to do
with all that I see in you

Another day

Wednsday.
Another useless day
go for a hike,
have nothing to say,
see some people,
have a chat,
remember this and that,
you don’t know what,
just doubt that…
beware that…
you have to understand that..
all the time I sat,nodding my head
trying to follow what they said
finding a meaning to what I said
open up the book
don’t undestand what I read
this stuff I just can’t keep in my head
alway thinking of you instead.

Haunted

Now I understand a lot of things
it all has to do with the beginning of the end
that’s the reason why I to you always tend
there is no use to pretend

Mine is just the attempt
to keep you close to me
to forget that you are free
to still see you come to me
smile at me ,talk to me
look at me
question me ,answer me
interact with me
breathe with me. sit close to me
turn to me,watch the sunset with me
see the same things as me
walk with me

watch my step
I have this illusion that

keeping you alive and vivid in my thoughts
the image of you
which is just an impression of light
impressed on my retina
which is impressed on my brain
is a way to make you here stay

I don’t care,it’s always the thought of you
that turns out to be a part of you
it’s a way of keeping you here
To feel you always near
afraid to face the fact that you are no longer here.

Affectation

I can’t but think about
the way you treated me

and the more I think about it
the more it makes sense to me

in your own peculiar way you loved me
some people,are unable to love
or to show it
but you did it
understood it

you didn’t know how to put it
some people show it with roses

some people with of hate
doses
some simply state
to prove indifference
some unable to have a date
or to change their fate
of lonliness
or to find or give forgivness
say that they couldn’t care less

and so did you
I impressed you
with my uneasyness

you gave me what you were able to
the way you are treated you treated me too
something you always do

this behaviour
this style
this way of thinking
something you ought to do
always feeling blue
obligations of me to you
and to the world and society
you showed me
the way it ought to be
wrapped in this blanket of indifference are we
year after year
how happy we can be
you showed me
affectating this indefference of being
which is the only salvation for you and me
tricked by our own sensitivity
and destiny
we both live in our heads

so I can think that we are soulmates
and the past pain always haunting you and me
that forever will be unless one day we will not be free.

Feverish

Feverish and lonely
as only a castaway could be
of it all I got a picture clear

you are a bloody moron
for you don’t deserve my love
nor me or my thoughts
hear on the spot
I will give you a piece of my thought
to the core you are rot
sympathy you have not
for me in your heart

I just wish you to feel as ignored
and neglected as I do
unloved and ridiculed as I do
the coldness in your bones as I do
the anger and humiliation as I do
just the same all caused
by the woman loved by you

Oh yes your intellectual fall
the sweetest revenge would be of all.

Allucination

This feeling that I have
that each day
we are drifting
more and more away
like a current in the sea
carrying me away
the waves of time are lifting me up

for you I look out
to save me
I try to fight it
to cling on a steady rock
that this could happen I never thought
these massive forces of nature that bring us apart
in the morning I can’t even start

thinking that there was something special
in me
so here I am sea washed on a desert island
with you always on my mind
hopless and helpless
waiting for something to fall from the sky
struggling for survival

against this brutal reality
then it seems like I perceive something far away
I am sending out signals of smoke
try to deploy all my genious
but in vain
then after the frenzy of this hope vain

I do look closer
and I realise it was just an allucitation
a trick of my mind
no ship,no salvation on sight
try as I might it’s just my immagination
nobody with whom to engage a conversation,

lost and lonely
I think of you only
waiting here for you invain
I am going to die insane.

Back in time

Stormy wind,
from where do I begin?
At the beginning of they day
I already give in…
my soul to you folks
to you I’ll turn in

my aching bones
and my wavering
will power
not even willing to shower
my tongue is all sour

my words bitter
I affect something
I don’t have:grandeur
you I wanted to be bolder

you are no hero of mine
grown up baby
tall and good looking
you for someone valuable
I have mistaken
and while to the core I am shaken
no chances taken
not for a weak to be taken

don’t give a damn about what they’re thinking
you from me too much were expecting
I from you trepidantly awaiting

so go away rotten cynic
for I don’t want to go to a clinic

of mentally ill
this juice on myself spill
being out of goodwill
being always ill
loose every thrill
try joy in myself to instill
I am loving you still
unable with you to stand still
i never will
always take that pill
for that pain shrill
that my brain always drills
better go to work to the mill
that glass of beer for me fill
to think about I get a chill
till nothing of me is left I will wait till
gotta go and pay the bill
give me some will
cool it off Will

don’t bother me ,don’t ask me,don’t pretend
because of you I am so upset
to hate and despise me you did threat
cold hands cold hands
sad eyes boredom,doom
will talk to you soon
make me see the moon
maybe it’s quicker to go on a broom
of love I can’t see the loom
of my life I can’t see the bloom
easy baby,quick baby
hurry up don’t worry,

yes,no,let’s go,let me know,gotta go
I am a no show
ho,ho ,ho let me go
can’t breathe
please let me go

please let me breathe,
don’t wanna die
don’t wanna cry no more
I won’t bother you anymore
I don’t want to suffer no more
can you give me some more ?
I don’t wanna feel the soar
little by little ,you won’t feel the pain any more

nothing makes sense
want to go back in time
let me rewind
I am out of my mind
I am tired of being kind
change your mind
make up your mind
let me you find
I feel like I’m blind

this vortex I’ll follow
hope this road will unwind
back in time ,back in time
we are still in time
Sir Einstein bring me back in time
for the day when we met
still hasn’t come
we still have the time to change the things we have done.

Strolling cloud

Looking for something real
for the peaceful sound inside me here
to bring me inside of a dimension real

a cloud strollling in my sky blue
were you
lasted like a sunny day
or a sunset,turn around and it’s gone
followed by the rains of my stormy heart
waiting for something this sublime
to happen again would take a long time
maybe a whole life time
I wish I could make a wrinkle in time
or turn back time
this is it my love,we are almost there
the time is almost ripe
when you met a different type
of person
I would strike the pose
again
wear the same clothes
same words I would choose
only this time I would be aware
of the matter take more care
do anything in my own power
to make sure my own life with you I would share.

Fairy land

Those days spent together
were the best days of my life
days full of light
the sun you and me
and the sea
wherever we looked there were trees

honey sweet glances
and mellow light
every breath I took was a delight

being with you turned into day my night
hanging on every word you would say
can’t hate you try as I may

even if there might have been ugliness around
on our faces a frown

I might as well be in hell again together with you
in that town
than being in heaven all alone.

Day after day
at night in my bed I would lay
listening to that song of me and you
darkness all around
but sunshine in my heart

that lullaby of love
by me chosen
my heart unfrozen
again feeling like a dove
for the warmth of that voice
so sad and wistful
to be born in your country blissful
proud like a hero
picturing you in your ancient allure
I would have been your slave for sure
meeting in another time and place
for me would have been a sign of grace
red hills and majestic air
your people all fair
the courage to react to despair
would have been all mine
to fight next to you for your big cause mine
too would have been
fantasy land where legend remains
the legend were you
the legend was I together
in this fairy land

Wonderland(reprise)

In my sleep

I can smell the profume of
your skin
dreaming you to hold me tight
I would hold you within

my heart
and arms
The music we heard together
willing to escape
and put on some feathers

flying away
I would be your Venus
from the foam of the sea
I would come out
trying to hide the ghost
that was going to haunt me

can’t get rid of that music
you will take my hand
and we will be in wonderland
wonderland

but I am no greek divinity
perhaps tragedy
is more suitable to me

I Dido you Aeneas
the hero to leave for the perilous sea
I would be willing to be
weaving like Penolepe
always comparing anybody else to thee
unweaving and waiting for you to stop under our trees

too free and adventurous to me see
but please come back and tell me
that forever we would be free
that you would take my hand
in wonderland.

Look away

I feel this group hasn’t had enough recognition…

Fascisim

Goodbye

Oh,where did our feelings go?
I never felt so low
your face showed

sadness at those words
too embaressing too
for you
too mawkish
willing me not to mock
not wanting to me to talk
you did as well your blow struck

no epic madness
just an ordinary sadness
of mine
oh where did our feelings go?
I never felt so low

this refrain
repeats invain
in my head

too much of a dreamer
I would sleep in a wood
for me no food

for several days
will never change my ways
untill any hope fades
waiting for you for decades
no more masquarades

of mine
another love I will never find

love who burns my heart
which is roasting on a hearth

why don’t you finally consume it?
you just ensure it

with your breath
that comes out from my mouth
in sighs for your love to me is denied

Love,by flipping your wings
this passion of mine will never be extinct

now that reason has left me
tenderness you won’t feel for me
you,you only pity me

Oh ,where did our feelings go?
I never felt so low

love,let me go
I will make a mess of this place
knowing that I will never see your face
this fact and this fate I have to embrace

Oh ,Lord,where did our feelings go?
where did our words go?
I never felt so low

I died when you left me too
for a trip is said
with death to be compared

Oh ,Lord where did our conversations go?
I never felt so low
to me you said hello
but to say the same word you did not know
when I did let you go
were there for your heart too many feelings in a row?

with the look of my face of my my love I let you know
our present state you did overthrow
unpatient to go
I will never forgive you you know
Oh Lord where did it all go?
I never felt so low

I am left here to despair
you treated me unfair
I will all my hair tear
you,that for me don’t care
ladies,of true love beware,
for it only brings you to despair
if to love you he doesn’t dare.

The storm

The rain starts falling slowly,uncertainly
the skies become more grey and grey
then starts to rain continuously
that’s my mood today

when I think of the way
my love was born for you
I compare it to rain and its way
of falling:uncertain before my love for you

then always stronger and ravaging
hail comes down like diamonds precious
like my love although devastating
lightnings terrifying in the skies delicious

in my eyes when I looked at you
now it is pouring tears from my eyes
like from above the grey grey skies
that same feeling of terror from the lightning I get
at the thought that you I will never forget.

Political correctness

Total eclipse

Well done…

Jack’s fanatism

I want to bealive

THE INDIAN TO HIS LOVE

by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

HE island dreams under the dawn
And great boughs drop tranquillity;
The peahens dance on a smooth lawn,
A parrot sways upon a tree,
Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea.

Here we will moor our lonely ship
And wander ever with woven hands,
Murmuring softly lip to lip,
Along the grass, along the sands,
Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands:

How we alone of mortals are
Hid under quiet boughs apart,
While our love grows an Indian star,
A meteor of the burning heart,
One with the tide that gleams, the wings that gleam and dart,

The heavy boughs, the burnished dove
That moans and sighs a hundred days:
How when we die our shades will rove,
When eve has hushed the feathered ways,
With vapoury footsole by the water’s drowsy blaze

To the wind

The wind is swaying the trees and sweeping away
the days of our love ancient and washed out they seem
like withered leaves they have been swept away
when I think about them they just seem a dream

fearful the sound of it like the voice of truth
that you are forever gone ,sweet the sound
of it on my skin when of you I think and of your truth
when I imagine that it is your caress and your arms of me are around

Oh evil wind from the north be kind ,let me be light like a feather
carry me away on a cloud carry me to him floating in the sky
even if our skies are grey let us not fear the terrible weather
of our lives give us the strengh to love eachother and with all our might try

Tribute to Velocity Boost

I was kind on a low mood thinking that guys are all ass holes around the month of october.
I took full knowledge that I am a passionate and sensitive woman and I have thought so all my life with shame and perceived it as an hindrance to my happiness.
Then it happened that night….
Lying in the obscurity,alone on the sofa,watching tv I perceived that the obsessive thoughts of him in my head had a regularity of cadence and rhythym.
I thought a way of getting rid of those haunting feelings was to write a short story but the prose couldn’t ease that obsession so I decided to change the sentence in a verse that rhymed with the following to express the regularity of obsession of him in my head day after day,so that each verse was a day,a strophe might have been a week and so on.
There it was:my first poem.
I then wondered if I was the only crazy human being obsessing on a guy and wanted more,wanted to see how the other’s wrote about their obsession so I started to look at the other wordpress blogs on poetry…
then one day I found him,that poem,entitled echoes of peaceful sleep stroke me…..
And on top of all not only this poem was so well written,but the sensation of lightness of spirit and magic atmosphere made me understand that not only cold detached and superficial men exist in this world but special,sensitive and talented men too exist and write in an exqisite manner.He really inspired me so I decided to leave a comment to this guy that I casually found on the net.
My first poem was already written and published on my blog.I thought to tell him to read it and give me some tips,but I didn’t, thinking that he couldn’t like it seen that he was the talented one.
Anyway ,I wrote my second poem,Forsaken child and published it.
The following day to my surprise I found his comment and compliments I was really happy and didn’t bealive either that he was sincere,he was the God of poetry of common people and unknown talents….then other congratulations arrived always from him on my third one”At night”,”Sunset” and so one.He encouraged me to continue writing saying that I had talent and that it came naturally to me.Yes I might have had the potentiality,but he was the one who continued inspiring me and encouraging me and in other words to bealive in myself…
We then exchanged our contacts and we talk on msn too,we became friends and we have a special bond I never had with anyone else he understands me and is a real friend and very kind guy he suprised me with his sensativity,never met a guy before who was able to express his feelings with such a refined spirit and soul.
So I am here today to recommend you him who is a true poet who writes so well to read this kind of stuff and no such vulgarities you find today.
He made me understand not to be ashamed of our sensitivity and passion because it’s all inside us.What is rare like Erica Jong says is the courage to follow our talent that leads to our dark side.I am happy because what I was ashamed of and thought to be my dark side revealed itself to be talent which at the age of 34 didn’t think to posess….I feel kind of vindicated now all the times that I have been wronged by people who have despised me and dismised me make now sense and I don’t feel weak and fragile but special ,unique and rare with personality and depth.I know that I am different from the others,not worse but better than those who always criticised and felt better than me.
All this thanks to myself but especially to him,otherwise I would have continued dismissing myself like I have always did.
So if you feel that you are different from the others too and that you have a special sensibility,you would appreciate his poems too,he is much more talented than me,even if he doesn’t agree…you can read his poems by finding his blog on my blog roll :Ashes if you are reading this from facebook go to my blog lmcb.wordpress.com and on my blog roll click on Ashes it is worth it….
This guy is the most modest I have talked to and to quote him we are 2 peas in a pod….so if u like my poems you will like his even more try ,u will thank me,
love to u all,Lidia.

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

I am going to download this film…

The galaxy song

Wasted

I am sick and tired of you treating me like a baby
to try and love me you could maybe

because I am a woman more than you are a man
I am deep sensitive and profound I do all I can

I think you are resisting me in temptation you are led
because your egocentrism and narcisism I have fed

my ingenuity misled you in finding out that I know you
better than you know yourrself I wonder how much you

tried to be accomodating and how much did I on my own win
if I could go back I’d put you first I would to you quickly give in

for not having you leaves on my tongue a bitter taste
it burns like a salted wound ,I that allowed you love to waste.

Auld Lang Syne

Chorus

For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup,
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d.
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak’ a right gud-wellie waught,
For auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

A translation from the Scots Independent

auld;old lang;long syne;since

auld lang syne ; days of long ago

pint stowp ; tankard

pou’d ; pulled

gowans ; daisies

mony ; many

fitt ; foot

paidl’d ; waded

dine; dinner-time

braid ; broad

fiere ; friend

willie-waught ; draught

owresettin

Should old friendship be forgot’
And never remembered ?
Should old friendship be forgotten,
And days of long ago.

And surely you will have your tankard !
And surely I will have mine !
And we will take a cup of kindness yet,
For days of long ago’

We two have run about the hills
And pulled the daisies fine :
But we have wandered many a weary foot
Since days of long ago.

We two have waded in the stream
From dawn till dinner-time :
But seas between us broad have roared
Since days of long ago.

And there’s a hand my trusty friend !
And give me a hand of thine !
And we will take a large draught
For days of long ago.

HE REMEMBERS FORGOTTEN BEAUTY

WHEN my arms wrap you round I press
My heart upon the loveliness
That has long faded from the world;
The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled
In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
The love-tales wrought with silken thread
By dreaming ladies upon cloth
That has made fat the murderous moth;
The roses that of old time were
Woven by ladies in their hair,
The dew-cold lilies ladies bore
Through many a sacred corridor
Where such grey clouds of incense rose
That only God’s eyes did not close:
For that pale breast and lingering hand
Come from a more dream-heavy land,
A more dream-heavy hour than this;
And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew,
But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
Throne over throne where in half sleep,
Their swords upon their iron knees,
Brood her high lonely mysteries.

by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

We will always love you freddy

Women in love

Interesting theories on how to eat figs and errrrr apparently something else….

Imagination

In my own twisted imagination
I picture us living in a romantic novel
of the nineteenth century great the fascination
of me some golden haired lassie,you my hero model

dark hair and eyes like those mines you work in
get drunk at night howl like the wind

the blubells in my eyes of the past
still today a spell on you cast

nature plays the greatest part flowers and daffodils
an ancient factory an abandoned church in the Midlands
the picturesque ruins the green slopes and hills
endless the simbols of our love,you take me by the hand

under a shadowy tree,spring is in the air tormented hero
yet valiant, no common character ,grief to me you don’t spare
walking in your footsteps I unrelentlessly follow you ,more handsome never known
we walk together and talk ,you are my teacher,to love you I don’t dare

I am like the lonely sheep in that corner down there ,I will eat from your hand, meek and trusting when you trap me and slaughter me to death
I am astonished to reckon that I am Christ, sacrifice for you ,my life you tore

little lamb white and pure I provide you warmth and nourrishment
you the evil wolf thirsty of blood who will never repent
now I know and is of no confort to me
that lonely forever like a crying wolf you will be.

Chance

A song for a rainy day…

Hunting high and low

While making my second coffee,I decided to listen to an old Lp so I bumped into an old record of mine of a group I used to go crazy for.
It was 1984 of course and I was ten ;this group,called a-ha,was a trio of scrumptious norweigen guys in their mid 20s….
What apparently went crazy too were my hormones back then ,as I was at the beginning of my adolescence and their magazines were the clean version equivalent of what might be play boy for a boy hehe….
My bedroom walls were covered with their posters and my sister and I always argued on who was the handsomest either the singer or the keyboard player….
I was stricken by the singer when I saw the video take on me which was really cute and original but this is the chef d’oeuvre according to me and apparently chris martin from coldplay too thinks so,good looks apart this song and video are beautiful and poetic,given that I am an old bag that knows things from before you were born probably,watch and learn.

Le Mont Saint Michel

The most beautiful place in the world and for once I was lucky enough to go there…..

Mark steele

This guy is really funny…

Mamma mia !!!(Holy Mack!!)

My mother used to read police picture stories and I used to read them too as a child here is a youtube video of one of the main character’s police films:jeeze….

this gorgeous guy died at the age of 50 due to cardiac arrest:he was paralysed after a motorcycle accident ;he was so beautiful and talented that he was requested by hollywood but he couldn’t accept any offers because of the accident… this film dates back to 1975,I was just one!!his name is franco gasparri and italy has never had such a good looking actor… to think that if fate had acted differently he would be today a 60 year old hollywood star like mastroianni or sophie loren …he also refused stuntmen for his films he wanted to personally perform risky scenes like the 2 following ones..

Macgyver

Macgyver….who doesn’t remember him? An ispiration for young boys and lustful mothers who pretend to watch it because their sons liked it,even regular teenegers like me loved watching his adventures for the sake of looking at a handsome guy hehe

Fresh air

You were a whiff of fresh air
saw the splendour in my hair

parfumed the air of my days
dispersing the stench away

looked into my eyes
tried to find out if they were telling lies

you stirred things up
shook my daily monotony

told me fairy tales to my fantasy
and all the nice and harsh things you did see

those days were nights listening to you and being lulled
now I am sleeping again ,an agitated sleep it is
these days without fairy tales in my mind
I feel as if I were going again blind
and numb

like a child whose father had died and no more fairy tales can be told
cries herself to sleep and strongly embraces the pillow when the night of her gets hold

the best I have ever seen
a year ago we met, time is now between
of us

what to bealive in now I don’t know
you out of your tracks for me won’t go

nothing left for me to do
nothing to make me be loved by you.

I need to laugh

Love song

Boys don’t cry

A forest

Just like heaven

Apart

Julia and Winston

Now I understnd what this big brother stuff is all about.
I ignored it was taken by 1984 because I always preferred romantic literature.
However,the first seven chapters of the second part,which I managed to read are really romantic…
I enjoyed reading part of a book of a kind so different of those I am used to: it is very enlightning to experience different things, I will give you two links:one with the summary of the bok that I used to detect the parts with the love story and another link to download the book,enjoy

1984.htm

1984.asp

I wish I could fly

I drove all night

Time after time

true colours

Ashes to ashes

Which way do we go?

I saw

I saw fireworks in the sky
blazing red flowers,
teardrop heaven roses,
Cascades, waterfalls glowing with gold
I saw purple hazed pink-blue skies
the sunset and wild wonder
I saw praires of doom green with hope
I saw swaying trees and peaceful landscapes
I saw rocky mountains standing in awe
I saw the crystal water blue sea tide
I saw royal foam spreading the divinity of the greek godess
I saw blooming fantasy ripe with greed
I saw pain painted in the raimbow skies,
desert sand eager with thirst
I saw and heard singing birds free to fly
I saw their volture slowly sloping down to fields of gold
I saw flames of love painfully disguised,
I smelt the parfumed scent of honey dew and milk in your skin,
but above all, I saw you.

Occhio malocchio prezzemolo pinocchio

Lady chatterly’s lover

so romantic…..

So

Son’s and lovers

The most sad film I have ever seen…

The writer of this nineteenth century novel,”Storia di una capinera”,on which the film is based, is the sicilian Giovanni Verga, who belonged to the italian school of Verism,shaped on french naturalism of Flaubert’s novels such as Madame Bovary and Emile’s Zola Germinal.
Zola’s manifesto of the naturalist novel is influenced by positivism and Charles Darwin’s evolution theories.
In Italy ,the italian critic Francesco De Sanctis was the first one to expose Zola’s theory.
The french historian Hippolyte Taine stated that 3 were the factors to influence the life of a person,race,place and genes.
All characters are guided by the principal of determinism to which they succumb.
On the economic level,in the second half of the nineteenth century, by the time Karl Marx’s ideology had spread,it was clear that the italian Risorgimento( that had ended in 1861 ),was achieved by higher classes, therefore,the lower classes were excluded from the benefits of economic progress due to capitalism which flourished thanks to the italian industries in that period (which were few and concentrated in the north.)
Italy’s industries were less developed than the european ones and romantic idealism wasn’t fit to solve the manifold problems.
Italy had got rid of the austrians thanks to patriots like Mazzini,it was now a unified kingdom but there was still the debate on the government form ,debate on which wrote patriots such as Vincenzo Gioberti and Carlo Cattaneo who proposed federalism.
The cultural influences that came from Europe were anachronistic and scared the higher classes,like for example the 1848 french revolution,which increased the fear of socialism.
The economic failures and the new scientific awareness of man’s fragility enhanced positivism.
Positivism ,therefore, is the expression of the italian bourgeoisie disenchanted by life,scared as it was buy the rising of the poor and the disgregation of aristocracy.
The fact that lower classes were culturally discarded too moved writers like Verga to talk about poor people and their regional costumes analysing society.

The devastating passion of poor people are by him represented :he described his characters through their actions and words,not by psychological insight but not interfering in the novel .
This passion is powerfully portrayed in the following film.

Synopsis:

Catania, Sicilia 1864. A serious epidemic of cholera is hitting the region. Maria a 16 years old novice leaves her convent and returns her home to avoid contamination. Here she finds a difficult situation, in fact her stepmother and her half-sisters prevent Maria to live the normal life of a teenager. In their minds Maria is the promised “bride of God” and a regular life for her is inappropriate. Nino, her handsome neighbor, falls in love for Maria who isn’t indifferent to him. But when Maria comes back to her convent the way to become nun is compelled. Now Maria can understand Sister Agata, and realizes she became mad cause a lost and impossible love like the one between Maria and Nino