we all eventually sing for one's supper
its not that i didnt want you to be happy
i just wanted you to appear to be less happy then me; more needy of things
don't hide the mud under the rug - you can make butterflies in it just like in snow.
positions of power
and politicians, of poets and lovers, of magnates
have people at the end of finger tips
but feed them - they bite, Ramsay.
the admirer of things does not appreciate or interest in the experience or trickery that created said things.
polished statues... and histories in gradients: is what we touch when we learn
and
what our "all"'s rest surely upon
gorgeous stories; the well crafted versions of a more neutral reality.
means to an end or means to a story
depending where you sit
we all are (the) saint(s) and we are all the devil(s)
altogether in one while not really in any.
petty arguments - just like little bad cells seem groundbreaking and world shaking
since immemorial and henceforth we make stories famous
only so we forget the weight of our selves.
a colored kaleidoscope in the desert at night.
a rainbow in fire of underwater, gold mud with blood, or mud in blood gold
precious pictures are framed solidly people can only bear so much reality.
the world does offer infinite balconies from which to look at reality
but looking it right in the eyes belittles everything
lest
it
as it is the ground we stay and step on; forward or backward, fancy or clumsy.
and I like words. paint wetness, mud. splashed all over through cold and frequent and warm and wavy
life; you get a bottle of color and a paintbrush. or more of them if you're lucky.
Pleasantly reading more that he wrote. Wasn't aware of any, but I like it.
its not that i didnt want you to be happy
i just wanted you to appear to be less happy then me; more needy of things
don't hide the mud under the rug - you can make butterflies in it just like in snow.
positions of power
and politicians, of poets and lovers, of magnates
have people at the end of finger tips
but feed them - they bite, Ramsay.
the admirer of things does not appreciate or interest in the experience or trickery that created said things.
polished statues... and histories in gradients: is what we touch when we learn
and
what our "all"'s rest surely upon
gorgeous stories; the well crafted versions of a more neutral reality.
means to an end or means to a story
depending where you sit
we all are (the) saint(s) and we are all the devil(s)
altogether in one while not really in any.
petty arguments - just like little bad cells seem groundbreaking and world shaking
since immemorial and henceforth we make stories famous
only so we forget the weight of our selves.
a colored kaleidoscope in the desert at night.
a rainbow in fire of underwater, gold mud with blood, or mud in blood gold
precious pictures are framed solidly people can only bear so much reality.
the world does offer infinite balconies from which to look at reality
but looking it right in the eyes belittles everything
lest
it
as it is the ground we stay and step on; forward or backward, fancy or clumsy.
and I like words. paint wetness, mud. splashed all over through cold and frequent and warm and wavy
life; you get a bottle of color and a paintbrush. or more of them if you're lucky.
Burnt Norton (1935)[edit]
- Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past. (I)
- What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know. (I)
- Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present. (I)
- At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement.
And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time. (II)
- Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered. (II)
- Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. (V)
- Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Will not stay still. (V)
- Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being. (V)
- Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.
Pleasantly reading more that he wrote. Wasn't aware of any, but I like it.