Stolen from Trisha
Although I've also seen this first one on Andersen's journal.
Be Drunk
You have to be always drunk.
That's all there is to it--it's the only way.
So as not to feel the horrible burden of time
that breaks your back and bends you to the earth,
you have to be continually drunk.
But on what?
Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish.
But be drunk.
And if sometimes,
on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch,
in the mournful solitude of your room,
you wake again,
drunkenness already diminishing or gone,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
everything that is flying,
everything that is groaning,
everything that is rolling,
everything that is singing,
everything that is speaking. . .
ask what time it is and wind,
wave,
star,
bird,
clock will answer you:
"It is time to be drunk!
So as not to be the martyred slaves of time,
be drunk,
be continually drunk!
On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."
-Charles Baudelaire
I hope that I am always drunk, occasionally on wine, but more so on poetry and virtue, on life itself.
Give All To Love
Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good fame,
Plans, credit, and the muse;
Nothing refuse.
'Tis a brave master,
Let it have scope,
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope;
High and more high,
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But 'tis a god,
Knows its own path,
And the outlets of the sky.
'Tis not for the mean,
It requireth courage stout,
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending;
Such 'twill reward,
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.
Leave all for love;-
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, for ever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
Vague shadow of surmise,
Flits across her bosom young
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free,
Do not thou detain a hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Tho' her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive,
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Love is all you need, after all. What better master to give your all to? Lately I've felt as though I've been invisible, drifting quietly through life, making not a ripple. I'm ready to live violently again, to be passionate and bold, hurtling up and down life's hills, with a pause for reflection at the peaks.
As The Poems Go
as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.
-Charles Bukowski
This one speaks for itself. I only hope I can bear this in mind as I live my own life.
Be Drunk
You have to be always drunk.
That's all there is to it--it's the only way.
So as not to feel the horrible burden of time
that breaks your back and bends you to the earth,
you have to be continually drunk.
But on what?
Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish.
But be drunk.
And if sometimes,
on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch,
in the mournful solitude of your room,
you wake again,
drunkenness already diminishing or gone,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
everything that is flying,
everything that is groaning,
everything that is rolling,
everything that is singing,
everything that is speaking. . .
ask what time it is and wind,
wave,
star,
bird,
clock will answer you:
"It is time to be drunk!
So as not to be the martyred slaves of time,
be drunk,
be continually drunk!
On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."
-Charles Baudelaire
I hope that I am always drunk, occasionally on wine, but more so on poetry and virtue, on life itself.
Give All To Love
Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good fame,
Plans, credit, and the muse;
Nothing refuse.
'Tis a brave master,
Let it have scope,
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope;
High and more high,
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But 'tis a god,
Knows its own path,
And the outlets of the sky.
'Tis not for the mean,
It requireth courage stout,
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending;
Such 'twill reward,
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.
Leave all for love;-
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, for ever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
Vague shadow of surmise,
Flits across her bosom young
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free,
Do not thou detain a hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Tho' her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive,
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Love is all you need, after all. What better master to give your all to? Lately I've felt as though I've been invisible, drifting quietly through life, making not a ripple. I'm ready to live violently again, to be passionate and bold, hurtling up and down life's hills, with a pause for reflection at the peaks.
As The Poems Go
as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.
-Charles Bukowski
This one speaks for itself. I only hope I can bear this in mind as I live my own life.