hope is the thing with feathers

hope is the thing with feathers

that perches in the soul,

and sings the tune - without the words,

and never stops at all,

and sweetest in the gale is heard;

and sore must be the storm

that could abash the little bird

that kept so many warm.

i've heard it in the chillest land,

and on the strangest sea;

yet, never, in extremity,

it asked a crumb of me.

- emily dickinson

to a certain cantatrice

here, take this gift,

i was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or general,

one who should serve the good old cause, the great idea, the progress and freedom of the race,

some brave confronter of despots, some daring rebel;

but i see that what i was reserving belongs to you just as much as to any.

- leaves of grass by walt whitman

sea-fever

i must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

and all i ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

and the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking

and a gray mist on the seas's face and a gray dawn breaking.

i must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

and all i ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

and the flung spray, and the blow spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

i must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

to the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;

and all i ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

and quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

- john masefield

koop island blues

gold to me

i am a princess

sometimes, when she was in the midst of some harsh, domineering speech, miss minchin would find the still, unchildish eyes fixed upon her with something like a proud smile in them. at such times she did not know that sara was saying to herself:

"you don't know that you are saying these things to a princess, and that if i chose i could wave my hand and order you to execution. i only spare you because i am a princess, and you are a poor, stupid, unkind, vulgar old thing, and don't know any better."

this used to interest and amuse her more than anything else; and queer and fanciful as it was, she found comfort in it and it was a good thing for her. while the thought held possession of her, she could not be made rude and malicious by the rudeness and malice of those about her.

"a princess must be polite," she said to herself.

- a little princess by frances hodgson burnett

act 4

"who, being loved, is poor?"

- a woman of no importance by oscar wilde

phenomenal woman

pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

i'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

but when i start to tell them,

they think i'm telling lies.

i say,

it's in the reach of my arms

the span of my hips,

the stride of my step,

the curl of my lips.

i'm a woman

phenomenally.

phenomenal woman,

that's me.

i walk into a room

just as cool as you please,

and to a man,

the fellows stand or

fall down on their knees.

then they swarm around me,

a hive of honey bees.

i say,

it's in the fire in my eyes,

and the flash of my teeth,

the swing in my waist,

and the joy in my feet.

i'm a woman

phenomenally.

phenomenal woman,

that's me.

men themselves have wondered

what they see in me.

they try so much

but they can't touch

my inner mystery.

when i try to show them

they say the still can't see.

i say,

it's in the arch of my back,

the sun of my smile,

the ride of my breasts,

the grace of my style.

i'm a woman

phenomenally.

phenomenal woman,

that's me.

now you understand

just why my head's not bowed.

i don't shout or jump about

or have to talk real loud.

when you see me passing

it ought to make you proud.

i say,

it's in the click of my heels,

the bend of my hair,

the palm of my hand,

the need of my care,

'cause i'm a woman

phenomenally.

phenomenal woman,

that's me.

- maya angelou

pablo picasso

a young couple

tales of adventure

i would rather be ashes than dust!

i would rather that my spark should burn out

in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

i would rather be a superb meteor, every atom

of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

the function of man is to live, not to exist.

i shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.

i shall use my time.

- jack london

sun giant & blue ridge mountain

king john's christmas

King John was not a good man -

He had his little ways.

And sometimes no one spoke to him

For days and days and days.

And men who cam across him,

When walking in the town,

Gave him a supercilious stare,

Or passed with noses in the air -

And bad King John stood dumbly there,

Blushing beneath his crown.

King John was not a good man,

And no good friends had he.

He stayed in every afternoon

But no one came to tea.

And, round about December,

The cards upon his shelf

Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,

And fortune in the coming year,

Were never from his near and dear,

But only from himself.

King John was not a good man,

Yet had his hopes and fears.

They'd given him no present now

For years and years and years.

But every year at Christmas,

While minstrels stood about,

Collecting tribute from the young

For all the songs they might have sung,

He stole away upstairs and hung

A hopeful stocking out.

King John was not a good man,

He lived his life aloof;

Alone he thought a message out

While climbing up the roof.

He wrote it down and propped it

Against the chimney stack:

"TO ALL AND SUNDRY -

NEAR AND FAR -

F. CHRISTMAS IN PARTICULAR."

And signed it not "Johannes R."

But very humbly, "JACK."

"I want some crackers,

And I want some candy;

I think a box of chocolates

Would come in handy;

I don't mind oranges,

I do like nuts!

And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife

That really cuts.

And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,

Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!"

King John was not a good man -

He wrote this message out,

And gat him to his room again,

Descending by the spout.

And all that night he lay there,

A prey to hopes and fears,

"I think that's him a-coming now,

(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)

"He'll bring one present, anyhow -

The first I've had for years.

"Forget about the crackers,

And forget about the candy;

I'm sure a box of chocolates

Would never come in handy;

I don't like oranges,

I don't want nuts,

And I HAVE got a pocket-knife

That almost cuts.

But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,

Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!"

King John was not a good man -

Next morning when the sun

Rose up to tell a waiting world

That Christmas had begun,

And people seized their stockings,

And opened them with glee,

And crackers, toys and games appeared,

And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,

King John said grimly:

"As I heared, Nothing again for me!"

"I did want crackers,

And I did want candy;

I know a box of chocolates

Would come in handy;

I do love oranges,

I did want nuts.

I haven't got a pocket-knife -

Not one that cuts.

And, oh! if Father Christmas had loved me at all,

He would have brought a big, red india-rubber ball!"

King John stood by the window,

And frowned to see below

The happy bands of boys and girls

All playing in the snow.

A while he stood there watching,

And envying them all...

When through the window big and red

There hurtled by his royal head,

And bounced and fell upon the bed,

And india-rubber ball!

AND OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS, MY BLESSING ON YOU FALL

FOR BRINGING HIM A BIG, RED INDIA-RUBBER BALL!

- A. A. Milne

alice in wonderland

*click for teesha moore's website

en ti la tierra/in you the earth

mido apenas los ojos más extensos del cielo

y me inclino a tu boca para besar la tierra.

/

i can scarcely measure the sky's most spacious eyes

and i lean down to your mouth and kiss the earth.

- pablo neruda

live at le poisson rouge

blue squares

"we lay there and looked up at the night sky and she told me about stars called blue squares and red swirls and i told her i'd never heard of them. of course not, she said, the really important stuff they never tell you. you have to imagine it on your own."
- brian andreas

42

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your (in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here's to silent certainly mountains; and to
a disappearing poet of always, snow
and to morning; and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight (and a first dream called ocean) and

let muse or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks, nor dares to feel (but up
with joy, and up with laughing and drunkenness)

here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon
- e. e. cummings

song of myself

i celebrate myself, and sing myself,
and what i assume you shall assume,
for every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.
- leaves of grass by walt whitman