lobotomite collections

A collection of quotes, stories, and excerpts from the following books: The oxford dictionary of quotations (Third Edition), The penguin anthology of twentieth century American poetry, This is my best, grimm's fairy tales, and miss Manner's guide for the turn of the century millennium. Disclaimer: I do not share the same thoughts/ideas as some of the authors on this page, nor do I take credit for the contents.

[kaisketch]

I’ve been having bad days and drawing this helped me remember things.

I hope it helps you, too.

[whispercollins-deactivated20180]

When you cannot understand why people might look up to you.  Remember, they might see the strength and stability in the places you can only see weakness and chaos.

I like this message.

[blushie]

[1st-1]

[1st-1]

As above so below ………….

[1st-1]

Moon and Stars 🌟🌙🌟

[loboco]

What He Thought- Heather McHugh

for Fabbio Doplicher

We were supposed to do a job in Italy and, full of our feeling for ourselves (our sense of being Poets from America) we went from Rome to Fano, met the mayor, mulled a couple matters over (what's a cheap date, they asked us; what's flat drink). Among Italian literati

we could recognize our counterparts: the academic, the apologist, the arrogant, the amorous, the brazen and the glib—and there was one

administrator (the conservative), in suit of regulation gray, who like a good tour guide with measured pace and uninflected tone narrated sights and histories the hired van hauled us past. Of all, he was the most politic and least poetic, so it seemed. Our last few days in Rome (when all but three of the New World Bards had flown) I found a book of poems this unprepossessing one had written: it was there in the pensione room (a room he'd recommended) where it must have been abandoned by the German visitor (was there a bus of them?) to whom he had inscribed and dated it a month before. I couldn't read Italian, either, so I put the book back into the wardrobe's dark. We last Americans

were due to leave tomorrow. For our parting evening then our host chose something in a family restaurant, and there we sat and chatted, sat and chewed, till, sensible it was our last big chance to be poetic, make our mark, one of us asked                                             "What's poetry?" Is it the fruits and vegetables and marketplace of Campo dei Fiori, or the statue there?" Because I was

the glib one, I identified the answer instantly, I didn't have to think—"The truth is both, it's both," I blurted out. But that was easy. That was easiest to say. What followed taught me something about difficulty, for our underestimated host spoke out, all of a sudden, with a rising passion, and he said:

The statue represents Giordano Bruno, brought to be burned in the public square because of his offense against authority, which is to say the Church. His crime was his belief the universe does not revolve around the human being: God is no fixed point or central government, but rather is poured in waves through all things. All things move. "If God is not the soul itself, He is the soul of the soul of the world." Such was his heresy. The day they brought him forth to die, they feared he might incite the crowd (the man was famous for his eloquence). And so his captors placed upon his face an iron mask, in which

he could not speak. That's how they burned him. That is how he died: without a word, in front of everyone.                     And poetry—                                        (we'd all put down our forks by now, to listen to the man in gray; he went on softly)—                  poetry is what

he thought, but did not say.

Born in 1948, McHugh was raised in Virginia. She attended a number of colleges, going on to be hired by the University of Washington.

[konkretegifs]

#6

Title: Blue Rectangle (Dis-)Appearing

Technique: Drawing with Stabilo markers on quad paper (12 Frames)

[loboco]

“The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daises. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.”                                                      - Percy Shelley, Adonais

[loboco]

“I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade.”                                                -Alan Seeger, I Have a Rendezvous with Death

[loboco]

We haven't the money, so we've got to think.

Lord Rutherford.

[loboco]

“Certain phrases stick in the throat, even if they offer nothing that is analytically improbable. ’A dashing Swiss officer’ is one such.”                                                                                -John Russel, Paris, ch. 11

[loboco]

Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg- Richard Hugo

You might come here Sunday on a whim.   Say your life broke down. The last good kiss   you had was years ago. You walk these streets   laid out by the insane, past hotels   that didn’t last, bars that did, the tortured try   of local drivers to accelerate their lives.   Only churches are kept up. The jail   turned 70 this year. The only prisoner   is always in, not knowing what he’s done.

The principal supporting business now   is rage. Hatred of the various grays   the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,   The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls   who leave each year for Butte. One good   restaurant and bars can’t wipe the boredom out.   The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,   a dance floor built on springs— all memory resolves itself in gaze, in panoramic green you know the cattle eat   or two stacks high above the town,   two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse   for fifty years that won’t fall finally down.

Isn’t this your life? That ancient kiss still burning out your eyes? Isn’t this defeat so accurate, the church bell simply seems a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?   Don’t empty houses ring? Are magnesium   and scorn sufficient to support a town,   not just Philipsburg, but towns of towering blondes, good jazz and booze   the world will never let you have until the town you came from dies inside?

Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty   when the jail was built, still laughs   although his lips collapse. Someday soon,   he says, I’ll go to sleep and not wake up.   You tell him no. You’re talking to yourself.   The car that brought you here still runs.   The money you buy lunch with, no matter where it’s mined, is silver   and the girl who serves your food is slender and her red hair lights the wall.