Strange things

[xhartbigx]

Reblog if you’re over 20 and still read/write fan fiction.

I’m curious!

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[noellenights]

Death will come with your eyes— this death that accompanies us from morning till night, sleepless, deaf, like an old regret or a stupid vice. Your eyes will be a useless word, a muted cry, a silence. As you see them each morning when alone you lean over the mirror. O cherished hope, that day we too shall know that you are life and nothing. For everyone death has a look. Death will come with your eyes. It will be like terminating a vice, as seen in the mirror a dead face re-emerging, like listening to closed lips. We’ll go down the abyss in silence.”

Cesare Pavese, Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi

[noellenights]

At the mid hour of night

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air, To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky. Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear! When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my said orison rolls, I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls, Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Thomas Moore

[noellenights]

'A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women's fashion: An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; A man in hue all hues in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created; Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.'

Your face is as pretty as a woman’s, but you don’t even have to use makeup—you, the man (or should I say woman?) I love. Your heart is as gentle as a woman’s, but it isn’t cheating like theirs. Your eyes are prettier than women’s, but not as roving—you bless everything you look at. You’ve got the good looks of a handsome man, but you attract both women and men. When Mother Nature made you, she originally intended to make you a woman, but then she got carried away with her creation and screwed me by adding a certainthing that I have no use for. But since she gave you a prick to please women, I’ll keep your love, and they can enjoy your body.

Shakespeare, Sonnet XX

[noellenights]

O joy of creation,        To be! O rapture, to fly        And be free! Be the battle lost or won,           Though its smoke shall hide the sun, I shall find my love—the one        Born for me! I shall know him where he stands        All alone,    With the power in his hands        Not o'erthrown; I shall know him by his face, By his godlike front and grace; I shall hold him for a space           All my own! It is he—O my love!        So bold! It is I—all thy love        Foretold!    It is I—O love, what bliss! Dost thou answer to my kiss? O sweetheart! what is this        Lieth there so cold?

Bret Harte

[noellenights]

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day, Today we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens, And today we have naming of parts. This is the lower sling swivel. And this Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, Which in your case you have not got. The branches Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, Which in our case we have not got. This is the safety-catch, which is always released With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Any of them using their finger. And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: They call it easing the Spring. They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance, Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards, For today we have naming of parts.

Henry Reed, Naming of Parts, 1942

[lifeofabiologymajor]

[noellenights]

wonderful

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the kiss

[noellenights]

Szarża Lekkiej Brygady

Galopem, galopem. Galopem... Nieś się! Hej po dolinie śmierci Jedzie ich sześćset. „Do szarży!" - rozkaz brzmiał- „Lekka Brygado, w cwał!" Oto w dolinę śmierci Zjeżdża ich sześćset. „Brygado Lekka, w cwał!" Czy który zbladł lub drżał? Że wodza błąd tu był Wiedzieli jeźdźce. Nie im - komendy prym, Badać, co? jak? - nie im, Ich rzecz - iść w bitew dym. W czarną dolinę śmierci Wjechało sześćset. Na prawo - ogień dział Na lewo - ogień dział, Naprzeciw - ogień dział Grzmi, pluje, zmieść chce! Poprzez granatów grad, Mężnie, przy bracie brat, W rozwarty śmierci pysk, W gardło piekielnych krat Pędzi tych sześćset! Ognistych szabel huf Zalśnił, wzniósł się, i znów Runął na armię luf, Rąbiąc baterie, aż Świat zamarł w geście. Pędzą przez dym i żar, Łamią front wrażych chmar; Kozak i Ruski, w łeb Rażony szablą, marł, Padał w ucieczce. Wraca Brygada - lecz Już ich nie sześćset! Naprawo - ogień dział, Na lewo ogień dział, Za nimi - ogień dział Grzmi, wali, zgnieść chce; Przez ten granatów grad Niejeden jeździec padł. Żołnierz, w chwata chwat! Widzieli śmierci pysk, Z gardła piekielnych krat Wracają! - może stu? A było sześćset... Uderzcie w mosiądz surm! Ta szarża - to był szturm! Świat zamarł w geście. Grzmij chwałę wielkich spraw! Lekką Brygadę sław! Rycerzy sześćset! 

Alfred Lord Tennyson

[...]

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death   Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!” he said. Into the valley of Death   Rode the six hundred. II “Forward, the Light Brigade!” Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew   Someone had blundered.   Theirs not to make reply,   Theirs not to reason why,   Theirs but to do and die.   Into the valley of Death   Rode the six hundred. III Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them   Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell   Rode the six hundred. IV Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while   All the world wondered. Plunged in the battery-smoke Right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre stroke   Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not   Not the six hundred. V Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them   Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them,   Left of six hundred. VI When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made!   All the world wondered. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade,   Noble six hundred!

[noellenights]

[noellenights]

[Sól w nasze rany] Sól w nasze rany, cały wagon soli By nie powiedział kto, że go nie boli Piach w nasze oczy, cały Synaj piasku By nie powiedział kto, że widzi jasno Głód w nasze trzewia, suche kromki głodu By nie powiedział kto, że nie wie co głód But w nasze krocza, kopniaków choć tysiąc By nie powiedział kto, że spłodziłby co Knut w nasze głowy, sto pałek umyślnych By nie powiedział kto, że sobie myśli Strach w nasze serca, tyle grozy gęstej By nie powiedział kto, że nie zna lęku I salwę w płuca czy też sznur na szyję By nie powiedział kto, że jeszcze żyje

Rafał Wojaczek

[biarda-blog]

Visit Original Link

Rafał Wojaczek

…dla Ciebie piszę miłość

dla Ciebie piszę miłość

ja bez nazwiska

zwierzę bezsenne

piszę przerażony

sam wobec Ciebie

której na imię Być

ja mięso modlitwy

której Ty jesteś ptakiem

z warg spływa

kropla alkoholu

w niej wszystkie słońca i gwiazdy

jedyne słońce tej pory

z warg spływa

kropla krwi

i gdzie Twój język

który by koił ból

wynikły z przegryzionego

słowa kocham…

[noellenights]

[everywindintheriver]

Visit Original Link

Something a tad bit different: a poem by Robert Burns set to my own music. If you’ve been enjoying the LOTR stuff I’ve been doing, you’ll hopefully like this too!

Farewell to the Banks of Ayr

THE GLOOMY night is gath’ring fast, Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o’er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor. The scatt’red coveys meet secure; While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr. The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn By early Winter’s ravage torn; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave; I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonie banks of Ayr. ’Tis not the surging billow’s roar, ’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear: But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc’d with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonie banks of Ayr. Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales, Her healthy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched Fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those: The bursting tears my heart declare— Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!

[noellenights]

The Circus Animals’ Desertion

I I sought a theme and sought for it in vain, I sought it daily for six weeks or so. Maybe at last being but a broken man I must be satisfied with my heart, although Winter and summer till old age began My circus animals were all on show, Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot, Lion and woman and the Lord knows what. II What can I but enumerate old themes, First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams, Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose, Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems, That might adorn old songs or courtly shows; But what cared I that set him on to ride, I, starved for the bosom of his fairy bride. And then a counter-truth filled out its play, `The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it, She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it. I thought my dear must her own soul destroy So did fanaticism and hate enslave it, And this brought forth a dream and soon enough This dream itself had all my thought and love. And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea; Heart mysteries there, and yet when all is said It was the dream itself enchanted me: Character isolated by a deed To engross the present and dominate memory. Players and painted stage took all my love And not those things that they were emblems of. III Those masterful images because complete Grew in pure mind but out of what began? A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street, Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can, Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone I must lie down where all the ladders start In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

[noellenights]

A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow — You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone?   All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand — How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep — while I weep! O God! Can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?

Józef Czechowicz’s translation 

“Przyśnienie w śnie”

Pocałunek na skronie przyjm! Kiedy czas się rozstawać nam, ja to jedno wyznać ci mam: dni me były li tylko snem. Sądząc tak nie błądziłeś w tem... Że nadzieja odlata stąd w noc czy w dzień na prawdziwy ląd w przywidzenie (czy aby w nie?...), masz dlatego być pewnym mniej ostatniego odlotu jej? Co widzimy, co wydaje się, to jest tylko przyśnieniem w śnie... Oto stoję, a ryczy brzeg! Drze go fali rozbitej bieg! W mojej dłoni, w złocistych skrach, drobinkami jaśnieje piach. Mało go... a jak sypie się sam spośród palców ku głębi... tam... Kiedy płaczę, gdy łkam... gdy łkam... Boże, czemuż to brak mi sił ująć mocniej ten złoty pył, uratować ze srogich fal okruszynę, której mi żal?... Co widzimy, co wydaje się, to jest tylko przyśnienie w śnie...

Włodzimierz Lewik’s translation

“Sen we śnie”

Z pocałunkiem pożegnania, Kiedy nadszedł czas rozstania, Dziś już wyznać się nie wzbraniam: Miałaś rację - teraz wiem - Życie moje było snem, Cóż, nadzieja uszła w cień! A czy nocą, czyli w dzień, Czy na jawie, czy w marzeniu - Jednak utonęła w cieniu. To, co widzisz, co się zda - Jak sen we śnie jeno trwa. Nad strumieniem, w którym fala Z głuchym rykiem się przewala, Stoję zaciskając w dłoni Złoty piasek... Fala goni, A przez palce moje, ach, Przesypuje mi się piach - A ja w łzach, ja tonę w łzach... Gdybym ziarnka, choć nie wszystkie, Mocnym zawrzeć mógł uściskiem, Boże, gdybym z grzmiącej fali Jedno ziarnko choć ocalił!... Ach, czy wszystko, co się zda, Jak sen we śnie jeno trwa?