I read it in a book

[read-it-in-a-book]

Charles Bukowski - Eulogy to a Hell of a Dame

some dogs who sleep At night

must dream of bones

and I remember your bones

in flesh

and best

in that dark green dress

and those high-heeled bright

black shoes,

you always cursed when you drank,

your hair coming down you

wanted to explode out of

what was holding you:

rotten memories of a

rotten

past, and

you finally got

out

by dying,

leaving me with the

rotten

present;

you've been dead

28 years

yet I remember you

better than any of

the rest;

you were the only one

who understood

the futility of the

arrangement of

life;

all the others were only

displeased with

trivial segments,

carped

nonsensically about

nonsense;

Jane, you were

killed by

knowing too much.

here's a drink

to your bones

that

this dog

still

dreams about.

[read-it-in-a-book]

e. e. cummings - in time of daffodils

in time of daffodils(who know

the goal of living is to grow)

forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim

the aim of waking is to dream,

remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze

our now and here with paradise)

forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond

whatever mind may comprehend,

remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be

(when time from time shall set us free)

forgetting me,remember me

[read-it-in-a-book]

e. e. cummings - in time of daffodils

in time of daffodils(who know

the goal of living is to grow)

forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim

the aim of waking is to dream,

remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze

our now and here with paradise)

forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond

whatever mind may comprehend,

remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be

(when time from time shall set us free)

forgetting me,remember me

[read-it-in-a-book]

"Enough lamenting.

In this world we all

journey a sad and wandering

way

I tell myself, relinquishing

my life to Nasu's dews."

Sogi - Journey to Shirakawa

[read-it-in-a-book]

Clement Clarke Moore - A Visit from St. Nicholas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds; While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of midday to objects below, When what to my wondering eyes did appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer, With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the housetop the coursers they flew With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too— And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight— “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

[read-it-in-a-book]

anonymous - Journey along the Sea Road

"Rain seemed to sound in the greenleaf wind, but from the cries of the cranes swirling among the clouds I knew of the clear skies above. Oh pine, pine, it is your thousand years of constant virtue that keeps you here unchanged, oh journey upon journey, my life is a brief moment, and I cannot hope that we will meet again. 

Today has passed. If I return, you mountains, 

may I find again this path 

beneath the pines of Futamura 

that haunt my longing heart."

[read-it-in-a-book]

Eric Gamalinda - The Opposite of Nostalgia

You are running away from everyone who loves you, from your family, from old lovers, from friends. They run after you with accumulations of a former life, copper earrings, plates of noodles, banners of many lost revolutions. You love to say the trees are naked now because it never happens in your country. This is a mystery from which you will never recover. And yes, the trees are naked now, everything that still breathes in them lies silent and stark and waiting. You love October most of all, how there is no word for so much splendor. This, too, is a source of consolation. Between you and memory everything is water. Names of the dead, or saints, or history. There is a realm in which —no, forget, it, it’s still too early to make anyone understand. A man drives a stake through his own heart and afterwards the opposite of nostalgia begins to make sense: he stops raking the leaves and the leaves take over and again he has learned to let go.

[read-it-in-a-book]

Carl Sandburg - Autumn Movement

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.

[read-it-in-a-book]

Matsuo Bashō - Bones on the wayside

Bones on the wayside

haunting my heart -

how the wind pierces.

[read-it-in-a-book]

Henry David Thoreau - Walden

“We are made to exaggerate the importance of what work we do; and yet how much is not done by us!”

[read-it-in-a-book]

Pablo Neruda - Don’t Go Far Off

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -- because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep. Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart. Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don't leave me for a second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll have gone so far I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

[read-it-in-a-book]

Late autumn

in this mountain village -

now I learn

the full force of sadness

from the wintry wind.

The Tale of Saigyo

[read-it-in-a-book]

Charles Dickens - Great Expectations

"The broken heart. You think you will die; but you just keep living, day after day after terrible day."

[read-it-in-a-book]

Octavio Paz - Between Going and Coming

Between going and staying the day wavers, in love with its own transparency. The circular afternoon is now a bay where the world in stillness rocks. All is visible and all elusive, all is near and can’t be touched. Paper, book, pencil, glass, rest in the shade of their names. Time throbbing in my temples repeats the same unchanging syllable of blood. The light turns the indifferent wall into a ghostly theater of reflections. I find myself in the middle of an eye, watching myself in its blank stare. The moment scatters. Motionless, I stay and go: I am a pause.

[read-it-in-a-book]

Haruki Murakami - Norwegian Wood

"Nobody likes being alone that much. I don't go out of my way to make friends, that's all. It just leads to disappointment."

[read-it-in-a-book]

Mircea Cărtărescu is one of the most acclaimed and popular Romanian writers and poets. Though he is most famous outside of the country for his prose work (amply translated, with 'Nostalgia' soon to appear in Penguin Modern Classics), I prefer his poetry works and this is one of his most beautiful poems. Toamnă cu lună anii '60 Toamnă cu lună când porţi peste pulovăr o niciodată căptuşită cu totdeauna când ştii că ai mai iubit şi ai să mai iubeşti printre taxiuri nefireşti. Toamnă cu lună când cabinele de telefon scânteiază când ştii că nimic nu durează când până şi vitrinele graseiază şi vocea le tremură, şi serviciile de porţelan se fac zob. Toamnă de sticlă când magnetofoanele se fac zob când mixerele de plastic pălesc când aspiratorul asudă rece când trusa de şurubelniţe hohoteşte când maşina de spălat cu ochiul rotund şi coniacul cu patru stele se-ngălbenesc şi cad de pe ramura minţii mele şi toamna de vermut se crede tânără uneori... Noi n-o să mai ţinem unul la altul. N-o să ne mai facă plăcere să ne vedem feţele, râsetul. Noi n-o să ne căsătorim, n-o să avem copii şi n-o să îmbătrânim împreună. Mi-e aşa de clar lucrul asta acum. Iar vieţile noastre n-or să fie îndelungate ci scurte, haotice. Zi, noapte, zi, noapte, zi, noapte august, decembrie, aprilie... Toamnă cu lună aş vrea atât de tare să fim acum împreună să privim vitrinele împreună să numărăm taxiurile împreună şi să ne ningă frunzele-ngălbenite.

[read-it-in-a-book]

Mircea Cărtărescu is one of the most acclaimed and popular Romanian writers and poets. Though he is most famous outside of the country for his prose work (amply translated, with 'Nostalgia' soon to appear in Penguin Modern Classics), I prefer his poetry works and this is one of his most beautiful poems. Toamnă cu lună anii '60 Toamnă cu lună când porţi peste pulovăr o niciodată căptuşită cu totdeauna când ştii că ai mai iubit şi ai să mai iubeşti printre taxiuri nefireşti. Toamnă cu lună când cabinele de telefon scânteiază când ştii că nimic nu durează când până şi vitrinele graseiază şi vocea le tremură, şi serviciile de porţelan se fac zob. Toamnă de sticlă când magnetofoanele se fac zob când mixerele de plastic pălesc când aspiratorul asudă rece când trusa de şurubelniţe hohoteşte când maşina de spălat cu ochiul rotund şi coniacul cu patru stele se-ngălbenesc şi cad de pe ramura minţii mele şi toamna de vermut se crede tânără uneori... Noi n-o să mai ţinem unul la altul. N-o să ne mai facă plăcere să ne vedem feţele, râsetul. Noi n-o să ne căsătorim, n-o să avem copii şi n-o să îmbătrânim împreună. Mi-e aşa de clar lucrul asta acum. Iar vieţile noastre n-or să fie îndelungate ci scurte, haotice. Zi, noapte, zi, noapte, zi, noapte august, decembrie, aprilie... Toamnă cu lună aş vrea atât de tare să fim acum împreună să privim vitrinele împreună să numărăm taxiurile împreună şi să ne ningă frunzele-ngălbenite.