By : Lauryn Hill
--on the "Miseducation of Lauryn Hill" album
*i have been goin through a serious Lauryn Hill phase lately...she just truley speakin to me right now*
Forgive Them Father - Lauryn Hill
To Poetry and the Rose...
Monday, November 16, 2009
Song of the Week
"Forgive them Father"
By : Lauryn Hill
--on the "Miseducation of Lauryn Hill" album
*i have been goin through a serious Lauryn Hill phase lately...she just truley speakin to me right now*
Forgive Them Father - Lauryn Hill
By : Lauryn Hill
--on the "Miseducation of Lauryn Hill" album
*i have been goin through a serious Lauryn Hill phase lately...she just truley speakin to me right now*
Forgive Them Father - Lauryn Hill
Once By The Pacific
By : Robert Lee Frost
The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God’s last *Put out the Light* was spoken.
The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God’s last *Put out the Light* was spoken.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Nothing
By : Jorge Carrera Andrade
In bookstores there are no books,
In books no words,
In words no essence:
There are only husks.
In museums and waiting rooms
Are painted canvases and fetishes.
In the Academy there are only recordings
Of the wildest dances.
In mouths there is only smoke,
In the eyes only distance.
There is a drum in each ear.
A Sahara yawns in the mind.
Nothing frees us from the desert.
Nothing saves us from the drum.
Painted books shed their pages,
Becoming husks of Nothing.
In bookstores there are no books,
In books no words,
In words no essence:
There are only husks.
In museums and waiting rooms
Are painted canvases and fetishes.
In the Academy there are only recordings
Of the wildest dances.
In mouths there is only smoke,
In the eyes only distance.
There is a drum in each ear.
A Sahara yawns in the mind.
Nothing frees us from the desert.
Nothing saves us from the drum.
Painted books shed their pages,
Becoming husks of Nothing.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Enjoy The Sun
This song makes me smile! =)
Theophilus London
-Off the "This Charming Man" album
Enjoy the Sun - Theophilus London
Theophilus London
-Off the "This Charming Man" album
Enjoy the Sun - Theophilus London
Friday, October 30, 2009
Simon the Cyrenian Speaks
By : Countee Cullen
He never spoke a word to me,
And yet He called my name;
He never gave a sign to me,
And yet I knew and came.
At first I said, "I will not bear
His cross upon my back;
He only seeks to place it there
Because my skin is black."
But He was dying for a dream,
And He was very meek,
And in His eyes there shone a gleam
Men journey far to seek.
It was Himself my pity bought;
I did for Christ alone
What all of Rome could not have wrought
With bruise of lash or stone.
He never spoke a word to me,
And yet He called my name;
He never gave a sign to me,
And yet I knew and came.
At first I said, "I will not bear
His cross upon my back;
He only seeks to place it there
Because my skin is black."
But He was dying for a dream,
And He was very meek,
And in His eyes there shone a gleam
Men journey far to seek.
It was Himself my pity bought;
I did for Christ alone
What all of Rome could not have wrought
With bruise of lash or stone.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Orchid Flower
By : Sam Hamill
Just as I wonder
whether it's going to die,
the orchid blossoms
and I can't explain why it
moves my heart, why such pleasure
comes from one small bud
on a long spindly stem, one
blood red gold flower
opening at mid-summer,
tiny, perfect in its hour.
Even to a white-
haired craggy poet, it's
purely erotic,
pistil and stamen, pollen,
dew of the world, a spoonful
of earth, and water.
Erotic because there's death
at the heart of birth,
drama in those old sunrise
prisms in wet cedar boughs,
deepest mystery
in washing evening dishes
or teasing my wife,
who grows, yes, more beautiful
because one of us will die.
Just as I wonder
whether it's going to die,
the orchid blossoms
and I can't explain why it
moves my heart, why such pleasure
comes from one small bud
on a long spindly stem, one
blood red gold flower
opening at mid-summer,
tiny, perfect in its hour.
Even to a white-
haired craggy poet, it's
purely erotic,
pistil and stamen, pollen,
dew of the world, a spoonful
of earth, and water.
Erotic because there's death
at the heart of birth,
drama in those old sunrise
prisms in wet cedar boughs,
deepest mystery
in washing evening dishes
or teasing my wife,
who grows, yes, more beautiful
because one of us will die.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Untitled
By : Me
Black girl
White girl
Fat girl
Yeah
You girl
What’s wrong with you girl?
Why don’t they like
This girl
But that girl?
Got me
A girl
Doubting
The girl
That I am
That I thought I loved
Or was at least okay with.
Now I don’t
Now I hate
Well
Dislike everything.
Your skin aint smooth
It aint tight
So it can’t be right.
Well
At least I love the color
Even if you don’t!
Black girl
White girl
Fat girl
Yeah
You girl
What’s wrong with you girl?
Why don’t they like
This girl
But that girl?
Got me
A girl
Doubting
The girl
That I am
That I thought I loved
Or was at least okay with.
Now I don’t
Now I hate
Well
Dislike everything.
Your skin aint smooth
It aint tight
So it can’t be right.
Well
At least I love the color
Even if you don’t!
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night
By : Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
For A Poet
by Countee Cullen
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold;
Where long will cling the lips of the moth,
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;
I hide no hate; I am not even wroth
Who found the earth's breath so keen and cold;
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold.
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold;
Where long will cling the lips of the moth,
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;
I hide no hate; I am not even wroth
Who found the earth's breath so keen and cold;
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold.
And im back
ive kinda been on hiatus for more than a few months. but its not like anyone reads this, so who really cares....but jus for myself, i AM going to continue to manage this blog. and hopefully keep up with it on a weekly basis [if life doesnt get in my way].
Monday, April 27, 2009
Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry
by Howard Nemerov
Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned to pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.
There came a moment that you couldn’t tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.
Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned to pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.
There came a moment that you couldn’t tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.
Artist of the Month
Rick Ross
This Miami based rapper just dropped his latest album "Deeper than Rap". Despite all the 50 "drama," ricky ross still managed to maintain his spot as the biggest 'boss' in the game. lol
For more info hit up ross' myspcae page : http://www.myspace.com/rickross
Maybach Music 2 - Rick Ross
Thursday, April 16, 2009
My Shoes
by Charles Simic
Shoes, secret face of my inner life:
Two gaping toothless mouths,
Two partly decomposed animal skins
Smelling of mice-nests.
My brother and sister who died at birth
Continuing their existence in you,
Guiding my life
Toward their incomprehensible innocence.
What use are books to me
When in you it is possible to read
The Gospel of my life on earth
And still beyond, of things to come?
I want to proclaim the religion
I have devised for your perfect humility
And the strange church I am building
With you as the altar.
Ascetic and maternal, you endure:
Kin to oxen, to Saints, to condemned men,
With your mute patience, forming
The only true likeness of myself.
Shoes, secret face of my inner life:
Two gaping toothless mouths,
Two partly decomposed animal skins
Smelling of mice-nests.
My brother and sister who died at birth
Continuing their existence in you,
Guiding my life
Toward their incomprehensible innocence.
What use are books to me
When in you it is possible to read
The Gospel of my life on earth
And still beyond, of things to come?
I want to proclaim the religion
I have devised for your perfect humility
And the strange church I am building
With you as the altar.
Ascetic and maternal, you endure:
Kin to oxen, to Saints, to condemned men,
With your mute patience, forming
The only true likeness of myself.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Untiltled
by: Me
My mind is a river
Of thoughts
And poetry is its outlet of choice
It allows me to be myslef
Yet dream whatever my mind
Can imagine
It's an uncontrollable passion
That takes over me
Even when I run.
Capturing me with all its prose
And beauty.
My mind is a river
Of thoughts
And poetry is its outlet of choice
It allows me to be myslef
Yet dream whatever my mind
Can imagine
It's an uncontrollable passion
That takes over me
Even when I run.
Capturing me with all its prose
And beauty.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Nocturne
by Wayne Miller
Tonight all the leaves are paper spoons
in a broth of wind. Last week
they made a darker sky below the sky.
The houses have swallowed their colors,
and each car moves in the blind sack
of its sound like the slipping of water.
Flowing means falling very slowly—
the river passing under the tracks,
the tracks then buried beneath the road.
When a knocking came in the night,
I rose violently toward my reflection
hovering beneath this world. And then
the fluorescent kitchen in the window
like a page I was reading—a face
coming into focus behind it:
my neighbor locked out of his own party,
looking for a phone. I gave him
a beer and the lit pad of numbers
through which he disappeared; I found
I was alone with the voices that bloomed
as he opened the door. It's time
to slip my body beneath the covers,
let it fall down the increments of shale,
let the wind consume every spoon.
My voice unhinging itself from light,
my voice landing in its cradle—.
How terrifying a payphone is
hanging at the end of its cord.
Which is not to be confused with sleep—
sleep gives the body back its mouth.
Tonight all the leaves are paper spoons
in a broth of wind. Last week
they made a darker sky below the sky.
The houses have swallowed their colors,
and each car moves in the blind sack
of its sound like the slipping of water.
Flowing means falling very slowly—
the river passing under the tracks,
the tracks then buried beneath the road.
When a knocking came in the night,
I rose violently toward my reflection
hovering beneath this world. And then
the fluorescent kitchen in the window
like a page I was reading—a face
coming into focus behind it:
my neighbor locked out of his own party,
looking for a phone. I gave him
a beer and the lit pad of numbers
through which he disappeared; I found
I was alone with the voices that bloomed
as he opened the door. It's time
to slip my body beneath the covers,
let it fall down the increments of shale,
let the wind consume every spoon.
My voice unhinging itself from light,
my voice landing in its cradle—.
How terrifying a payphone is
hanging at the end of its cord.
Which is not to be confused with sleep—
sleep gives the body back its mouth.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Yellow Bowl
by Rachel Contreni Flynn
If light pours like water
into the kitchen where I sway
with my tired children,
if the rug beneath us
is woven with tough flowers,
and the yellow bowl on the table
rests with the sweet heft
of fruit, the sun-warmed plums,
if my body curves over the babies,
and if I am singing,
then loneliness has lost its shape,
and this quiet is only quiet.
If light pours like water
into the kitchen where I sway
with my tired children,
if the rug beneath us
is woven with tough flowers,
and the yellow bowl on the table
rests with the sweet heft
of fruit, the sun-warmed plums,
if my body curves over the babies,
and if I am singing,
then loneliness has lost its shape,
and this quiet is only quiet.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Unbidden
The ghosts swarm.
They speak as one
person. Each
loves you. Each
has left something
undone.
•
Did the palo verde
blush yellow
all at once?
Today's edges
are so sharp
they might cut
anything that moved.
•
The way a lost
word
will come back
unbidden.
You're not interested
in it now,
only
in knowing
where it's been.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Dreams
By: Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Song of the Week
Pacific Division
Off the "Leaders of the New Cool" mixtape
-One of the best rap groups out right now [[in my opinion]]
Wake Up - Pacific Division
Off the "Leaders of the New Cool" mixtape
-One of the best rap groups out right now [[in my opinion]]
Wake Up - Pacific Division
Vacation
By : Rita Dove
I love the hour before takeoff,
that stretch of no time, no home
but the gray vinyl seats linked like
unfolding paper dolls. Soon we shall
be summoned to the gate, soon enough
there’ll be the clumsy procedure of row numbers
and perforated stubs—but for now
I can look at these ragtag nuclear families
with their cooing and bickering
or the heeled bachelorette trying
to ignore a baby’s wail and the baby’s
exhausted mother waiting to be called up early
while the athlete, one monstrous hand
asleep on his duffel bag, listens,
perched like a seal trained for the plunge.
Even the lone executive
who has wandered this far into summer
with his lasered itinerary, briefcase
knocking his knees—even he
has worked for the pleasure of bearing
no more than a scrap of himself
into this hall. He’ll dine out, she’ll sleep late,
they’ll let the sun burn them happy all morning
—a little hope, a little whimsy
before the loudspeaker blurts
and we leap up to becomeFlight 828, now boarding at Gate 17.
I love the hour before takeoff,
that stretch of no time, no home
but the gray vinyl seats linked like
unfolding paper dolls. Soon we shall
be summoned to the gate, soon enough
there’ll be the clumsy procedure of row numbers
and perforated stubs—but for now
I can look at these ragtag nuclear families
with their cooing and bickering
or the heeled bachelorette trying
to ignore a baby’s wail and the baby’s
exhausted mother waiting to be called up early
while the athlete, one monstrous hand
asleep on his duffel bag, listens,
perched like a seal trained for the plunge.
Even the lone executive
who has wandered this far into summer
with his lasered itinerary, briefcase
knocking his knees—even he
has worked for the pleasure of bearing
no more than a scrap of himself
into this hall. He’ll dine out, she’ll sleep late,
they’ll let the sun burn them happy all morning
—a little hope, a little whimsy
before the loudspeaker blurts
and we leap up to becomeFlight 828, now boarding at Gate 17.
A Book of Music
By : Jack Spicer
Coming at an end, the lovers
Are exhausted like two swimmers. Where
Did it end? There is no telling. No love is
Like an ocean with the dizzy procession of the waves' boundaries
From which two can emerge exhausted, nor long goodbye
Like death.
Coming at an end. Rather, I would say, like a length
Of coiled rope
Which does not disguise in the final twists of its lengths
Its endings.
But, you will say, we loved
And some parts of us loved
And the rest of us will remain
Two persons. Yes,
Poetry ends like a rope.
Coming at an end, the lovers
Are exhausted like two swimmers. Where
Did it end? There is no telling. No love is
Like an ocean with the dizzy procession of the waves' boundaries
From which two can emerge exhausted, nor long goodbye
Like death.
Coming at an end. Rather, I would say, like a length
Of coiled rope
Which does not disguise in the final twists of its lengths
Its endings.
But, you will say, we loved
And some parts of us loved
And the rest of us will remain
Two persons. Yes,
Poetry ends like a rope.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Sleep Deprivation
By : me
Sitting up alone
Watching t.v
Only 12:45
But it feels past two
My eyes are getting heavy
My body
Tired
But my mind
Hyped up on inspiration.
So many ideas
Streaming through the television
Distracting
My eyes
They desperately want to close
Sleep would be nice
But I'm young
I'd much rather
Sleep when I'm dead.
Sitting up alone
Watching t.v
Only 12:45
But it feels past two
My eyes are getting heavy
My body
Tired
But my mind
Hyped up on inspiration.
So many ideas
Streaming through the television
Distracting
My eyes
They desperately want to close
Sleep would be nice
But I'm young
I'd much rather
Sleep when I'm dead.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Random Shoe Post
i was actually really trying to stay away from the shoe post. but i jus couldnt resist. I'm just loving the Chanel Canvas Sneaker. If i were rich, these would be on my feet in 2.2 seconds.
via http://www.highsnobette.com/
via http://www.highsnobette.com/
The Philosopher
--This poem is truly speaking to my soul right about now. Just laying out my thoughts in a way that I could never do.
By : Edna St. Vincent Millay
And what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?
And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?
I know a man that's a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?
Yet women's ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell, --
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?
By : Edna St. Vincent Millay
And what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?
And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?
I know a man that's a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?
Yet women's ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell, --
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?
Song of the Week
The Foreign Exchange feat. Muhsinah
From "Leave it all Behind"
-get to know em!!!
Daykeeper feat. Muhsinah - The Foreign Exchange
From "Leave it all Behind"
-get to know em!!!
Daykeeper feat. Muhsinah - The Foreign Exchange
Monday, February 23, 2009
Gotta love life...
By : me
Well damn
Just as I was getting over [it]
[It] came back
And said those things
That put me right back
In the place
That I hate!
Well damn
Just as I was getting over [it]
[It] came back
And said those things
That put me right back
In the place
That I hate!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Longing
By : Matthew Arnold
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to the others as to me!
Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth;
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say: My love! why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to the others as to me!
Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth;
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say: My love! why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Artist of the Month
U.N.I
Thurzday and Y-O make up this L.A based duo. Their newest mixtape "Mick Boogie Presents: Before There Was Love," is a precursor to "A Love Supreme"- which is entirely produced by west coast producer RO Blvd.
For more info, check out U.N.I's myspace page http://www.myspace.com/unimuzik.
Thurzday and Y-O make up this L.A based duo. Their newest mixtape "Mick Boogie Presents: Before There Was Love," is a precursor to "A Love Supreme"- which is entirely produced by west coast producer RO Blvd.
For more info, check out U.N.I's myspace page http://www.myspace.com/unimuzik.
Cali Soul - U-N-I f. H.O.P.E. and Shawn Jackson [prod DiBia$e]
Friday, February 20, 2009
Expect Nothing
By : Alice Walker
Expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
Become a stranger
To need of pity
Or, if compassion be freely
Given out
Take only enough
Stop short of urge to plead
Then purge away the need.
Wish for nothing larger
Than your own small heart
Or greater than a star;
Tame wild disappointment
With caress unmoved and cold
Make of it a parka
For your soul
Discover the reason why
So tiny human midget
Exists at all
So scared unwise
But expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
Expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
Become a stranger
To need of pity
Or, if compassion be freely
Given out
Take only enough
Stop short of urge to plead
Then purge away the need.
Wish for nothing larger
Than your own small heart
Or greater than a star;
Tame wild disappointment
With caress unmoved and cold
Make of it a parka
For your soul
Discover the reason why
So tiny human midget
Exists at all
So scared unwise
But expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Random Shoe Post
So. I was 'browsin' one of my fave blogs and found these Nike's. I am a lover of all shoes. but for watever reason nikes always seem to make me smile. =D
--on a side note:if you're a lover of music [like myself], you should definately check out this blog. its one of my faves. http://www.eazeest.com/
via http://www.eazeest.com/2009/02/nike-air-royal.html
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Song of the Week
Theophilus London ['dont pronounce it WRONG']
From "This Charming Mixtape"
--if you dont already...get to kno him
16 YOUR THE ONE - Theophilus London
From "This Charming Mixtape"
--if you dont already...get to kno him
16 YOUR THE ONE - Theophilus London
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