looking out of the window... grey, cotton clouds are descending from the mountain top covering its slopes slowly like the shawl a beautiful woman wraps around her delicate shoulders... You light up a ciggie even though your throat is sore coz of this damn cold! we live for our obsessions... you love this weather... winter people... winter skin, like Karl Smith says... again the same question... alienation... what must you do to keep people satisfied? besides sex that is (OK stupid joke!)... everything seems to end up in tears... childhood, adolesence, love, life... and in between, short snaps of happiness... waiting... for the outburst... the outburst of rain... i don't know why but rain's always been magical to me... when i was little i was wondering... how this sky that cherishes the sun, that is blue and happy can produce rain? as a child, my daddy o' used to come on his bicycle to pick me up from school... and our little stray dog charlie would run after us all the way, covering these 2 kilometres from school to home, running padding waving his tail in joy... in the rain... my daddy would then take the bicycle into the small store house in the yard and i'd run and hide... i'd lean against the wall and let the rain fall on me, wishing i'd get ill... poor charlie! he'd stay there with me getting all soaked himself... I don't remember who wrote that in one of the recent posts, it was so true though... mm something like "being ill when you're a child it's great, being ill as an adult it sucks"... i couldn't agree more... My dearest PF wrote: " at theturn of the previous century, W.B. Yeats went to see A Doll's House: '"Art is art because it is not nature"," which i misread as "art is art because is not mature"... which made me think what a genius thing to say whilst watching an Henrik Ibsen theatre play... then i read again... and I have to say, the PF, and i think you might second me on that, that I prefer my version of mr Yeats' quote... or like the situationists say "detour children, detour"... And other people wrote stuff about love... and crushes... i have to say that i'm losing faith in love... not that i've ever had any... nobody dies of love in our days... isn't that true? and i've always been dreaming of a love equivalent to the ones i was reading in my books... a love like Tristane and Isolde's... "hopelessly romantic" like the Adorable sing.... waiting, believing that the ONE exists... I still do... awful, i know... but anyway, i thought i should talk about love through poetry... it's always more eloquent than my words... There was this woman poet who I think that she became a poet cause of her repressed passion for a cursed poet... she wrote and wrote and bared her soul... what i think it's one of the most sincere things that she'd written is: "... my soul and love were born on the same day. Even though i can feel that inside me, i don't believe there is a day when my ability to really love shall be proven to me..." and then this poem... so so appropriate... "who could tell..." (1927) You've known me to lean over your love like a butterfly over the scarlet flower and to spread as much as my heart could exhilarating the song of love. you've known my heart's wild outburst in the spring's sweet-scented field, my embrace would turn into a longing's wave your youth to snuggle and the roses... Yes, this snuggling of youth and roses... the days of wine and roses... the days of cholera... the day of devastation... the days of waR... coz love is war... here's a link so you can see Maria Polidouri's photo... that's especially for my Laura coz like I've just told her she's one of the few people who'd appreciate this and dream... but then that's especially for my dearest Nicholas, who would really appreciate this too and for Paul, who knows me better than anyone else and he always knows what i'm talking about when i don't make sense to myself even... http://www.geocities.com/atheosdei/Poetry.html But enough with romanticism... which like any other term in philosophy that ends in -ism is a negative term... here's what one of my fave poets, monsieur Jaques Prever, wrote about love in his poem "the tinniest of the songs" The bird that sings in my head And relentlessly tells me that i love you And relentlessly tells me that you love me The bird with the unbearable refrain I shall this bird kill tomorrow morning... Lovely isn't it? i love it anyway.... and yes, I want to kill this bird... StayC Dahling was wondering about the lover and the beloved... I guess I wouldn't like to be any of them... to be the lover without having your love fed is unbearable... i'd kill the bird... i'd kill the beloved than suffering like this... to be the beloved but not the lover at the same time, well, that's suffocating... there would be times when i'd hate the lover... because his love would smother me, would crash me, would suffocate my youth and roses in this constricting embrace... that is all for now... take care... hugs vel xxx PS: forgive my bad translations of the poems from greek to english... PpS: I loved Kyla's post! keep posting my Kyla with the beautiful gaelic name... "WaR is the last possible cReative act"Mick Travis "IF" __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? 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