Verlaine

A la princesse Roukhine

C'est une laide de Boucher 
Sans poudre dans sa chevelure 
Follement blonde et d'une allure 
Vénuste à tous nous débaucher.

Mais je la crois mienne entre tous, 
Cette crinière tant baisée, 
Cette cascatelle embrasée 
Qui m'allume par tous les bouts.

Elle est à moi bien plus encor 
Comme une flamboyante enceinte 
Aux entours de la porte sainte, 
L'alme, la dive toison d'or !

Et qui pourrait dire ce corps 
Sinon moi, son chantre et son prêtre, 
Et son esclave humble et son maître 
Qui s'en damnerait sans remords,

Son cher corps rare, harmonieux, 
Suave, blanc comme une rose 
Blanche, blanc de lait pur, et rose 
Comme un lys sous de pourpres cieux ?

Cuisses belles, seins redressants, 
Le dos, les reins, le ventre, fête 
Pour les yeux et les mains en quête 
Et pour la bouche et tous les sens ?

Mignonne, allons voir si ton lit 
A toujours sous le rideau rouge 
L'oreiller sorcier qui tant bouge 
Et les draps fous. Ô vers ton lit !

Titre : Auburn

Poète : Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)

Recueil : Parallèlement (1889).

Tes yeux, tes cheveux indécis,
L'arc mal précis de tes sourcils,
La fleur pâlotte de ta bouche,
Ton corps vague et pourtant dodu,
Te donnent un air peu farouche
À qui tout mon hommage est dû.

Mon hommage, ah, parbleu ! tu l'as.
Tous les soirs, quels joie et soulas,
Ô ma très sortable châtaine,
Quand vers mon lit tu viens, les seins
Roides, et quelque peu hautaine,
Sûre de mes humbles desseins.

Les seins roides sous la chemise,
Fière de la fête promise
À tes sens partout et longtemps.
Heureuse de savoir ma lèvre,
Ma main, mon tout, impénitents
De ces péchés qu'un fol s'en sèvre !

Sûre de baisers savoureux
Dans le coin des yeux, dans le creux
Des bras et sur le bout des mammes,
Sûre de l'agenouillement
Vers ce buisson ardent des femmes
Follement, fanatiquement !

Et hautaine puisque tu sais
Que ma chair adore à l'excès
Ta chair et que tel est ce culte
Qu'après chaque mort, — quelle mort ! —
Elle renaît, dans quel tumulte !
Pour mourir encore et plus fort.

Oui, ma vague, sois orgueilleuse
Car radieuse ou sourcilleuse,
Je suis ton vaincu, tu m'as tien :
Tu me roules comme la vague
Dans un délice bien païen,
Et tu n'es pas déjà si vague ?

Read more at http://www.poesie-francaise.fr/paul-verlaine/poeme-auburn.php#AkFvpCv7BqszFvBA.99

latest favorite novels

Last Orders by Graham Swift
Troubles by JG Farrell

Petrarca CCCLXV

Imi plang statornic vremile trecute
si irosite-n patimi efemere,
fara ca-n zbor, uitindu-mi de durere,
sa-mi dau masura-aripii desfacute


Tu, ce-mi cunosti pacatele gemute,
stapan etern al vesnicelor stele,
da sufletului ratacit putere
si miruieste-L, Doamne, cu virtute

De m-am zbatut in lupta si furtuna,
adu-ma-n port si viata destramata
c-o moarte mai glorioasa mi-o razbuna.

Vegheaza-mi seara ce se scurge-nceata
si-ntinde-i mana cand va fi s-apuna,
caci doar la Tine mi-e nadejdea toata








*sa dovedesc ce pot realiza gratie insusirilor innascute-aripilor- cu care eram inzestrat

2001 A space Odyssey by Arthur C Clarke

Shakespeare

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
     And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
     As any she belied with false compare.

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

This will be an arcane collection of poems, jokes and quotes that I love and have trouble finding at times- here they will be just a click away

A thing of beauty is a joy forever

Words create Worlds


Now is the winter of our discontent


GLOUCESTER:
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that 'G'
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
Clarence comes.

be a merit finder, not a fault finder

learn to fail or fail to learn




Das Ewig Weibliche zieht uns hinan


DAS EWIG WEIBLICHE ZIEHT UNS HINAN

The Eternally Female Draws Us Onward.

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason,
how infinite in faculties, in form and moving,
how express and admirable in action, how like an angel in apprehension,
how like a god!


Groucho Marx- I had a wonderful time, only not this time

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whining school-boy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with a good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

-          "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen [pounds] nineteen [shillings] and six [pence], result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery."