beachsounds

December 4, 2009:

all the falls i take for you won’t feed the holes i make for you

December 4, 2009:

Permalink: “ You don’t really understand human nature unless you know why a child on a merry-go-round will wave at his parents every time around and why his parents will always wave back.

William D. Tammeus (via lastchatwithphontaine) (via philomel)

December 4, 2009: poetry as tonic, #13

psychotherapy:

A Word on Statistics

Out of every hundred people,

those who always know better:
fifty-two.

Unsure of every step:
almost all the rest.

Ready to help,
if it doesn’t take long:
forty-nine.

Always good,
because they cannot be otherwise:
four — well, maybe five.

Able to admire without envy:
eighteen.

Led to error
by youth (which passes):
sixty, plus or minus.

Those not to be messed with:
four-and-forty.

Living in constant fear
of someone or something:
seventy-seven.

Capable of happiness:
twenty-some-odd at most.

Harmless alone,
turning savage in crowds:
more than half, for sure.

Cruel
when forced by circumstances:
it’s better not to know,
not even approximately.

Wise in hindsight:
not many more
than wise in foresight.

Getting nothing out of life except things:
thirty
(though I would like to be wrong).

Balled up in pain
and without a flashlight in the dark:
eighty-three, sooner or later.

Those who are just:
quite a few, thirty-five.

But if it takes effort to understand:
three.

Worthy of empathy:
ninety-nine.

Mortal:
one hundred out of one hundred—
a figure that has never varied yet.

- Wislawa Szymborska
(translated from Polish by Joanna Trzeciak)

December 4, 2009: Untitled, Shauna Ubersox

poetry365:

if there is one thing that i am, i am books. i am

ink, gushing black out of aisles of time, i am ache, brushing

past protagonists in purple and girls spun from gold.

i am tall and heavy, standing in grasses so thick light never

touches the dirt; i am a couch on rainy sunday, springs

sticking out and reaching for freedom from musty confines.

if there is one thing that i am, i am heart. i am

constellations stretched out before myself like an angry map,

i am bound at the stake, i have stood in the sun and not gotten

burned. i am consumed with passion, green with envy, red with

rage; i am wax dripping from antique chandeliers onto battle plans

over and over again.

if there is one thing that i am, i am the semicolon. i am

always held at half past half, continuing to both stop and go at once.

i am sleep on a summer afternoon, dreaming about creativity and

angry for heartbreak. i am back in the past looking ahead through

rose colored lenses tinted slightly too pink. i am never in the present

or the future, i am always wax, i am always ink, ache, i am always

books.

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