14 April 2014 @ 11:26 am
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13 April 2014 @ 04:30 pm
Customer: I'm looking for some books on my kid's summer reading list. Do you have Tequila Mockingbird?

Customer: Do you have any books by Jane Eyre?

Customer: Who is the author of the Shakespeare plays?

Customer: Someone should have taught that Shakespeare guy how to spell. I mean, am I right, or am I right?

~~Weird Things Customers Say in Bookshops by Jen Campbell.
 
 
30 March 2014 @ 06:04 pm

Name: Thestral.
Age: 26.
Location: Mountains, Australia.
About Me: I am a primary school teacher and I love my job even though it is exhausting and I have several forms of escapism (this being one of them). I love words and attempting to be a wordsmith at times. I love music, I play many instruments and sing. I love all forms of art, basically. I love animals, I adopt too many from shelters. I love my husband, who is a chef. We live in a little house up in the mountains.
About my journal/What I write: At the moment my journal is exactly that - a journal. I post recounts of my experiences, I try to describe my emotions when it all gets too much and I need to eject them out into text format. Occasionally I might post a random bit of poetry that I have written or little snippet of a short story. Sometimes I post photos. But mostly it's a journal.
What I read: Anything and everything.
What I'm looking for: I'd like to meet new people, make friends, find readers and writers to interact with here. Hello.

 
 
Request: Any poems on forbidden love for reasons of religion, culture, or ethnicity? Alternatively, any poems on interfaith marriage or otherwise mixed relationships?

"Empty Space"
Amrita Pritam

There were two kingdoms only:
the first of them threw out both him and me.
The second we abandoned.

Under a bare sky
I for a long time soaked in the rain of my body,
he for a long time rotted in the rain of his.

Then like a poison he drank the fondness of the years.
He held my hand with a trembling hand.
“Come, let’s have a roof over our heads awhile.
Look, further on ahead, there
between truth and falsehood, a little empty space.”
Tags:
 
 
31 August 2013 @ 09:15 pm
RIP  
The Irish poet Seamus Heaney has died, aged 74.

Personal Helicon

As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.

A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.

Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

-- Seamus Heaney
 
 
29 August 2013 @ 05:29 pm
In The Park

She sits in the park. Her clothes are out of date.
Two children whine and bicker, tug her skirt.
A third draws aimless patterns in the dirt
Someone she loved once passed by – too late

to feign indifference to that casual nod.
“How nice” et cetera. “Time holds great surprises.”
From his neat head unquestionably rises
a small balloon…”but for the grace of God…”

They stand a while in flickering light, rehearsing
the children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweet
to hear their chatter, watch them grow and thrive, ”
she says to his departing smile. Then, nursing
the youngest child, sits staring at her feet.
To the wind she says, “They have eaten me alive.”

-- Gwen Harwood
 
 
28 August 2013 @ 03:23 pm
The Wound

The tenth day, and they give
my mirror back. Who knows
how to drink pain, and live?
I look, and the glass shows
the truth, fine as a hair,
of the scalpel's wounding care.

A round reproach to all
that's warped, uncertain, clouded,
the sun climbs. On the wall,
by the racked body shrouded
in pain, is a shadow thrown;
simple, unchanged, my own.

Body, on whom the claims
of spirit fall to inspire
and terrify, there flames
at your least breath a fire
of anguish, not for this pain,
but that scars will remain.

You will be loved no less.
Spirit can build, make shift
with what there is, and press
pain to its mould; will lift
from your crucible of night
a form dripping with light.

Felix culpa. The sun
lights in my flesh the great
wound of the world. What's done
is done. In man's estate
let my flawed wholeness prove
the art and scope of love.

-- Gwen Harwood