Once upon a time a frog
Croaked away in Bingle Bog
Every night from dusk to dawn
He croaked awn and awn and awn
Other creatures loathed his voice,
But, alas, they had no choice,
And the crass cacophony
Blared out from the sumac tree
At whose foot the frog each night
Minstrelled on till morning night
Neither stones nor prayers nor sticks.
Insults or complaints or bricks
Stilled the frogs determination
To display his heart's elation.
But one night a nightingale
In the moonlight cold and pale
Perched upon the sumac tree
Casting forth her melody
Dumbstruck sat the gaping frog
And the whole admiring bog
Stared towards the sumac, rapt,
And, when she had ended, clapped,
Ducks had swum and herons waded
To her as she serenaded
And a solitary loon
Wept, beneath the summer moon.
Toads and teals and tiddlers, captured
By her voice, cheered on, enraptured:
"Bravo! " "Too divine! " "Encore! "
So the nightingale once more,
Quite unused to such applause,
Sang till dawn without a pause.
Next night when the Nightingale
Shook her head and twitched her tail,
Closed an eye and fluffed a wing
And had cleared her throat to sing
She was startled by a croak.
"Sorry - was that you who spoke? "
She enquired when the frog
Hopped towards her from the bog.
"Yes," the frog replied. "You see,
I'm the frog who owns this tree
In this bog I've long been known
For my splendid baritone
And, of course, I wield my pen
For Bog Trumpet now and then"
"Did you… did you like my song? "
"Not too bad - but far too long.
The technique was fine of course,
But it lacked a certain force".
"Oh! " the nightingale confessed.
Greatly flattered and impressed
That a critic of such note
Had discussed her art and throat:
"I don't think the song's divine.
But - oh, well - at least it's mine".
"That's not much to boast about".
Said the heartless frog. "Without
Proper training such as I
- And few others can supply.
You'll remain a mere beginner.
But with me you'll be a winner"
"Dearest frog", the nightingale
Breathed: "This is a fairy tale -
And you are Mozart in disguise
Come to earth before my eyes".
"Well I charge a modest fee."
"Oh! " "But it won't hurt, you'll see"
Now the nightingale inspired,
Flushed with confidence, and fired
With both art and adoration,
Sang - and was a huge sensation.
Animals for miles around
Flocked towards the magic sound,
And the frog with great precision
Counted heads and charged admission.
Though next morning it was raining,
He began her vocal training.
"But I can't sing in this weather"
"Come my dear - we'll sing together.
Just put on your scarf and sash,
Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash! "
So the frog and nightingale
Journeyed up and down the scale
For six hours, till she was shivering
and her voice was hoarse and quivering.
Though subdued and sleep deprived,
In the night her throat revived,
And the sumac tree was bowed,
With a breathless, titled crowd:
Owl of Sandwich, Duck of Kent,
Mallard and Milady Trent,
Martin Cardinal Mephisto,
And the Coot of Monte Cristo,
Ladies with tiaras glittering
In the interval sat twittering -
And the frog observed them glitter
With a joy both sweet and bitter.
Every day the frog who'd sold her
Songs for silver tried to scold her:
"You must practice even longer
Till your voice, like mine grows stronger.
In the second song last night
You got nervous in mid-flight.
And, my dear, lay on more trills:
Audiences enjoy such frills.
You must make your public happier:
Give them something sharper snappier.
We must aim for better billings.
You still owe me sixty shillings."
Day by day the nightingale
Grew more sorrowful and pale.
Night on night her tired song
Zipped and trilled and bounced along,
Till the birds and beasts grew tired
At a voice so uninspired
And the ticket office gross
Crashed, and she grew more morose -
For her ears were now addicted
To applause quite unrestricted,
And to sing into the night
All alone gave no delight.
Now the frog puffed up with rage.
"Brainless bird - you're on the stage -
Use your wits and follow fashion.
Puff your lungs out with your passion."
Trembling, terrified to fail,
Blind with tears, the nightingale
Heard him out in silence, tried,
Puffed up, burst a vein, and died.
Said the frog: "I tried to teach her,
But she was a stupid creature -
Far too nervous, far too tense.
Far too prone to influence.
Well, poor bird - she should have known
That your song must be your own.
That's why I sing with panache:
"Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash! "
And the foghorn of the frog
Blared unrivalled through the bog.
we are lonely particles, in flux
photons of light, unrequited in love
lost without mass in this universe
we’re dialogues waiting to be heard
floating in eyes, could never say much
we are lonely particles, in flux
we’re rich in love, yet give as beggars
where less is more, and more not enough
lost without mass in this universe
are in awe of our own vibrations
deflect relations, tugging too much
we are lonely particles, in flux
we’re stars that twinkle from above
finding our way, returning to earth
lost without mass in this universe
a mystery pervades the whole cosmos,
what goddamn particles form its mass;
we are lonely particles, in flux
lost without mass in this universe
~deepali
[Last week, the physicist declared that they have found a particle similar to Higgs boson, popularly known as the God particle. Interestingly, the particle got its name from Leon Lederman's book “The God Particle: If the Universe Is the Answer, What Is the Question?”The legend goes that Lederman had wanted the title to refer to as “goddamn particle” because of effort and persistence required to locate it.
Scientists believe that in the first billionth of a second after the Big Bang, the universe was a gigantic soup of particles racing around at the speed of light without any mass to speak of. It was through their interaction with the Higgs field that they gained mass and eventually formed the universe.
The Higgs field is a theoretical and invisible energy field that pervades the whole cosmos. Some particles, like the photons that make up light, are not affected by it and therefore have no mass. Others are not so lucky and find it drags on them as porridge drags on a spoon.]
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”
― Pablo Neruda.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.
”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…
”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
then there was this you
re-entering my life
out of the blue
and I thought
it was
the most
wonderful feeling
wished
it would continue
wanted
to hold on
only to the feeling
and not you
annoyed
to have waited
for so long
for someone like you
but I did
yes I did
despite of you
I mean
despite you
or rather
in spite of you
oh forget it
whatever..
I’ll Be Knocking Out Beautiful Poetry This Whole Goddamn Flight. BY Sean Adams
Tuesday, June 05, 2012 (14:41:23)
I’m sorry ma’am, but if you plan on sleeping from take off to touch down you’re in the wrong seat, because as soon as it’s safe to use portable electronics, it’s gonna be PIPITY PIPITY POW right here next to you. Which is to say you’ll be startled awake by the machine-gun like sounds of wild, emphatic typing rising above the whine of the jet engines and the low growl of my tortuously inspired mumbling.
You see, I’m not just a passenger; I’m a poet. And while they may be able to buckle me into this tiny seat, they won’t be able to contain my inspiration. No, ma’am. I’ll be knocking out beautiful poetry this whole goddamn flight.
What will it be about? Anything. There are no limits to my subject material. I’ll write a poem about flowers. I’ll write a poem about dragons. I’ll write a poem about a flower that fights a dragon and you’ll be all smug and think, Well obviously the dragon would win. But don’t get too comfortable with that mindset because, like a stealth bomber ravaging your brainscape with heartfelt language, here I come out of the blue with all these poetic details explaining why the flower winning is not only plausible but necessary.
That’s not the end, though. No way. Just when I have you willing to believe in a floral victory, that’s when the flower will take off its mask to reveal that it’s actually been a dragon all along, and its need to disguise itself is a statement about how everyone feels insecure sometimes, and also about the mask industry, because, damn, masks are crazy these days, am I right?
Sounds epic, huh? Long? Rambling? Probably 100 lines minimum, right? Wrong. I’ll shove all that into something as compact as a haiku. Because efficiency is beautiful. You know which great American poet taught me that? Henry Ford. He wrote poems so crazy they came out as cars.
That’s not to say I just write haikus. No, I’ll write within any poetic structure. And I’ll write about any poetic structure. I’ll write a sonnet about limericks and a limerick about villanelles. I’ll write two sets of heroic couplets about two sets of heroic couplets that are themselves a heroic couple, because they have super powers and they’re in a romantic relationship.
But if it’s a haiku, it’s going to be about dragons fighting flowers that are dragons in disguise. That much you can be sure of.
Here’s another saying I live by: “Write fierce enough verse to put you in a hearse.” And by the way, you’re not driving that hearse; you’re in the back of the hearse, i.e. you’re a dead person. Because I’m writing verse so fierce that it could kill you, figuratively speaking. Not like its ferocity would make you consider a job as a hearse driver or something. Or, at least, that’s not my intention, but who knows? Maybe it will. You can never be sure how poetry will affect someone. With that being said, I try to avoid hearse-driving imagery in my work, because it seems like a pretty grim career, and I don’t want to be held legally responsible if thing’s don’t work out.
So close your eyes and turn on your noise cancelling headphones if you want, but it won’t help. Because you can block out sound but you can’t block out my creativity. And I mean that to be forty-percent a statement about how moving it can be to watch an artist work and sixty-percent a warning that I throw elbows when I get creative.
She calls out to the man on the street
"Sir, can you help me?
It's cold and I've nowhere to sleep
Is there somewhere you can tell me?"
He walks on, doesn't look back
He pretends he can't hear her
He starts to whistle as he crosses the street
She's embarrassed to be there
Oh, think twice, it's just another day for
For you and me in paradise
Oh, think twice, it's just another day
For you, you and me in paradise
Just think about it
She calls out to the man on the street
He can see she's been cryin'
She's got blisters on the soles of her feet
She can't walk but she's tryin'
Oh, just think twice, it's just another day
For you and me in paradise
Oh, yes think twice, it's just another day
For you, you and me in paradise
Just think about it, just think about it
Oh Lord, is there nothing more anybody can do?
Oh Lord, there must be something you can say
You can tell by the lines on her face
You can see that she's been there
Probably been moved on from every place
'Cause she didn't fit in there
Oh, yes think twice, it's just another day
For you and me in paradise
Oh, yes think twice, it's just another day
For you, you and me in paradise
Just think about it, just think about it
It's just another day
For you and me in paradise
It's just another day
For you and me in paradise
It's just another day
For you and me in paradise
It's just another day
For you and me in paradise
It's just another day
For you and me
It's another day
For you and me
It's another day
For you and me in paradise
In paradise
“In my next life I want to live my life backwards.
You start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you wake up in an old people's home feeling better every day. You get kicked out for being too healthy, go collect your pension, and then when you start work, you get a gold watch and a party on your first day. You work for 40 years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement. You party, drink alcohol, and are generally promiscuous, then you are ready for high school. You then go to primary school, you become a kid, you play. You have no responsibilities, you become a baby until you are born. And then you spend your last 9 months floating in luxurious spa-like conditions with central heating and room service on tap, larger quarters every day and then Voila! You finish off as an orgasm!”
― Woody Allen
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