christopher lee, narrating the poem “the nightmare before Cchristmas” by tim burton

surrealism:

After the Water, the Clouds by René Magritte, 1926. Oil on canvas, 120 x 80 cm.

After the water, the
clouds. After clouds
the telephone. Then
the hope that
someone will hear it
ring. After the answer
the question. Who
picked the flowers?¹

---

1. Mark Young, Series Magritte, (Chicago: Mark Young, 2006), 22. ↩

8th stanza from “my lost youth” longfellow poem in the movie  “in the bedroom”

full poem here

thedailywhat:

Obligatory Tune of the Day: My favorite Thanksgiving tradition: Gathering around the ol’ Victrola and spinning Arlo Guthrie’s iconic musical monologue, “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree.”

You wanna end war and stuff? You gotta sing loud.

Part 2 below:

Do you have a favorite Thanksgiving tradition?

[h/t: ratsoff.]

fuckabunchobooks:

In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow neer I did not look,
I waken’d was with thundring nois
And Piteous shreiks of dreadfull voice.
That fearfull sound of fire and fire,
Let no man know is my Desire.
I, starting up, the light did spye,
And to my God my heart did cry
To strengthen me in my Distresse
And not to leave me succourlesse.
Then coming out beheld a space,
The flame consume my dwelling place.

And, when I could no longer look,
I blest his Name that gave and took,
That layd my goods now in the dust:
Yea so it was, and so ‘twas just.
It was his own: it was not mine;
Far be it that I should repine.

He might of All justly bereft,
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruines oft I past,
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast,
And here and there the places spye
Where oft I sate, and long did lye.

Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest;
There lay that store I counted best:
My pleasant things in ashes lye,
And them behold no more shall I.
Under thy roof no guest shall sitt,
Nor at thy Table eat a bitt.

No pleasant tale shall ‘ere be told,
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle ‘ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom’s voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lye;
Adieu, Adeiu; All’s vanity.

Then streight I gin my heart to chide,
And didst thy wealth on earth abide?
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the skye
That dunghill mists away may flie.

Thou hast an house on high erect
Fram’d by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished,
Stands permanent tho’ this bee fled.
It’s purchased, and paid for too
By him who hath enough to doe.

A Prise so vast as is unknown,
Yet, by his Gift, is made thine own.
Ther’s wealth enough, I need no more;
Farewell my Pelf, farewell my Store.
The world no longer let me Love,
My hope and Treasure lyes Above.

                                      - Anne Bradstreet

elementalparticles:

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

W.B. Yeats.

tiny-sized:

Alan Rickman reads Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130

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 damask’d, 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. 

thedailywhat:

Lights Out: In a provocative spoken-word piece entitled “The God Or The Man,” Jamie DeWolf, great-grandson of Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard, excoriates his great-grandfather for the “legacy of lies I still carries in my last name.”

Posting on Reddit, DeWolf writes:

i knew this story would die with me as no one else in my family will go on the record anymore about it. it’s a Scientology symbol on my right arm, the Zodiac Killer on my left, they both represent to me reminders of what happens when artists go wrong and all of us have gods and killers inside us. plus I’m a fan of irony. and it’s an awesome thing to expose to a Scientologist when they try to sell me a dianetics book.

[reddit.]

classic emo/glutany poem

Running and slipping on a rock so wet

A flying creature I did meet.

But it did not seem common in its flight,

So I asked it why?

Read More

simon and garfunkle - richard cory

based on the poem by E.A. Robinson