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    poetry


    dotsJournal: it's all...dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: what do they know?

    ...a question of perspective:



    that and how rough you want to play.

    ...Created 2011-10-07 13:25:17

    dotsJournal: knowingdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: enlightened

    ...where to go for light
    and knowing what it looks like
    when it has been found:



    sometimes it is possible to hear certain kinds of light,
    in the way that the smell of the sea can be heard.

    it's all in the mix...

    ...Created 2011-07-18 15:24:20

    dotsJournal: clutter(ed)dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: it used to be a medium - now it's media

    If X, Y are in F and X ‚ Y, then X is not contained in Y and Y is not contained in X.

    too much clutter-too much concomitant misinterpretation.

    if x is x...

    ...Created 2011-07-15 18:54:50

    dotsJournal: days...dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: dear diary

    ...to be told of:

    ...Created 2011-07-01 17:03:26

    dotsJournal: rubbed offdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: blurred boundaries

    smudge (smj)

    v. smudged, smudg¡ing, smudg¡

    es v.tr.

    1. To make dirty, especially in one small area.
    2. To smear or blur (something).
    3. To fill (an orchard or another planted area) with dense smoke from a smudge pot in order to prevent damage from insects or frost.

    Definition 2 i think

    ...Created 2011-06-29 18:04:52

    dotsJournal: those who pout.dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: practice makes perfect

    ...Created 2011-06-28 18:26:04

    dotsJournal: extra...dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: still waters...

    ...ordinary:

    &feature=related

    big beat sound, spastic teeth and alice in wonderland dress.

    you'd know what to do. right down to organising the applause.

    ...Created 2011-06-26 18:56:22

    dotsJournal: i work...dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: living the dream

    ...in an industry that thrives (in the literal sense) on discord, distrust, insurrection, insurgency, violent and non-violent protest and all stops inbetween.

    i sometimes wonder whether or knot i am in the right business and then i remind myself that i probably am, because chaos is something that i relate to well and when something is understood it can be mastered - especially if there's $900 a day up for grabs as an incetive-iser (real wor(l)d?).

    i have seen because i've been there too often that the pearl roundabout in bahrain is now a traffic light controlled junction, as opposed to something that relied on good nature and the inherent need to obey some rules of the road so that order of sorts prevailed.

    with the removal of the roundabout you remove free will; a tangible example of how it is and will continue to be in bahrain.

    *goes to get his kevlar jockey shorts...*

    whatever.

    'Bread, Hashish and Moonlight' - Nizar Qubbani, a Syrian.

    When the moon is born in the east,
    And the white rooftops drift asleep
    Under the heaped-up light,
    People leave their shops and march forth in groups
    To meet the moon
    Carrying bread, and a radio, to the mountaintops,
    And their narcotics.
    There they buy and sell fantasies
    And images,
    And die - as the moon comes to life.
    What does that luminous disc
    Do to my homeland?
    The land of the prophets,
    The land of the simple,
    The chewers of tobacco, the dealers in drug?
    What does the moon do to us,
    That we squander our valor
    And live only to beg from Heaven?
    What has the heaven
    For the lazy and the weak?
    When the moon comes to life they are changed to
    corpses,
    And shake the tombs of the saints,
    Hoping to be granted some rice, some children...
    They spread out their fine and elegant rugs,
    And console themselves with an opium we call fate
    And destiny.
    In my land, the land of the simple
    What weakness and decay
    Lay hold of us, when the light streams forth!
    Rugs, thousands of baskets,
    Glasses of tea and children swarn over the hills.
    In my land,
    where the simple weep,
    And live in the light they cannot perceive;
    In my land,
    Where people live without eyes,
    And pray,
    And fornicate,
    And live in resignation,
    As they always have,
    Calling on the crescent moon:
    "O Crescent Moon!
    O suspended God of Marble!
    O unbelievable object!
    Always you have been for the east, for us,
    A cluster of diamonds,
    For the millions whose senses are numbed"

    On those eastern nights when
    The moon waxes full,
    The east divests itself of all honor
    And vigor.
    The millions who go barefoot,
    Who belive in four wives
    And the day of judgment;
    The millions who encounter bread
    Only in their dreams;
    Who spend the night in houses
    Built of coughs;
    Who have never set eyes on medicine;
    Fall down like corpses beneath the light.

    In my land,
    where the stupid weep
    And die weeping
    Whenever the crescent moon appears
    And their tears increase;
    Whenever some wretched lute moves them...
    or the song to "night"
    In my land,
    In the land of the simple,
    where we slowly chew on our unending songs-
    A form of consumption destroying the east-
    Our east chewing on its history,
    its lethargic dreams,
    Its empty legends,
    Our east that sees the sum of all heroism
    In Picaresque Abu Zayd al Hilali

    ...Created 2011-06-18 19:19:23

    dotsJournal: it is...dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: tired but optimistic

    ...a peace camp:



    i drove past the roundabout today and it is a peace camp. good people simply looking for a good deal.

    good luck i say...

    ...Created 2011-02-21 11:38:31

    dotsJournal: sunday morningdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: wallace stevens - new favourite

    Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
    Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
    And the green freedom of a cockatoo
    Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
    The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
    She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
    Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
    As a calm darkens among water-lights.
    The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
    Seem things in some procession of the dead,
    Winding across wide water, without sound.
    The day is like wide water, without sound,
    Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
    Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
    Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

    Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
    What is divinity if it can come
    Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
    Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
    In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else
    In any balm or beauty of the earth,
    Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
    Divinity must live within herself:
    Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
    Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
    Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
    Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
    All pleasures and all pains, remembering
    The bough of summer and the winter branch.
    These are the measure destined for her soul.

    Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
    No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
    Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
    He moved among us, as a muttering king,
    Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
    Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
    With heaven, brought such requital to desire
    The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
    Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
    The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
    Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
    The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
    A part of labor and a part of pain,
    And next in glory to enduring love,
    Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

    She says, 'I am content when wakened birds,
    Before they fly, test the reality
    Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
    But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
    Return no more, where, then, is paradise?'
    There is not any haunt of prophecy,
    Nor any old chimera of the grave,
    Neither the golden underground, nor isle
    Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
    Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
    Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
    As April's green endures; or will endure
    Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
    Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
    By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

    She says, 'But in contentment I still feel
    The need of some imperishable bliss.'
    Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
    Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
    And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
    Of sure obliteration on our paths,
    The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
    Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
    Whispered a little out of tenderness,
    She makes the willow shiver in the sun
    For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
    Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
    She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
    On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
    And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

    Is there no change of death in paradise?
    Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
    Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
    Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
    With rivers like our own that seek for seas
    They never find, the same receding shores
    That never touch with inarticulate pang?
    Why set pear upon those river-banks
    Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
    Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
    The silken weavings of our afternoons,
    And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
    Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
    Within whose burning bosom we devise
    Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

    Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
    Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
    Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
    Not as a god, but as a god might be,
    Naked among them, like a savage source.
    Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
    Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
    And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
    The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
    The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
    That choir among themselves long afterward.
    They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
    Of men that perish and of summer morn.
    And whence they came and whither they shall go
    The dew upon their feel shall manifest.

    She hears, upon that water without sound,
    A voice that cries, 'The tomb in Palestine
    Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
    It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.'
    We live in an old chaos of the sun,
    Or old dependency of day and night,
    Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
    Of that wide water, inescapable.
    Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
    Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
    Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
    And, in the isolation of the sky,
    At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
    Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
    Downward to darkness, on extended wings




















































































    ...Created 2010-12-12 16:24:16

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.


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