one more page of poems and quotes from enigma -
James Lamp
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also, with the church's protestant blessings
daughters, unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things-
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
....the Cambridge ladies do not care,above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

ee cummings
When once asked by a reporter to comment on a editorial accusation that he was "two-faced", Abraham Lincoln replied; "If I were two-faced, would I be wearing this one?"

Other gems of wit and wisdom by Abe;

"If this is coffee, please bring me some tea;
but if this is tea, please bring me some coffee."

"I can make more generals, but horses cost money."

"Give me six hours to chop down a tree and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe."

"I care not for a man's religion whose dog and cat are not the better for it."

(regarding a debating opponent) "He can compress the most words into the smallest ideas better than any man I ever met."

And finally this "Everyone desires to live long, but no one would be old."



Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
To begin, begin.
The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.
The child is the father of the man.

~~William Woodsworth~~
1770 - 1850



Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeons justlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what I want to know is
how do you like your blue-eyed boy
Mister Death

ee cummings


Some leaves hang late, some fall
before the first frost-so goes
the tale of winter branches and old bones.

~~William Carlos Williams


Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date".

- Shakespeare


"If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his soul had really been there, and if he found that flower in his hand when he awake - Aye, what then? "
-Samuel Coleridge


If the ocean were whiskey and I was a duck,
I'd swim to the bottom and never come up;
Hick-up! Oh my, how bad I do feel...
Hick-up! Oh my, I rock and I reel...

WWI vintage army ditty. [In our family -a "car trip song"; led by my mom, and backed with gusto by 'the back seat chorus'.]


"...And what is it about beauty that so intimidates; causing men to kneel somewhere deep inside and pray and wonder just how close they might crawl before being banished from the sanctuary?"
~~Jonathan Hull
from; "Losing Julia" -c.2000



"My senses are charred; I don't take the cigarette out of my mouth when I write 'Deceased' over their [incoming] letters".
- Wilfred Owen, British Army [mail orderly], in a letter home. KIA 1918; Seven days before the Armistice.


The Silence
WE COME from a dark abyss, we end in a dark abyss, and we call the luminous interval life. As soon as we are born the return begins, at once the setting forth and the coming back; we die in every moment. Because of this many have cried out: The goal of life is death!
...but deeper down we feel that Life is itself without beginning, an indestructible force of the Universe. Otherwise, from where did that superhuman strength come which hurls us from the unborn to the born and gives us - plants, animals, men - courage for the struggle?
... both opposing forces are holy. It is our duty, therefore, to grasp that vision which can embrace and harmonize these two enormous, timeless, and indestructible forces, and with this vision to modulate our thinking and our action.
I WILL NOT accept boundaries; appearances cannot contain me; I choke! To bleed in this agony, and to live it profoundly, is the second duty.
Beyond! Beyond! Beyond! Beyond man I seek the invisible whip which strikes.
A command rings out within me: "Dig! What do you see?" "Men and birds, water and stones."
"Dig deeper! What do you see?"
"Ideas and dreams, fantasies and lightening flashes!"
"Dig deeper! What do you see?"
"I see nothing! A mute Night, as thick as death. It must be death."
"Dig deeper!"
"Ah! I cannot penetrate the dark partition! I hear voices and weeping. I hear the flutter of wings on the other shore."
"Don't weep! Don't weep! They are not on the other shore. The voices, the weeping, and the wings are your own heart."
Beyond the mind, on the edge of the heart's holy precipice, I proceed, trembling. One foot grips the secure soil, the other gropes in the darkness above the abyss.
Behind all appearances, I divine a struggling essence. I want to merge with it.
I feel that behind appearances this struggling essence is also striving to merge with my heart. But the body stands between us and separates us. The mind stands between us and separates us.

What is my duty?

...To let the mind fall silent that I may hear the Invisible calling.
I walk on the rim of the abyss, and I tremble.
I ask and ask again, beating on chaos: "Who plants us on this earth without asking our permission? Who uproots us from this earth without asking our permission?"
I am a weak, ephemeral creature made of mud and dream. But I feel all the powers of the universe whirling within me.

I once set out from a dark point, the Womb, and now I proceed to another dark point, the Tomb.

Let us unite, let us hold each other tightly, let us merge our hearts, let us create - so long as the warmth of this earth endures, so long as no earthquakes, cataclysms, icebergs or comets come to destroy us - let us create for Earth a brain and a heart, let us give a human meaning to the superhuman struggle.

This anguish is our second duty.


by Nikos Kazantzakis
Translated by Kimon Friar
(abridged by enigma
)



Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
'Gabriel! O my beloved!' and died away into silence.
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;
Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,
Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,
As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.
Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him.
Kissed his dying lips and laid his head on her bosom.
Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, 'Father, I thank thee!'

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed

"Evangeline" (lines 1356-1384)
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1892)




FOREVER YOURS
Such acts as these that tumble into being
From behind a terrible veil
God Almighty, Most Elusive, what shall a man make of it?
For now it seems a season of growth is to become
Another season for my pruning.
And still I know no living bloom so perfect
With scent so gentle as my sweet Mary.
Yet still does she lie deep in the well of a dark cavern
While rays of my loving benediction
Seek her without consolation.
And she has not seen the face of the sun for twenty days running
Or perhaps truly, much, much, longer
And her soul, and thus mine, are watered By the tears of her frightful sorrow.
What solace may she find in fields strewn with but the bramble of insufferable indifference?
Why has fate planted her so? -While I took my ease and comfort, unknowing?
Oh! Would that I could have been there!
Now tho' I tear my flesh to reach her, and bleed freely without thought or concern, and curse every Creased and folded arrogance, crying out So that my love, carried on the air, may reach her.
She lies yet so still - and mutely unable to answer.
Her voice long ago muffled by a savage thief of virtue.
Who even now draws air and light against the day I can put an end to him.
Darling Mary, I will reach you but tomorrow perhaps.
And kiss your face a thousand times a thousand.
And shush away every fear, and send your nightmares fleeing.
Or I will surely die trying;
Or I will gladly die trying.
Darling Mary how I love you.
Oh how I love you so.

~James
4/27/99 



                                                        Tippy's Page