I have made myself personally responsible
for the fate of every human being
who has come my way.
- Anais Nin
The Window
Why do you stand by the window
abandoned to beauty and pride?
The thorn of the night in your bosom,
the spear of the age in your side.
Lost in the rages of fragrance,
lost in the rags of remorse.
Lost in the waves of the sickness
that loosens the high silver nerves.
Oh, chosen love; oh, frozen love,
oh, tangle of matter and ghost.
Oh, darling of angels, demons and saints
and the whole brokenhearted host
Gentle this soul. Gentle this soul.
And come forth from the cloud of unknowing
and kiss the cheek of the moon.
The new Jerusalem glowing,
why tarry all night in the ruin?
And leave no word of discomfort,
and leave no observer to mourn,
But climb on your tears and be silent
like the rose on its ladder of thorns.
Then lay your rose on the fire,
the fire give up to the sun.
The sun give over to splendor
in the arms of the High Holy One.
For the Holy One dreams of a letter,
dreams of a letter’s death.
Oh, bless the continuous stutter
of the word being made into flesh.
- Leonard Cohen
Time Goes By Turns
Dar’s a pow’ful rassle ‘twix de Good en de Bad,
En de Bad’s got de all-under holt;
En w’en de wuss come, she come i’on-clad,
En you hatter hole yo’ bref fer de jolt.
But des todes de lasw’ Good gits de knee-lock,
En dey draps ter de groun’ --ker flop!
Good had de inturn, en he stan’ like a rock,
En he bleedzd fer ter be on top.
De dry wedder breaks wid a big thunder-clap,
Fer dey aint no drout’ w’at kin las’,
But de seasons wa’t whoops up de cotton crap,
Likewise dey frewshens up de grass.
De rain fall so saf’ in de long dark night,
Twel you hatter hole yo’ han’ fer a sign,
But de drizzle wa’t sets de tater-slips right
Is de makin’ er de May-pop vine.
In de mellerest groun’ de clay root’ll ketch
En hole ter de tongue er de plow,
En a pine-pole gate at de gyardin-patch
Never’ll keep out de ole brindle cow.
One en all on us knows who’s a pullin’ at de bits
Like de lead-mule dat g’ides by de rein,
En yit, somehow er nudder, de bestest un us gits
Mighty sick er de tuggin’ at de chain.
Hump yo’se’f ter de load en fergit de distress,
En dem w’at stan’s by ter scoff,
Fer de harder de pullin’, de longer de res’,
En de bigger de feed in de troff.
- Joel Chandler Harris
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