lol i needed a laugh...Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! and on that note...i'm heading out for the night. peace!
Heck, some people seem to choose to be threepid or fourpid, and quite a few even aspire to rocket further up the pid scale.
On the rail tracks On the day’s last mortuary tear, a flighty bird upon the wing turned her eye to me. On the rail tracks sweet winds pause, the fountain grass is quickening. Reeds yielded to her downward beat swaying to the eddying dives. She searched tracks in the dying light; time paused there on the railway line. Shining like a silver knife which distantly did slice. The steely glint was taken up, in her spectered falcon’s sight. A look, in which the sunset rides, mandalas made of light. To punctuate the poignance thus, the bird climbed up another notch. The reeds they sighed and took a breath as a rumbling engine shook their rest. In the grind, the roaring gears frame shadow strobes as boxcars veer. Like a cinema reel, it played. A Flashing glimpse through smoke displayed, a demon dance, a world remade. Did the dirty moon just laugh as it swam beyond this etheric slush? Was my spectral falcon lost, or remade within the frames and dust. In my mind the vision lies, before the thinning ebb of light. The image flitters, spinning still, spanning more than sunset’s spill. In the darkness, a falcon cries, and on the rail tracks, something dies.
Seamus Heaney, who was often called the greatest Irish poet since Yeats, died on Friday in Dublin. He was 74. He was a beautiful man, and the world is a sadder place with him gone. One of his poems, I thought I'd share... The Grauballe Man As if he had been poured in tar, he lies on a pillow of turf and seems to weep the black river of himself. The grain of his wrists is like bog oak, the ball of his heel like a basalt egg. His instep has shrunk cold as a swan’s foot or a wet swamp root. His hips are the ridge and purse of a mussel, his spine an eel arrested under a glisten of mud. The head lifts, the chin is a visor raised above the vent of his slashed throat that has tanned and toughened. The cured wound opens inwards to a dark elderberry place. Who will say ‘corpse’ to his vivid cast? Who will say ‘body’ to his opaque repose? And his rusted hair, a mat unlikely as a foetus’s. I first saw his twisted face in a photograph, a head and shoulder out of the peat, bruised like a forceps baby, but now he lies perfected in my memory, down to the red horn of his nails, hung in the scales with beauty and atrocity: with the Dying Gaul too strictly compassed on his shield, with the actual weight of each hooded victim, slashed and dumped. ~Seamus Heaney
Would you help me with the meaning of that poem please? Can anyone help me with the meaning of that poem please?
A thorough explanation of Heaney's The Grauballe Man poem: http://fawbie.com/2012/10/14/the-grauballe-man/
Found one through Google thanks. Did you understand it yourself without it being explained? I read it a couple of times and it still made no sense to me. It can't be easy. http://www.linkagenet.com/reviews/heaneypoemcriticism.htm
Yeah, I'm familiar with his work though. I was sad to learn that he had died. He's got a lot of wonderful poetry, change-your-life kind of poetry. Check it out, when u have time.
Even that help did really help. I find that poem like a maze. If you think for a moment you know what it means you get lost in the next bit. You go back to the start and get lost again. Where do you start? What is the line to work from?
Is he describing his feelings upon seeing one of those long dead bog men. Preserved by the peat bogs for thousands of years? Like this. http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ym1Rs23BuOI/UIU-sNAhWrI/AAAAAAAAGx0/bLLy6r0XBes/s400/bog man.jpg
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grauballe_Man "The Grauballe Man is a bog body that was uncovered in 1952 from a peat bog near to the village of Grauballe in Jutland, Denmark. The body is that of an adult male dating from the late 3rd century BC, during the early Germanic Iron Age. Based on the evidence of his wounds, he was most likely killed by having his throat slit open."
it's graphic haste the normative cesspool is normatively dysfunctional cesspool marriages cesspool join the circus the normative cesspool is normatively dysfunctional
The Meaning Makers Living creatures shouting for joy Holy, holy, holy, a convenient ploy A euphoric display, a magnetic storm Spirits leaping, generating form Peppered empathy, salted autonomy Morning stars, medieval astronomy Lack of necessity, mere products of events Powerful endings, timely repents Sons of the Most High All destined to die Cast crowns before the throne A life well lived written in stone
Of the Meaning Makers The diction of the dictator was Forged in the Phoenician fire. Words of the ancestral smith and what they mean to us Is riddled in what they did conspire. Dead linguists still speaking From the cryptographic crypt Offer us origins of word's first teaching, Showing us signs in their hands gripped. Voices of the mountains And the sweet canopy Were like lyrical fountains For man to echo eternally. Savage tongues turned silver As we drank from the primordial elixir. Posted by Dan L. Biggin From "The Word Of Pen" http://dbiggin.blogspot.co.nz/2012/06/of-meaning-makers.html Addendum: http://www.sciforums.com/showthread...d-discussion&p=3106290&viewfull=1#post3106290
"Cars" Here in my car I feel safest of all I can lock all my doors It's the only way to live In cars Here in my car I can only receive I can listen to you It keeps me stable for days In cars Here in my car Where the image breaks down Will you visit me please If I open my door In cars Here in my car I know I've started to think About leaving tonight Although nothing seems right In cars (Song lyrics/Gary Numan)
A Valentine For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda, Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader. Search narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure Divine- a talisman- an amulet That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure- The words- the syllables! Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre, If one could merely comprehend the plot. Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet's, too, Its letters, although naturally lying Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando- Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying! You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do. Edgar Allan Poe