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Shrinking Violet Jan 2015
I think people need to be looked at in the eye and told "you are kind and good. you are kind and good. you are kind and good."
Shrinking Violet Jan 2015
My sister grumbles
when I say less miserables
Diable!
I tremble
when I think of less miserables.
In Les Misérables
everyone needs a bit of a scrub.
Jean Valjean takes a gamble
to steal a loaf or die without preamble,
and when it comes down to it,
he really only took a sample bit.
But he was caught
and sent to the docks
and ****! His life went down in shambles...
So when you think your life's a jumble
and no one cares so much as a rumble,
take a breath and then think back to
the fates of all those more and not less miserable than you.
Am convinced "Les Misérables" is an ironic title.  blah blah blah Is it bad that I cheer up when I realise that at least I'm not living in 19th Century France.

"Les Misérables (pronounced /leɪ ˌmɪzəˈrɑːb/ or /leɪ ˈmɪzəˌrɑːb/ i.e. lei miserahb )is a French historical novel by Victor Hugo, first published in 1862, that is considered one of the greatest novels of the 19th century."
Shrinking Violet Jan 2015
I do not know what it is
That you so earnestly wish to forget.
That makes me tremble.
I find you smothered
In the startling infinity of the universe
Where time neither sets nor rises
And the stars are the stars are the stars.
So I wake you from your sleep
And pronounce your name,
Shaking you into existence.
The weight of memories
A pebble rippling your dream-pool.
There, I have disturbed the still hour,
See how things begin to move:
Swift-footed Time begins its race,
And glaciers start to weep.
Stars unfold their dark mysteries
And secrets are spilled
by quivering plums.

Beginnings and endings,
I would not have you miss them.
This then is why I woke you.
Even the Lethe river must run its course.
Lethe river— The river of Forgetfulness in Greek mythology.

Reverso by Jorge Luis Borges (translated from Spanish)
"To wake someone from sleep
is a common day-to-day act
that can set us trembling.
To wake someone from sleep
is to saddle some other with the interminable
prison of the universe
of his time, with neither sunset nor dawn.
It is to show him he is someone or something
subject to a name that lays claim to him
and an accumulation of yesterdays.
It is to trouble his eternity,
to load him down with centuries and stars,
to restore to time another Lazarus
burdened with memory.
It is to desecrate the waters of Lethe."

I would not have you remain suspended indefinitely in forgetfulness as the world turns groaningly on its axis. I would have you accept the inevitability of change in wonder.
Shrinking Violet Dec 2014
To the Victorian poets of Decadence:

I love you, you who conquered lands unknown,
spread diseases, plagues full-blown;
you who revelled
in the unbearable lushness of being
sensuous and decadent, kings
of insidious words, slipping sweetly,
sliding slickly
into the narrow channels of the outraged public brain.

Ah how I love you, you who exhilarated
in deep despair; woe to the nightingale immortalised!
Who yet found meaning in dark emptiness,
rallying 'round with the cry of 'Art for art's sake!'
And so you, bridled with emotion, eat your cake,
fuming with bright, bitter melancholy,
never gaining the intimacy
and restfulness you so craved.

I think I love you because I understand you,
you who search relentlessly through
the victorious squalor of life that will not cede
control to your grasping hands
but jostles greedily to conquer virtuous lands.
Run away Prudence, Chastity and Grace!
Fall to your knees, hang your head, hide your face,
let shame overtake you, for Faith is a cuss word, you've decided.

And so, you arrogant men who surrender
to the hedonist's depraved desires, you pleasure seeker,
dearest sybarite, no mere voluptuary,
You whose gilt-edged poetry tongues my heart,
whose heady sensitivity makes me start,
and long for the things of the world I should not cannot want,
I love you unto madness, to distraction, to a slant-
ing of morals, to giving in and giving up.

I fall, a long way down.
This is something I wrote a long time ago when I was studying the Romantic movement and came across the Aesthetic / Decadent movement + their poetry, and realised that man, were they confused and so restless. All the same, there's something very tempting about their world views.

"Many Victorians passionately believed that literature and art fulfilled important ethical roles. Literature provided models of right behaviour: it allowed people to identify with situations in which good actions were rewarded, or it provoked tender emotions. At best, the sympathies stirred by art and literature would spur people to action in the real world. The supporters of aestheticism, however, disagreed, arguing that art had nothing to do with morality. Instead, art was primarily about the elevation of taste and the pure pursuit of beauty. More controversially, the aesthetes also saw these qualities as guiding principles for life
...
The word (decadence) literally means a process of ‘falling away’ or decline. In relation to art and literature, it signalled a set of interlinked qualities. These included the notion of intense refinement; the valuing of artificiality over nature; a position of ennui or boredom rather than of moral earnestness or the valuing of hard work; an interest in perversity and paradox, and in transgressive modes of sexuality.
- See more at: http://www.bl.uk/romantics-and-victorians/articles/aestheticism-and-decadence#sthash.6Nd31ZkA.dpuf"

"Out of my league, I have birds in my sleeves
And I wanna rush in with the fools"
—"Squalor Victoria", The National
O bid me mount and sail up there
Amid the cloudy wrack,
For peg and Meg and Paris' love
That had so straight a back,
Are gone away, and some that stay
Have changed their silk for sack.

Were I but there and none to hear
I'd have a peacock cry,
For that is natural to a man
That lives in memory,
Being all alone I'd nurse a stone
And sing it lullaby.
  Dec 2014 Shrinking Violet
mads
I'd like to be able to write again, but the universe is turning too slow in the wrong direction.
My heart drips instead of duh-dums
And my breath slips.

Rhyming sticks to the top of my mouth catching grains of rhythm as I regurgitate yesterday's thoughts.

I haven't been able to write lately, not because I am a bumbling busy body, but because time is frozen, I'm cemented and dissolving into the tasteless air.
Everything is too colourful lately, too... anything for me to understand.

Maybe I should start reading again, go back to painting stale blue skeleton hands with not enough paint.

Maybe that's my problem... There's not enough paint in my life.
I don't know, I'm trying... Okay?
  Dec 2014 Shrinking Violet
Ogden Nash
Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
I'm not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.

By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!

Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.

Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.

A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
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