tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91477166417978540662024-03-05T09:44:07.476-03:30The Stories of MedusaI live in imaginary worlds.Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.comBlogger484125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-41909839698182573382011-11-14T00:56:00.001-03:302011-11-14T00:58:10.494-03:30Hello all!
This is just a quick announcement to say that I finally became fed up with separating my blogs four different ways. I've consolidated to one, and the link is here.
New Site!
It's not much better that this one, but the content is (slightly) more frequent.
Thank you!Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-59287395925890044302011-10-26T21:16:00.000-02:302011-10-26T21:16:00.244-02:30Poem of the day #29Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room
William Wordsworth
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-13769970952052968452011-10-25T20:59:00.000-02:302011-10-25T20:59:00.215-02:30Poem of the Day #28Elegy for Jane
Theodore Roethke
My Student, Thrown by a Horse
I remember the neck curls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidling pickerel smile;
And how, once startled into talk, the light syllables leaped for her,
And she balanced in the delight of her thought,
A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches.
The shade sang with her;
The Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-40524458820533767392011-10-24T20:29:00.000-02:302011-10-24T20:29:00.095-02:30Poem of the day #27Planetarium
Adrienne Rich
Thinking of Caroline Herschel (1750-1848)
astronemer, sister of William; and others.
A woman in the shape of a monster
a monster in the shape of a woman
the skies are full of them
a woman 'in the snow
among the Clocks and instruments
or measuring the ground with poles'
in her 98 years to discover
8 comets
she whom the moon ruled
like us
levitating Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-33373846743822655762011-10-23T07:57:00.000-02:302011-10-23T07:57:00.208-02:30Poem of the day #26A Kite is a Victim
Leonard Cohen
A kite is a victim you are sure of.
You love it because it pulls
gentle enough to call you master,
strong enough to call you fool;
because it lives
like a desperate trained falcon
in the high sweet air,
and you can always haul it down
to tame it in your drawer.
A kite is a fish you have already caught
in a pool where no fish come,
so you play him carefully and Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-54054791886473257722011-10-23T00:16:00.000-02:302011-10-23T00:16:50.017-02:30Language never gets easy.I just survived a Philosophy Intensive, which means that in the last 30 hours, 12 of them were spent in a class covering Analytic Philosophy.
Huh, and when you put it like that it doesn't look too bad. Suddenly I feel less hardcore than I did before I started this post.
Anyhow, one of the things were were covering in class was the work of Ludwig Wittgenstein, specifically his work on language.Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-86912451353503341472011-10-22T20:27:00.000-02:302011-10-22T20:27:08.805-02:30Poem of the day #25The secretary chant
Marge Piercy
My hips are a desk
From my ears hang
chains of paper clips.
Rubber bands form my hair
My breasts are wells of mimeograph ink.
My feet bear casters.
Buzz. Click.
My head is a badly organized file.
My head is a switchboard
where crossed lines crackle.
Press my fingers
and in my eyes appear credit and debit.
Zing. Tinkle.
My navel is a reject button.
From my mouth Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-2678423795038616352011-10-18T21:38:00.002-02:302011-10-18T21:38:38.483-02:30Definitely the image of the day.Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-18336361212665316472011-10-18T21:35:00.001-02:302011-10-18T21:35:16.036-02:30Poem of the Day #24HYPOTHESESM
John Terpstra
The location and number of stars in the sky is determined by
the trajectory of individual branch tips, each of which bears
responsibility for a single pinprick of light.
As well, the individual bent of each branch is the result of its
having scanned the black dome for an unlit location.
These are, of course, preposterous Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-59095692146461942182011-10-16T01:23:00.002-02:302011-10-16T14:29:42.617-02:30Dark Age Ahead: Living without Community.For International Studies, I got to read a bonus book, and the one I chose was Dark Age Ahead, by Jane Jacobs. (It was awesome.)
The main crux of the argument that Ms. Jacobs puts forward is that North American society is heading for a Dark Age, because of the decline of certain pillars of our civilization. And she points out that a Dark Age occurs when a civilization no longer even Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-66111701073656782722011-10-14T22:41:00.000-02:302011-10-14T22:41:18.612-02:30A quote from my other english reading.
Metaphor states a mystery. It collapses the membrane between the thing itself and the image of it. The formulation is that of an equation, X=Y. But unlike mathematical equations, metaphor participates in absurdity, because X is also utterly different from Y. Say the moon is a thumbtack in the sky. A the risk of belabouring the obvious, the moon is not like a thumbtack in most senses. It does notSnazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-671284913193721582011-10-13T10:31:00.001-02:302011-10-13T10:31:56.825-02:30Poem of the day #23Holy Sonnet X
John Donne
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou are not soe,
For, those, who thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but they pictures bee,
Much pleasre, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe got,
Rest of their bones, and soulesSnazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-20824639019720931402011-10-11T10:44:00.000-02:302011-10-11T10:44:00.382-02:30Poem of the day #22She dwelt among the untrodden ways
William Wordsworth
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
--Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could known
Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-66947237966248577492011-10-10T23:14:00.001-02:302011-10-10T23:21:25.511-02:30Poem of the day #21The cat's song
Marge Piercy
Mine, says the cat, putting out his paw of darkness.
My lover, my friend, my slave, my toy, says
the cat making on your chest his gesture of drawing
milk from his mother's forgotten breast.
Let us walk in the woods, says the cat.
I'll teach you to read the tabloid of scents,
to fade into shadow, wait like a trap, to hunt.
Now I lay this plump warm mouse on your Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-37678358907677908662011-10-06T19:44:00.002-02:302011-10-06T19:44:30.707-02:30Poem of the Day #20Love a child is ever criing
Lady Mary Wroth
Love a child is ever criing
Please him, and hee straite is flying,
Give him hee the more is craving
Never satisfi'd with having;
His desires have noe measure,
Endles folly is his treasure
What hee promiseth hee breaketh
Trust nott one word that he speaketh;
He vowes nothingSnazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-55021839807106751432011-10-05T21:58:00.000-02:302011-10-05T21:58:42.470-02:30Still breathing, still kicking, still cruising youtube.International Studies class was today! So far it's always been interesting, both because of the subject matter and because I never have any idea what to expect. ;-) At any rate, today we popped up to the Algonquin Hotel in Saint Andrew's to listen to a talk. (Related note-- that hotel won at life. They had free coffee and the building was FABULOUS.
The main thrust of the talk was about how Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-84711604095009317042011-10-05T14:22:00.001-02:302011-10-05T14:23:25.465-02:30Poem of the Day # 19The Art of Response
Audre Lorde
The first answer was incorrect
the second was
sorry the third trimmed its toenails
on the Vatican steps
the fourth went mad
the fifth
nursed a grudge until it bore twins
that drank poisoned grape joyce in Jonestown
the sixth wrote a book about it
the seventh
argued a case before the Supreme Court
against taxation on Girl Scout Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-39976253255753675192011-10-03T17:42:00.001-02:302011-10-03T17:42:25.128-02:30Poem of the day #18Sonnet 116
William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true mindes
Admit impediments, love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever fixed marke
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandring barke,
Whose worths unknowne, although his higth be taken.
Lov's not Times foole, though rosie lips and Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-66048577451670456662011-10-02T12:36:00.000-02:302011-10-03T17:36:51.918-02:30Poem of the day #17Night of the Scorpion
Nissim Ezekiel
I remember the night my mother
was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him
to crawl beneath a sack of rice.
Parting with his poison--flash
of diabolic tail in the dark room--
he risked the rain again.
The peasants came like swarms of flies
and buzzed the Name of God a hundred times
to paralyse the Evil One.
With candles and with lanterns
Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-29334140614082608062011-10-01T23:15:00.000-02:302011-10-01T23:15:04.809-02:30Poem of the Day #16The Flea
John Donne
Marke but this flea, and marke in this,
How little that which thou deny'st me is;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea, our two bloods mingled bee;
Though know's that this cannot be said
A sinne, nor shame, nor losse of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoyed before it wooe,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two
Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-88913865826242212462011-09-29T20:54:00.000-02:302011-09-29T20:54:16.939-02:30On FearI fear failing.
I fear that if I fail at anything I will hate myself, and everyone else will hate me too. People who like me will be disappointed and lose interest in me, and everyone else will mock and despise me.
On the one hand, this can be a good motivator to-- for example-- really pay attention to the instructions at work. But on the other hand, I have many times in the past decided it Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-48255063665443731662011-09-29T00:15:00.000-02:302011-09-29T00:15:22.595-02:30Poem of the day #15Ode on Melancholy
John Keats
1
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wing;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
&Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-52249016038805263592011-09-27T19:11:00.000-02:302011-09-27T19:47:04.495-02:30Poem of the Day #14A Late Aubade
Richard Wilbur
You could be sitting now in a carrel
Turning some liver-spotted page,
Or rising in an elevator-cage
Towards Ladies' Apparel.
You could be planting a raucous bed
Of salvia, in rubber gloves,
Or lunching through a screed of someone's loves
With pitying head,
Or making some unhappy setter
Heel, or listening to a bleak
Lecture on Schonenbuerg's serial technique.
Isn't Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-86584502589843223592011-09-26T19:40:00.000-02:302011-09-27T19:41:37.136-02:30Poem of the Day #13Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightening they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9147716641797854066.post-54032864135499099812011-09-25T16:22:00.000-02:302011-09-25T16:22:00.889-02:30Poem of the Day #12Prayer (I)
George Herbert
Prayer the Churches banquet, Angels age
God's breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth;
Engine against th' Alimightie, sinners towre,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six-daise world-transposing in an houre,
Snazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13067811993687045270noreply@blogger.com2