Man Carrying Thing, Wallace Stevens

The poem must resist the intelligence
Almost successfully. Illustration:

A brune figure in winter evening resists
Identity. The thing he carries resists

The most necessitous sense. Accept them, then,
As secondary (parts not quite perceived

Of the obvious whole, uncertain particles
Of the certain solid, the primary free from doubt,

Things floating like the first hundred flakes of snow
Out of a storm we must endure all night,

Out of a storm of secondary things),
A horror of thoughts that suddenly are real.

We must endure our thoughts all night, until
The bright obvious stands motionless in cold.

by Wallace Stevens

- од ПРОЛОГОТ на Дон Кихот

„Многупати го земав перото и многупати го фрлав, зашто не знаев што треба да кажам. И ете еден ден, додека седев загрижен пред лист хартија со перото на уво, се потпрев на лакотот врз масата, со раката на образот и мислев што да пишувам, во собата влезе неочекувано еден мој разумен и духовит пријател, па кога ме виде така потонат во мисли, ме праша за причината на мојата загриженост.“

— Sandra Cisneros

"What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are — underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is."

— Sandra Cisneros

#100tpc #poetry ping @100TPC

#100tpc #poetry ping @100TPC

~

We seek to Heal not Kill
We embrace Justice & spurn Injustice

Our weapons are Words not Guns
We bleed Ink not Blood

We seek Peace not Wars

We seek to Change not Force
We seek to Find not Lost
We are inspired by Love not Lust
We seek to Bless not Curse

We detonate Peace not Bombs
We speak for All not Some

We are?
Poets not gods!

We are?
100 Thousand Poets for Change!

Giving Freedom to all those Bound in Chains!
Nigeria!!!
We Coming!


!thanks for this poem Ken Bena
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