Sublime
An inspiration engine for ideas
"there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke . . ." - Charles Bukowski
Mary Oliver Wild Geese
phys.unm.edu
But now it has happened,
No use in talking
The silence between me and you
Has never had meaning.
It was, love it, that was all
That was asked.
But now it has happened,
No words for the foretime,
The desperation has made me the same,
Has made me another.
Who looks at the shape of the fish
Grow giant on the side of his bowl,
Who walks on the terrace
Observing fol... See more
No use in talking
The silence between me and you
Has never had meaning.
It was, love it, that was all
That was asked.
But now it has happened,
No words for the foretime,
The desperation has made me the same,
Has made me another.
Who looks at the shape of the fish
Grow giant on the side of his bowl,
Who walks on the terrace
Observing fol... See more
Unknown • CHET ON POETRY (Chet Baker)
Why do we read and write poetry? (Dead Poets Society)
youtube.com
In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night... See more
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night... See more
Jeffrey McDaniel • The Quiet World by Jeffrey McDaniel | Poetry Foundation
This Be The Verse
BY PHILIP LARKIN
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one anothe... See more
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing…
William Blake