(no subject)

[lucifermourning]

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 lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


-Dylan Thomas

so i've officially decided that i hate 'poetry voices.' i hate it when people read poems that are full of passion or tenderness or pain in that gentle, moderated voices that has no sense of what they are reading. no sense of the meaning and feeling behind the words. and i want to know who exactly decided this should be the convention.

otherwise, basingstoke was much fun and not at all as scary as people led me to believe.

Comments

like sisters

[grey-damaskena.livejournal.com]

I am, somewhat bizzarely, wondering how well I know you (no relation to actual topic of post, for which I apologize). Nine years is not long enough to fathom a person . . . judging by my parents, 28 years is not enough to fathom a person. A lifetime is not enough to fathom a person- I am arrogant, then, to think it possible at all. As if such knowledge were the secret key to connection? Perhaps one assumes it, and thus is forever deluding one's own self. I do not know you, then, and do not pretend to know you: nevertheless, I feel I am connected to you. Where, then, does this come from? Is it merely that we have known each other long enough to be comfortable in each other's presence? That implies that, given time, one could feel comfortable in anyone's presence, and this is obviously not the case. Some inherent personal quality, perhaps, some strange item held in common that, by having it ourselves, we recognize it in someone else? But if you ask me to identify this thing, I cannot, so such recognition cannot be on a concious level; yet I can say, conciously, that we are somehow connected and thus are friends.

Too . . . much . . . philosophy class . . .

Re: like sisters

[lucifermourning.livejournal.com]

i think you are asking the questions artists and philosphers have been trying to explain since they began artisting and philosophizing. which is to say, explaining why some people connect and what makes some connectiones strengthen and grow while others die is quite beyond anything we've figured out yet. i don't know what the answer is. nine years and common interests certainly help, but that's not really the answer. nor do i particularly care. i adore you and i think you are wonderful and love you very much and i can't bring myself to worry too much about why we should be thus connected. i'd rather accept it. why do we love those we love? does it matter?