Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Best Church Welcome Letters

I am a poet

I am a poet
a unanimous cry
are a lump of

dreams are a result of numerous conflicts of grafts

aged in a greenhouse

Giuseppe Ungaretti, da Italia

Monday, November 29, 2010

Can Goo Gone Be Used On Spandex Or Modele

Invictus




Out of the night that covers me,
black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
for my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
looms but the Horror of the shade,
and yet the menace of the years
finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of
my fairies
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole it, thank the gods

whatever that is for my unconquerable soul.


In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud anxiety.
Under the blows of the ax
fate of my head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror
of shadows, yet the menace of the years

find me, and I will, without fear.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the
life.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

thank George (IV Braucci Caivano and high school) that I suggested the combination of this poem. Students for a teacher is the best book yet written to be read.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Washing Machine During Spin Cycle

Past

I remember, these shadows too long
short of our body, this

trail of death that we let the dismal living
and lasting memories, here they already appear
:
melancholic and
silent ghosts stirred by a wind funeral.
And you are no more than a memory.
You pierced my heart.
Now yes, I can say that

that belongs to me and something happened between us
irrevocably.
all ended, so charmed!

mild rash and the time we reached.
fleeting moments of a story
ordered closed and sad.
had to know that love burns
life and make time fly.

Vincenzo Cardarelli

Friday, November 12, 2010

Cruise Scavenger Hunts

silent, weary soul to enjoy



silent, weary soul to enjoy and to suffer
(One or the other go
resigned). No
your voice I hear if I listen to:
not regret the miserable
youth, not of anger or hope, nor
of tedium.

Lie down as the body, speechless, all full of
a hopeless resignation.
No wonder,
is not true, my soul, if the heart stopped
, suspended if there was
your breath ...
Instead we walk, we walk
and I like sleepwalkers.
And the trees are trees, the houses are
homes, women are women who spend
, and everything is
that is, only that it is.
The story of joy and pain
does not affect us. Has lost his voice
the siren of the world, and the world is a big
desert.

I look in the desert with dry eyes myself.
Camillo Sbarbaro

Monday, November 8, 2010

Stouffers Outlet Phone Number Solon Ohio

at night in a cold 17 December


.... man that night, alone, in
"cold December,"
pushes the gate and
falls only in his sighs .....

Giorgio Caproni
to leave the traveler & other ceremonious solemnity

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Cervix Soft -pregnancy

How many homes have already touched on shady


How many homes have already touched on shady,
my soul, finding no asylum
flowed from dream to memory,
from memory goes back to being a dream,
you surprised by the storm.
without happiness, without hope
quiet - but it looks like the face
only contains your destiny-
sometimes you Levavi
illuminated by reason, you sometimes eclipsed.
Loud and Incredibly I was given;
exist, as is the still wonder
the past, at this time when milder
the mountain of the sun itself carves
and in the evening that the sea receding and begs.

Mario Luzi
(from Scattered Poems 1945-48)

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Rcd158b Boombox Replacement Antenna





Villa closed


So a family of closed and abandoned
from time immemorial,
secret and closed as the heart of a poet who lives in
enforced solitude. The

around a hedge, and it seems walled
bitter boxwood, and the shade of the pine forest
does not break from the more no more restless talkative
the fountain dried up.
So great is the peace in this intisichita
villa that seems almost everything is seen to traverse
of a lens. Only a rusty Ventarola


high up on the tower silent
turning, turning interminatamente.

Corrado Govoni