✍🏻 How I Yearn 4 U

[ . & your perfect smile . ]

    I burn beyond belief
    I crave u desperately
    You’re my opium & oxygen
    u say:
    (( the last fight killed me ))
    (( I’m broken ))
    (( I’m now a different person ))
    But, i need u 2 no:
    2 me u r u and, u R u
    U 2 me r utterly irreplaceable
    I live only 2 be with u
    U R my One&Only
    ~ My Heat
    ~~ My Heart
    ~~~ My Happiness
    ~~~~ My Heaven-sent Heroine
    Your honey IS MY heroin.

From here to infinity

✍🏻 The Pain

is so truly limitless

  I‘d read about love on many an occasion
  Love, they said, could kill without any exertion
  Until last month this was abstract exposition

  Inconsolable now; I’m “dead on the inside”
  Love so pristine, which I’ve now rendered denied
  Unless I can make mends, pure heartache will preside

  Irreplaceable: You are a unique snowflake
  Love so pure flowed between us; let’s not forsake
  U R the only one, of this, make no mistake.

Gaius Catullus

(Roman | 84–54 BC)

I hate and I love
Why do I, you ask?
I don’t know, but it’s happening
and it hurts

Gaius Catullus was a Latin poet of the late Roman Republic who wrote chiefly in the neoteric style of poetry, which is about personal life rather than classical heroes

Let us live and love, nor give a damn what sour old men say.
The sun that sets may rise again, but when our light has sunk into the earth it is gone forever.

W.O.L.O., dearest J

Lesbia, I am mad:
my brain is entirely warped

by this project of adoring
and having you

and now it flies into fits
of hatred at the mere thought of your

doing well, and at the same time
it can’t help but seek what

is unimaginable–
your affection. This it will go on

hunting for, even if it
means my total and utter annihilation.

Kisses r sumptuous & life sustaining.

Lesbia, you ask how many kisses of yours
would be enough and more to satisfy me.
As many as the grains of Libyan sand
that lie between hot Jupiter’s oracle,
at Ammon, in resin-producing Cyrene,
and old Battiades sacred tomb:
or as many as the stars, when night is still,
gazing down on secret human desires:
as many of your kisses kissed
are enough, and more, for mad Catullus,
as can’t be counted by spies
nor an evil tongue bewitch us.

W B Yeats

[Irish | 1865–1939]

William Butler Yeats was an Irish poet and one of the foremost figures of 20th-century literature.

I have spread my dreams under your feet.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

U R my moon ‘Secret Sharer.’

For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon

The pool, the not fit for purpose outfit, the thrill & the excitement. Then, then came the pain, the god awful pain and desperation… my empire of hurt; it cuts way way beyond the bone.

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him up for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

📙 I, Claudius

(Robert Graves | 1895–1985)

On Rome
A brilliant account of the madness and debauchery of Ancient Rome…

I, Claudius brings the ancient world of Rome to life with startling clarity and meticulous realism. The book focuses on Claudius who was despised for his weakness and regarded by his family as little more than a stammering fool. Claudius quietly survives the intrigues, bloody purges and mounting cruelty of the imperial Roman dynasties. The novel is written as if it were Claudius’s own autobiography. He watches from the sidelines to write down about the reigns of its emperors: from the wise Augustus and his villainous wife Livia to the sadistic Tiberius and the insane excesses of Caligula.

The book’s author, Robert von Ranke Graves, was a British poet, historical novelist, critic, and classicist.

On other writers:

The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he really is very good, in spite of all the people who say he is very good.

On love:

Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire’s own daughter,
So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly
Singing about her head, as she rode by.

Here is a wonderful article by Brad Leithauser in New Yorker magazine that compares Graves to E E Cummings:
“A poet of piercing valentines.”

✍🏻 Darkest Night

[ part 1 of 2 ]


  When a lover is lost
   Death daily is the cost
   Oh bitter and sweet love
   ~ Nothing is more painful
   ~ ~ Nothing’s more beautiful

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

— Vladimir Nabokov

See part two (2 of 2)

when I type a certain letter on my phone, it automatically suggests your first name as my wanted word — the name that I do in fact say to myself more that 1,000 times per day — and when I type in another letter, it automatically suggests your family name as my wanted word — a name we jointly chose to drop as an act of emancipation.

Little Britain redux, well, sort of:

✍🏻 Blinding Light

[ part 2 of 2 ]

I see a white car and I want it to be black;
No colours anymore I want all to be black.

— everything’s loaded whether we know it or not.

Colours, like numbers, have implications.

Speaking for me, my true colours are neutral for nowadays I really don’t prejudge. I can say this for the following reason: I’ve read heartache that’s been penned by those on both sides of the gender divide (as well as those of neither or both); those from most continents and confessions (or none); those that’ve been written recently and those set down several millennia ago. It holds then, that ‘Love’ is colourblind (as are the feelings of heartache, longing, regret and remorse). So, I am as one with anyone (anywhere, anytime) who is suffering from the loss of a lover, I’m here, I do deeply feel for you.

Ms black

  Suffice to say Ms Victoria Black, you’re the:
   lady in red: sophisticated & open;
   you are the unknown citizen at rainbow’s end.
   I’ll seek you to eternity come, you’re the one;
   I’ll take the left fork then I’ll take the write one two;
   I’ll dig and etch, I’ll read and I’ll try to do right.
   Forgive me sisters for I have done wretched wrongs.
   Forgive me mother for I have so badly sinned.

See part one (1 of 2)

✍🏻 8 (mate ‘n’ master)

what do you insinu8?

Here, in the sonnet below, our bard is saying, “okay, I know in the eyes of others the one I love probably ain’t the bee’s knees; probably ain’t everyone’s be all and end all” but, in my eyes, she’s perfect and she’s priceless and she’s beyond compare:

Sonnet 130

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

— William Shakespeare (analysis below)

BBC Listening (oh my 💓; there’d be a summary and a link to the corresponding story too).

October’s Cataclysm

  When the calendar did etch up 3 weeks
  I felt the hole in my heart deepen more
  I felt the rupture in my soul still more
  I felt the hollow of forever more.

  Then I looked up to the blinding sunlight
  I worked hard to make myself stand upright
  I wended for solace with my graphite
  I willed myself to state it’ll be alright.

  Then, back to default: eyes to the abyss
  I see sadness begot from broken hopes
  I see ageing, despair and stark decay
  I see winter grey and cold solitude.

  But i’m incapable of letting go;
  You’re my heart (💖) so, everything I’ll forgo.

Oh my sweetheart, [why must] violent delights have violent ends?

A poet, traditionally one who recites epic poems.

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 divides critical opinion. Is this poem a touching paean to inner beauty (opposed to superficiality) or is it simply misogynistic? Before we continue I must say: “Render unto Caesar” (…the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s) Matthew 22:21. By which I mean, thank-you [APAAPA &|| CMS] to Dr Oliver Tearle.

We might conclude Shakespeare is saying that the object of the poem is not exactly a conventional beauty, but he still thinks she is the one for him. I think Shakespeare is locating the source of his love for the lady in the poem in things that go beyond physical beauty (remember she’s not depicted as being ugly but rather, she’s not being depicted as a goddess). The key word is “love” — I think my love as rare/as any she belied with false compare — despite being no better looking than any other woman, she “is” the one he loves. Some argue that it is not about the early blooming of love in youthful passion but the lasting love and friendship that endears us to our chosen one. Love then ceases to be intent on appearances and focuses on character. Remember familiarity often breeds love, we love our old furniture etc.

Some contend that the poem is a continuation of the argument put forward in earlier sonnets in the sequence (such as Sonnet 87), which detailed Shakespeare’s desire to distance himself from his contemporaries — suggesting that the poem is not really about the Dark Lady per se, but about repudiating other poets’ methods and styles. In other words, repudiating their overly flowery language when idolising the women of their obsessions. He basically says ‘my lover looks very normal, like everyone else’ and is poking fun at poets who insist in using ridiculous hyperbole and similes to spin a yarn. Was this sonnet, in fact, the first complaint against the fashion industry of poetry creating unrealistic images of women which simply could not be met by most women?

Robert Frost

(American | 1874–1963)

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

I had that gold, I held it and I possessed it. I erroneously took it for granted and now it’s gone. It’s gone but it can never be forgotten.

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.

What once was, no longer is. But I’ll dig ’til I die. I live for one more kiss; one more seismic shift.

Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

Robert Frost was an American poet and winner of four Pulitzer Prizes.
Arguably he is one of the greatest American poet of the 20th c. His 1916 poem, “The Road Not Taken,” is often read at graduation ceremonies across the United States.


This may be one of the first poems we ever worked on together:

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

Did we conclude it was a dream, a morbid dream about mortality? Oh J, what have I done, what possessed me to be so cavalier with the open book?