favourite book quote

From Neruda again:

He ido marcando

He ido marcando con cruces de fuego
el atlas de tu cuerpo
Mi boca era una arana que cruzaba escondiendose
En ti, detras de ti, temerosa, sedienta.

Historias que contarte a la orilla del crepusculo,
muneca triste y dulce, para que no estuvieras triste.
Un cisne, un arbol, algo lejano y alegre.
El tiempo de las uvas, el tiempo maduro y frutal.

Yo que vivi en un puerto desde donde te amaba.
La soledad cruzada de sueno y de silencio.
Acorralado entre el mar y la tristeza.
Callado, delirante, entre dos gondoleros inmoviles.

Entre los labios y la voz, algo se va muriendo.
Algo con alas de pajaro, algo de angustia y de olvido.
Asi como las redes no retienen el agua.
Muneca mia, apenas quedan gotas temblando.
Sin embargo algo canta entre estas palabras fugaces.
Algo canta, algo sube hasta mi avida boca.
Oh poder celebrarte con todas las palabras de alegria.
Cantar, arder, huir, como un campanario en las manos de un loco.
Triste ternura mia, que te haces de repente?
Cuando he llegado al vertice mas atrevido y frio
mi corazon se cierra como una flor nocturna.

and in English

I Have Gone Marking

I have gone marking the atlas of your body with crosses of fire.
My mouth went across: a spider, trying to hide.
In you, behind you, timid, driven by thirst.

Stories to tell you on the shore of evening,
sad and gentle doll, so that you should not be sad.
A swan, a tree, something far away and happy.
The season of grapes, the ripe and fruitful season.

I who lived in a harbor from which I loved you.
The solitude crossed with dream and with silence.
Penned up between the sea and sadness.
Soundless, delirious, between two motionless gondoliers.

Between the lips and the voice something goes dying.
Something with the wings of a bird, something of anguish and oblivion.
The way nets cannot hold water.
My toy doll, only a few drops are left trembling.
Even so, something sings in these fugitive words.
Something sings, something climbs to my ravenous mouth.
Oh to be able to celebrate you with all the words of joy.
Sing, burn, flee, like a belfry at the hands of a madman.
My sad tenderness, what comes over you all at once?
When I have reached the most awesome and the coldest summit
my heart closes like a nocturnal flower.
 
Full Moon and You're Not Here

by Sandra Cisneros

Useless moon,
too beautiful to waste.
But you, my Cinderella
have the midnight curfew,
a son waiting to be picked up from his den meeting,
and the fractured marriage weighing on your head
like a crown of thorns.

Oh, my beauty,
it's not polite
to keep me waiting.
To send me reeling into a spiral
and then to say goodnight.

I smoke a cigar,
play a tango,
gulp my gin and tonic.

Goddamn you.

Full moon and you're not here.
I take off the silk slip,
the silver bangles.

You're in love with my mind.

But sometimes, sweetheart,
a woman needs a man
who loves her ass.
 
Not strictly a "book" quote, but i feel it say's something...

A Pub joke, in the style of Geoffrey Chaucer,by Bill Bailey:

Three fellowes wenten into a pubbe
And gleefullie their hands did rubbe
In expectation of revelrie
For 'twas the hour knowne as happye

Great bottells of wine did they quaff
And had a really goode laffe
Till drunkenness held full dominionne
For 'twas two for the price of one

But after wine and meade and sack
Man muste have a massive snack
Great pastieze from Cornwalle
Scottish eggs, round like a balle

Great hammes, quail, duck and geese,
They sucked the bones and drank the grease
One fellowe stood all pale and wanne,
For he was vegetarianne

Yet, man knoweth that gluttonie
Stoketh the fire of lecherie
Upon three wenches, round and sly
The fellowes cast a wanton eye.

One did approach with drunken wink
"Hello Darling, you fancy a drink?"
Soon they pulled them on their knee
‘Twas like some grotesque puppetrie

Such was the lewdness and debaucherie
'Twas like a sketch by Dick Emery
Except that Dick Emery is not yet born,
So such comparison may not be drawn.

But then the fellowes began to pale,
For quail are not the friend of ale
And in their bellies, much confusion
From their throats, vile extrusion!

Stinking foul corruption
Came spewing forth from drooling lips
The fetid stench did fill the pubbe
'twas the very arse of Beelzebubbe
Thrown they were from the Horn and Trumpet
In the street, no coin, no strumpet

Homeward bound must quickly go
To that end, a donkey stole
Their hands al with vomit greased
The donkey was not pleased
And threw them into a ditch of shite
They all agreed: "What a brilliant night"

LOL LOL LOL LOL LOL
 
Prodigy

I grew up bent over
a chessboard.

I loved the word endgame.

All my cousins looked worried.

It was a small house
near a Roman graveyard.
Planes and tanks
shook its windowpanes.

A retired professor of astronomy
taught me how to play.

That must have been in 1944.

In the set we were using,
the paint had almost chipped off
the black pieces.

The white King was missing
and had to be substituted for.

I'm told but do not believe
that that summer I witnessed
men hung from telephone poles.

I remember my mother
blindfolding me a lot.
She had a way of tucking my head
suddenly under her overcoat.

In chess, too, the professor told me,
the masters play blindfolded,
the great ones on several boards
at the same time.

--Charles Simic
 
Cyrus's survey thread made me think of this poem, probably my favorite by Stephen Dunn.

A Secret Life

Why you need to have one
is not much more mysterious than
why you don't say what you think
at the birth of an ugly baby.
Or, you've just made love
and feel you'd rather have been
in a dark booth where your partner
was nodding, whispering yes, yes,
you're brilliant. The secret life
begins early, is kept alive
by all that's unpopular
in you, all that you know
a Baptist, say, or some other
accountant would object to.
It becomes what you'd most protect
if the government said you can protect
one thing, all else is ours.
When you write late at night
it's like a small fire
in a clearing, it's what
radiates and what can hurt
if you get too close to it.
It's why your silence is a kind of truth.
Even when you speak to your best friend,
the one who'll never betray you,
you always leave out one thing;
a secret life is that important.
 
Who
Are You
Who is born
In the next room
So loud to my own
That I can hear the womb
Opening and the dark run
Over the ghost and the dropped son
Behind the wall thin as a wren's bone?
In the birth bloody room unknown
To the burn and turn of time
And the heart print of man
Bows no baptism
But dark alone
Blessing on
The wild
child

From Vision and Prayer- My favorite Dylan Thomas poem
 
SexyDevilGirl said:
Who
Are You
Who is born
In the next room
So loud to my own
That I can hear the womb
Opening and the dark run
Over the ghost and the dropped son
Behind the wall thin as a wren's bone?
In the birth bloody room unknown
To the burn and turn of time
And the heart print of man
Bows no baptism
But dark alone
Blessing on
The wild
child

From Vision and Prayer- My favorite Dylan Thomas poem
Click to expand...

I like it a lot...it is really beautiful.

From my favorite book, from my favorite writer

"I exist. It's sweet, so sweet, so slow. And light: you'd think it floated all by itself. It stirs. It brushes by me, melts and vanishes. Gently, gently. There is bubbling water in my throat, it caresses me- and now it comes up again into my mouth. For ever I shall have a little pool of whitish water in my mouth - lying low - grazing my tongue. And this pool is still me. And the tongue. And the throat is me."

J.P. Sartre. La Nausea
 
I know it is an amazing poem- but it's too long for me to post her so I posted my favorite part.


This is by Leda Schiavo

Solo entonces
vendras
entera y mia
con los cabellos rotos por tanta ansiedad y tanto miedo
Desde la noche, igual que el reclinado octubre
vendras entre las hierbas
con la piel trajinada de otras pieles
y tus ojos cansados volveran a florecer
libre del animal inmemorial que nos acosa
puntual y no ciclico el encuentro definitivo



Only then
will you come
entire and mine
with your hair made ragged by such anxiety and fear
Out of the night, like the reclining October
you will come through the grasses
your skin worn out by other skins
and your tired eyes will blossom again
free of the ancient animal that pursues us
punctual and not cyclical the definitive encounter.

8)
 
SexyDevilGirl said:
I know it is an amazing poem- but it's too long for me to post her so I posted my favorite part.


This is by Leda Schiavo

Solo entonces
vendras
entera y mia
con los cabellos rotos por tanta ansiedad y tanto miedo
Desde la noche, igual que el reclinado octubre
vendras entre las hierbas
con la piel trajinada de otras pieles
y tus ojos cansados volveran a florecer
libre del animal inmemorial que nos acosa
puntual y no ciclico el encuentro definitivo



Only then
will you come
entire and mine
with your hair made ragged by such anxiety and fear
Out of the night, like the reclining October
you will come through the grasses
your skin worn out by other skins
and your tired eyes will blossom again
free of the ancient animal that pursues us
punctual and not cyclical the definitive encounter.

8)
Click to expand...

I have no words... :|
 
This is another poem I really like- but will abridge it, as it is too long.

Triad

....I remember the incandescence of your eyes:
torrents of light that emanate from the dusk.
Since then I feel my way through darkness.

...you invade the fullness of an afternoon
with the chaotic rhythm of thunder.
Light disappears in your shadows.
Wrapped in whirlwinds of dead leaves,
you advance with the noisy tumult
of deserting angels.
you come to gorge yourself on darkness,
to immolate me over a slow fire.....

....To forget you
I invoke the nocturnal chords of this requiem
written in your memory.

:|
 
SexyDevilGirl said:
This is another poem I really like- but will abridge it, as it is too long.

Triad

....I remember the incandescence of your eyes:
torrents of light that emanate from the dusk.
Since then I feel my way through darkness.

...you invade the fullness of an afternoon
with the chaotic rhythm of thunder.
Light disappears in your shadows.
Wrapped in whirlwinds of dead leaves,
you advance with the noisy tumult
of deserting angels.
you come to gorge yourself on darkness,
to immolate me over a slow fire.....

....To forget you
I invoke the nocturnal chords of this requiem
written in your memory.

:|
Click to expand...

:| Esta poesia me deja sin palabra alguna...
 
let me lighten things up a bit, I'l start quoting Vonnegut:

"...pornography is but fantasy of an impossibly hospitable world.." LOL
 
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