We are such stuff as dreams are made on

It is a tale told by an idiot, Full of sound & fury, Signifying nothing

Saturday, January 29, 2005

Time Passing ...

Time passing, beloved
By Donald Davie

Time passing, and the memories of love
Coming back to me, carissima, no more mockingly
Than ever before; time passing, unslackening,
Unhastening, steadily; and no more
Bitterly, beloved, the memories of love
Coming into the shore.


How will it end? Time passing and our passages of love
As ever, beloved, blind
As ever before; time binding, unbinding
About us; and yet to remember
Never less chastening, nor the flame of love
Less like an amber.

What will become of us? Time
Passing, beloved, and we in a sealed
Assurance unassailed
By memory. How can it end,
This siege of a shore that no misgivings have steeled,
No doubts defend?

Conjured by Angrod at 18:50

No comments:

Post a Comment

Newer Post Older Post Home
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
“People are always shouting they want to create a better future. It's not true. The future is an apathetic void of no interest to anyone. The past is full of life, eager to irritate us, provoke and insult us, tempt us to destroy or repaint it. The only reason people want to be masters of the future is to change the past.”

~ Milan Kundera

Immortality

Immortality

Transcendental

Transcendental
What is a saint? A saint is someone who has achieved a remote human possibility. It is impossible to say what that possibility is. I think it has something to do with the energy of love. Contact with this energy results in the exercise of a kind of balance in the chaos of existence. A saint does not dissolve the chaos; if he did the world would have changed long ago. I do not think that a saint dissolves the chaos even for himself, for there is something arrogant and warlike in the notion of a man setting the universe in order. It is a kind of balance that is his glory. He rides the drifts like an escaped ski. His course is the caress of the hill. His track is a drawing of the snow in a moment of its particular arrangement with wind and rock. Something in him so loves the world that he gives himself to the laws of gravity and chance. Far from flying with the angels, he traces with the fidelity of a seismograph needle the state of the solid bloody landscape. His house is dangerous and finite, but he is at home in the world. He can love the shape of human beings, the fine and twisted shapes of the heart. It is good to have among us such men, such balancing monsters of love.
- Leonard Cohen, Beautiful Losers (1966)

Total Pageviews

Popular Posts

  • Wherefore
  • Forgotten
  • Nostalgia
  • Swaying
  • Conditions

Signifiers

My photo
Angrod
Belfast, United Kingdom
Building a mystery ...
View my complete profile

Spirituality

Spirituality

Temporality

Translate

Awesome Inc. theme. Powered by Blogger.