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& the light is dazzling bright

Jul. 26th, 2013 | 01:09 pm
posted by: specialmei in gid_hanasheh

Jimmy Novak is alone with the choices he has made.

What's So Amazing

I have entered a cloud
& I am sore afraid;

I am standing
alone & the light

is dazzling bright.
There was a moment

when I knew the steps
I was taking would lead

where I needed
to go so I took them,

I did it,
I took those steps

& I was awake
in my own life & you

do not understand
it is not you it is me,

me wanting, me needing
something outside

to anchor this regret to.

- Nate Pritts

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No one understands anymore how beautiful he was

Nov. 8th, 2012 | 12:33 am
posted by: specialmei in gid_hanasheh

Claire, after Castiel

The Myth of Innocence

One summer she goes into the field as usual
stopping for a bit at the pool where she often
looks at herself, to see
if she detects any changes. She sees
the same person, the horrible mantle
of daughterliness still clinging to her.

The sun seems, in the water, very close.
That’s my uncle spying again, she thinks—
everything in nature is in some way her relative.
I am never alone, she thinks,
turning the thought into a prayer.
Then death appears, like the answer to a prayer.

No one understands anymore
how beautiful he was. But Persephone remembers.
Also that he embraced her, right there,
with her uncle watching. She remembers
sunlight flashing on his bare arms.

This is the last moment she remembers clearly.
Then the dark god bore her away.

She also remembers, less clearly,
the chilling insight that from this moment
she couldn’t live without him again.

The girl who disappears from the pool
will never return. A woman will return,
looking for the girl she was.

She stands by the pool saying, from time to time,
I was abducted, but it sounds
wrong to her, nothing like what she felt.
Then she says, I was not abducted.
Then she says, I offered myself, I wanted
to escape my body.
Even, sometimes,
I willed this. But ignorance

cannot will knowledge. Ignorance
wills something imagined, which it believes exists.

All the different nouns—
she says them in rotation.
Death, husband, god, stranger.
Everything sounds so simple, so conventional.
I must have been, she thinks, a simple girl.

She can’t remember herself as that person
but she keeps thinking the pool will remember
and explain to her the meaning of her prayer
so she can understand
whether it was answered or not.

— Louise Glück.

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Once one has seen God, what is the remedy?

Jan. 19th, 2012 | 02:39 am
posted by: specialmei in gid_hanasheh

Jimmy, angel/vessel PTSD.


The air is a mill of hooks -
Questions without answer,
Glittering and drunk as flies
Whose kiss stings unbearably
In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer.

I remember
The dead smell of sun on wood cabins,
The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets.
Once one has seen God, what is the remedy?
Once one has been seized up

Without a part left over,
Not a toe, not a finger, and used,
Used utterly, in the sun’s conflagrations, the stains
That lengthen from ancient cathedrals
What is the remedy?

The pill of the Communion tablet,
The walking beside still water? Memory?
Or picking up the bright pieces
of Christ in the faces of rodents,
The tame flower- nibblers, the ones

Whose hopes are so low they are comfortable -
The humpback in his small, washed cottage
Under the spokes of the clematis.
Is there no great love, only tenderness?
Does the sea

Remember the walker upon it?
Meaning leaks from the molecules.
The chimneys of the city breathe, the window sweats,
The children leap in their cots.
The sun blooms, it is a geranium.

The heart has not stopped.

-- Sylvia Plath

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I never reminisce a sorrow that delicately shaped.

Jan. 19th, 2012 | 12:51 am
posted by: xenoamorist in gid_hanasheh


“Angels and Moths”

If a man once loved you,
he’s turned you into a moth.

That’s how he’ll remember
the flutter: that numinous,
that beating, that winged.

Angels and moths:
that’s who men love.

But I don’t recollect like that.
I don’t think I ever loved
that gently. And I’ve never
flown toward a burning
house, hoping, maybe
my faith lay in that
single thing left,
in that smoldering filigree.
I never reminisce
a sorrow that delicately shaped.

But sometimes I feel someone remembering
me that way: translucent,
crazy, awake only at night.
He’s regretting his fingertips
were not wide or soft enough.
He’s mourning me now.
He’s imagining me eating away
at someone else’s light.

And that’s perfect.
That’s exactly how
he always wanted to love
me. My wings,
my hair-like antennae
my frenulum
between his forefinger
and his thumb.

— Olena Kalytiak Davis

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You have walzed with great style, my sweet crushed angel, to have ever neared God's heart at all

Jan. 18th, 2012 | 12:47 am
posted by: specialmei in gid_hanasheh

Cas on the Godhunt

My Sweet, Crushed Angel

You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to hold hands with the Beautiful One.

You have waltzed with great style,
My sweet, crushed angel,
To have ever neared God's heart at all.

Our Partner is notoriously difficult to follow,
And even His best musicians are not always easy
To hear.

So what if the music has stopped for a while.

So what
If the price of admission to the Divine
Is out of reach tonight.

So what, my dear,
If you do not have the ante to gamble for Real Love.

The mind and the body are famous
For holding the heart ransom,

But Hafiz knows the Beloved's eternal habits.

Have patience,

For He will not be able to resist your longing
For Long.

You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to kiss the Beautiful One.

You have actually waltzed with tremendous style,
O my sweet,
O my sweet crushed angel.

-- Hafiz

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our lives were fragile

Jan. 10th, 2012 | 04:20 pm
posted by: specialmei in gid_hanasheh

elegy for fallen angels

Epitaph: Zion

Murderous little world once our objects had gazes. Our lives
Were fragile, the wind
Could dash them away. Here lies the refugee breather
Who drank a bowl of elsewhere.

- Anne Carson

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A knock at the door so gentle it could be anything

Dec. 29th, 2011 | 10:17 pm
posted by: specialmei in gid_hanasheh

Dean/Cas, 6x20


Water, bone, bed, bedrock –
whatever is underneath, below what's below.
Sudden touchable quiet, shadow
of a shadow. Weather. Sadness turning
ordinary. Nameless illness coming on.
A knock at the door so gentle
it could be anything. Distance.
The just thing not said, or said too late
or said exactly and without mercy.
Wind rising. Whatever might rise.

- Don Colburn

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you were once the elegant host to all the marvels in creation

Dec. 22nd, 2011 | 01:05 am
posted by: specialmei in gid_hanasheh


In a Tree House

Will someday split you open
Even if your life is now a cage,

For a divine seed, the crown of destiny,
Is hidden and sown on an ancient fertile plain
You hold the title to.

Love will surely bust you wide open
Into an unfettered, blooming new galaxy

Even if your mind is now
A spoiled mule.

A life giving radiance will come,
The Friend's gratuity will come -

O look again within yourself,
For I know you were once the elegant host
To all the marvels in creation.

From a sacred crevice in your body
A bow rises each night
And shoots your soul into God.

Behold the Beautiful Drunk Singing One
From the lunar vantage point of love.

He is conducting the affairs
Of the whole universe

While throwing wild parties
In a tree house - on a limb
In your heart.

-- Hafez

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Separation | W.S. Merwin

Dec. 13th, 2011 | 11:34 pm
music: you were a kindness - the national
posted by: maryferguson92 in gid_hanasheh

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

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Eden is burning

Dec. 12th, 2011 | 06:34 pm
posted by: specialmei in gid_hanasheh

Dean/Cas, season 4
Saw this poem around the Internets translated pretty poorly (imo) and usually missing the last stanza. I couldn't find any other translations, so I tried my hand at one myself. If anyone here speaks German more fluently than I, they should definitely do another translation of this beautiful poem (notes and/or correction would also be appreciated!) Or, if someone has a book with a nice translation, please post it! Anyway, here goes.


At night, I wish to speak with the angel,
if he will acknowledge my eyes’ yearning.
If he suddenly asks: Do you see Eden?
I will reply: Eden is burning.

To him will I offer up my mouth,
Dispassionate, as without desire.
If the angel says: What do you think about life?
I will reply: Life consumes like a fire.

If he discovers in me that same joy,
that fills up his spirit eternal, -
and if he raises it up his hands
I will reply: joy is ephemeral.

-- Rainer Maria Rilke, tr. specialmei

Original GermanCollapse )

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