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This one sends shivers down my spine..
Excellent review of an outstanding film Sgt :D
I’d forgotten how much i loved this song, until i watched twin peaks again..
The wind howls across the harbour.
Salt flecked hair whips against an already salt stained face.
Surf is up, and the gangplank comes down hard.
It is funny how ropes once cast off became ties that bind.Oars thrusting, lungs hell bent on catching heavens weather.
Rhythmic rowing, waves wrecking us both. Oil slick water beneath
unsteady sea legs.Then a moment of absolute stillness, the calm before the storm..
The horizon bends and darkens the colour of my eyes, and i know
this story has to end. No more yours. Or mine.
Pass the rum, man the oars, head into the four winds
and scream in symphony with the gulls.XXVII
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired:
For then my thoughts–from far where I abide–
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.Cold,
although covered by midnights blanket,
i lie on my narrow bed.
Sinking into its mossy depths,
I contemplate the events which have led me here.Pale in moonlight, i am the ghost that would walk
shadowy halls, although as far as i am aware
i am not dead.. Not in body, although
perhaps in spirit.I envy people with faith, the ability to believe,
in an unknown force, by which they live out their lives.
Maybe lack of faith was my downfall, my nemesis, my inability to
give anything a tangible meaning.Cold,
too many nights spent in the open.
I withdraw deeper, wrapping my blanket closer.
Hoping to emerge from my self made cocoon,
a brighter spirit, with wings of steel.A Farewell to False Love
Farewell false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A bas/tard vile, a beast with rage possessed,
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers,
Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose,
A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lend to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.A fortress foiled, which reason did defend,
A siren song, a fever of the mind,
A maze wherein affection finds no end,
A raging cloud that runs before the wind,
A substance like the shadow of the sun,
A goal of grief for which the wisest run.A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,
A path that leads to peril and mishap,
A true retreat of sorrow and despair,
An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure’s lap,
A deep mistrust of that which certain seems,
A hope of that which reason doubtful deems.Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed,
And for my faith ingratitude I find;
And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed,
Whose course was ever contrary to kind
False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu.
Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.Sir Walter Raleigh
None of em.
Not sure if this fits here, but what the hell i like it..
Dublin
Grey brick upon brick,
Declamatory bronze
On sombre pedestals –
O’Connell, Grattan, Moore –
And the brewery tugs and the swans
On the balustraded stream
And the bare bones of a fanlight
Over a hungry door
And the air soft on the cheek
And porter running from the taps
With a head of yellow cream
And Nelson on his pillar
Watching his world collapse.This never was my town,
I was not born or bred
Nor schooled here and she will not
Have me alive or dead
But yet she holds my mind
With her seedy elegance,
With her gentle veils of rain
And all her ghosts that walk
And all that hide behind
Her Georgian facades –
The catcalls and the pain,
The glamour of her squalor,
The bravado of her talk.The lights jig in the river
With a concertina movement
And the sun comes up in the morning
Like barley-sugar on the water
And the mist on the Wicklow hills
Is close, as close
As the peasantry were to the landlord,
As the Irish to the Anglo-Irish,
As the killer is close one moment
To the man he kills,
Or as the moment itself
Is close to the next moment.She is not an Irish town
And she is not English,
Historic with guns and vermin
And the cold renown
Of a fragment of Church latin,
Of an oratorical phrase.
But oh the days are soft,
Soft enough to forget
The lesson better learnt,
The bullet on the wet
Streets, the crooked deal,
The steel behind the laugh,
The Four Courts burnt.Fort of the Dane,
Garrison of the Saxon,
Augustan capital
Of a Gaelic nation,
Appropriating all
The alien brought,
You give me time for thought
And by a juggler’s trick
You poise the toppling hour –
O greyness run to flower,
Grey stone, grey water,
And brick upon grey brick.Louis MacNeice
