Letters to the Editor
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@WT
I'm not a poet, so I'll offer my favorite. There is nothing this season I like better than the silence of snowfall.
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
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A Technical Clarification On The Swedish Hot Air Story
Swedish officials say they will not just pump warm air rising from the bodies of commuters gathered in Stockholm's train station into a nearby 13-story office building.
Rather, they say they will use the "body heat" to complement the building's hot water heating system.
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We're going to post poems...?
My favorite is also by Frost, ondelette.
To Earthward
Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on airThat crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of--was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Downhill at dusk?I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they're gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.Now no joy but lacks salt,
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stainOf tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.* * *
Apologies if I've posted this before...
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Anonymust
Because such expressions are still tolerated on the Left, unlike expressions of racism.
I second that. And I agree that this group is exceptional.
Yet still we get this:
Was it an impromptu moment that struck a chord with perimenapausal women everywhere who vascillate between tolerating their husband and wanting to tear their murderous faces off at the slightest change in estrogen?
And when I challenged this on behalf of perimenopausal women everywhere, I was accused of "seething". I just thought I was calling "bullshit", but, whatever.
Then this gem:
I was unaware humor loss was part of the biological transformation.
Har-de-har-har. I'm so dried up and humorless I couldn't recognize the wit.
I did, however, have enough juice left to notice the misogyny.
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@thrasher 5:53
i don't watch tv much, but i do read the free press and thought the styles, not to mention the handle, looked similar.
while an A2 resident, i find i agree with you often. btw, meant no disrespect with the homie reference.
cheers!
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anonymust 5:56
your last paragraph says a lot...bravo, and sorry for the pique re: PC.
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patg: no offense taken.. I love my hoomies to
BTW I will speaking in front of the regents next week...
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Pedinska...
I saw that earlier exchange, but couldn't comment then. Sorry I couldn't be your "second."
If it makes you feel any better, I always wish for that kind of man that he is reincarnated with the bladder of a middle-aged woman. ;~) It makes me feel just a little bit better, and I'm very patient. But maybe I'll change it to include something perimenopausal.
Do you know Louise Clifton's poem, Wishes for Sons? It's worth repeating whenever I have an excuse... like this one. (The last stanza is my favorite.)
* * *
wishes for sons by Lucille Clifton
i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
I wish them no 7-11.i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn't believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves. -
@WT
“Should we wonder that confusion about who we are and where we're going may well turn out to be the hallmark of our age?”
I think that is something we should diligently examine, but fifty to a hundred years from now, historians who look back at those of us who lived in the last half of the 20th century will be vexed (pissed) about how we kept having wars, allowed so many to die from poverty, wasted so many natural resources, did hardly anything about world population growth and virtually ignored global warming.
Is the confusion that you speak of one of the major causes of such supreme stupidity?
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No worries, Pat
I understand the pique about PC, and I should have used something besides a cliche to make my point. But, because I did, you were perfectly right to ask me to clarify.
Besides, a little back and forth makes it more like a conversation, and I prefer that.
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My favorite poem::
Incident
Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee;
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.
Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."
I saw the whole of Balimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.
Countée Cullen
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@ RMP
It is.
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Dirigo's ~ a lebotomy? (sp)
Gads.
Ringo, Lulu, and Jack are chewing a dead dear's leg.
But please I'm attending to a left leg that looks like John Dillinger's bowling ball.
Stop giving a rotten calf undue attention. I'll look into the great advice and maybe be the wiser for a difficult ordeal.
It's not a 'sickness' that means death yet...gads. If it's kick-a-Falstaff infected staff infection
Then Nature kicks a bucket of goat milk over because a manure hoof spoiled the sweet milk?
I just hope the 3-dogs don't act like a GOP. They bite dead-bones. The bone splinters and sharp fragments tears the gums and tongue. The blood flows. The beast taste blood and thinks the blood came from the dead deer's leg bone. A serious mistake. You expound better before they/them are re-birthed, born-again, having been conceived at the GOP's pound-kennel DC's beltway-club?
Isn't this, William Timberman, what you keep saying with a more refined and sophisticated manner? Words. Words. But words are all we got? Let's never become bland and infertile of heart-emotions are in the inner disposition....That's what the jester etc., and more eloquent oracle said right? No lose heart. Don't sell the soul. I'll check on the deer leg bone. sorry.
Back to the heart of the topic. No more commercial interruptions. Right DCLaw1? Who knows?
We are fellow travelers.
The GOPS are bloody.
The GOPS are beastly.
The GOPS are bloodthirsty.
The war goes on and on and the GOP licks the chops.
The war is within the heart. Strife. Strife. Why war? greed.