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dabbling in reverie

The musings of a small town 20 something working on some colorful patches to add to her quilt of life. Warning: the occasional elephant will be passing through

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I carry your heart e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
                                  i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

~e. e. cummings



I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over. 

  -“Sea Fever” John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, 
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, 
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, 
And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking. 

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide 
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; 
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, 
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. 

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, 
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife; 
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, 
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over. 

  -“Sea Fever” John Masefield

The Waking (1953)



 I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go. 

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

e.e. cummings

Magic

Imagine for a second that the world you live in is magic.

Not your hocus-pocus, wave-your-wand-magic,
but magic like the coffee tables you sit at beat
with the hearts of the trees they were made from.
That the coffee and beer in your mouths
is feeding you life straight off the tongues
of the plants they were made from.
That every heart beating in this room
is beating in time to every heart in this room
and this poem.

Some of you will go home with some of you tonight
and some of you will go home to empty rooms
that some of you will wish you had gone home to:
go home to them.

Your empty rooms and the rooms you fill
always have at least one poem in them.
There is a poem in the pretty girl eyes in the front row
and there is a poem in the old man’s cigarette on the porch
and there is a poem in the coffee girl’s hands.
There is a poem in your hands, if you’ll look for it

Imagine for a second that the world you live in is magic, because it is.
Because when you go home to your empty rooms
or to the rooms you fill you each take some of each of you with you,
if you want it.

If you want it,
you can take some of the pretty girl’s poem
and you can take some of the old man’s poem
and you can take some of the coffee girl’s poem
and you can take some of mine.

Tonight, when I go home, my room will be empty,
and I will fill it with your poems.
I will fill it with the life the beer and coffee have fed you.
I will fill it with the heartbeats the tables you sit at
have beat against your hands.
I will fill it with the kisses that some of you will give to some of you
and I will fill it with the kisses that some of you
will wish you had been kissed with.
There is a poem shaking the air your ears are listening to.
Listen to it. Go home and look into eyes you’ve never looked into.
Hold a hand you’ve never held.
Touch flesh you’ve never been touched by.
Open your mouths and fill yourselves up
with every poem in every person you encounter tonight.
I’ll do the same.
The world you live in?

It’s magic.

-Gabriel Gadfly