Eric Machmer: Sunshine’s Little Friend Friday (a Meerkat Adventuress)

(She looks a little bit like the Gieco Gekko here…

that may be the effect of greyscale…well,

in addition to stance, gesture, attitude, and eyes.)

This entry was posted in Character Design, Eric Machmer, Storyboards on 2010/04/12 by FriendlyHelper.

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KSHEMENDRA, KASHMIRI POET FROM THE 11TH CENTURY:

Poets should learn with their eyes the forms of leaves.

They should know how to make people laugh when all are together.

They should go to see what people are really like.

They should know about oceans and mountains in themselves, and the sun and the moon and the stars.

Their minds should enter into the seasons.

They should go among many people in many places, and learn their languages.

"Congratulate yourselves if you have done something strange and extravagant and broken the monotony of a decorous age." Emerson

"Start a huge, foolish project, like Noah…it makes absolutely no difference what people think of you; one of the marvels of the world is a soul in prison with the keys in its hand covered by dust." Rumi

"Nobody succeeds beyond his or her wildest expectations unless he or she begins with some wild expectations." Charell

"Do your work with your whole heart and you will succeed-there is so little competition." Hubbard

‘Ballad of the Army Carts’, Du Fu

Wagons rattling, banging, horses neighing, snorting, draftees marching, bows arrows at hips, fathers, mothers, wives, children, run to say goodbye -- kick up so much dust you can't see Xian-yang bridge!

Families pull at clothes, feet stamp in anger! Block the way -- shrieking! Despair raises tears to heaven, there is no need to pray

I walk alongside the column. I ask, "What is happening?"

A soldier shrugs, "It's like this all the time. From age fifteen they are sent to guard the North, at forty they garrison the West. When leaving home the village elder wraps their turbans, when returning home their hair is white.

Frontiers flood with blood oceans War loving emperors dream of conquests forever

Haven't they heard, in Han, east of the mountains, there are two hundred prefectures, thousands of villages growing nothing but thorns?

Even where strong wives handle hoe and plough, crops grow chaotically, fields are disasters

It's harvest for men of Quin, they're such good fighters they're driven from battle to battle like dogs, chickens

Even though you were kind enough to ask, sir, perhaps I shouldn't complain, as a soldier

Take this winter, Shanxi troops were never sent home. Their tax collectors are demanding land taxes though -- land fees! Where is that money supposed to come from?!?

A son is born to be killed

Have you seen the shores of Kokonor? White bones lie in drifts, uncollected

new ghosts moan, old ghosts cry

under lowering clouds their voices scream in rain.

VINCENT VAN GOGH, 1853-1890

If one keeps loving faithfully what is really worth loving, and does not waste one's love on insignificant and unworthy and meaningless things, one will get more light by and by and grow stronger. Sometimes it is well to go into the world and converse with people, and at times one is obliged to do so, but he who would prefer to be quietly alone with his work, and who wants but very few friends, will go safest through the world and among people. And even in the most refined circles and with the best surroundings and circumstances, one must keep something of the original character of an anchorite, for otherwise one has no root in oneself; one must never let the fire go out in one's soul, but keep it burning.

Whoever chooses poverty for himself and loves it possesses a great treasure, and will always clearly hear the voice of his conscience; he who hears and obeys that voice, which is the best gift of God, finds at least a friend in it, and is never alone.

‘Prayer to Aphrodite’, Sappho, 612 B.C.

Eternal Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter, throne
of inlay, deviser of nets, I entreat you:
do not let a yoke of grief and anguish weigh down my soul, Lady,

But come to me now, as you did before
when, hearing my cries even at that distance you slammed the door of your father’s house – Golden! and hastened

To harness your chariot. At last you, Divine Lady, beaming your earthly smile at me,

asked was I in distress once again – for, why had I called you?

And what did my unruly heart demand
of you now? “And whom do I urge this time to return your generous friendship? Who, Sappho, has been stubborn?”

For if she avoids you, soon she will come knocking; if refuses presents, will shower them on you; if she loves not, she shall love, and learn to be kinder.”

I beg you, come. Free me from this oppression. All that my heart longs to see accomplished, Goddess, do it. No one could resist if you were fighting beside me.

Anonymous, Egyptian, 1100 B.C.

I found my love by the secret canal,
feet dangling down in the water.
He had made a hushed cell in the thicket, for worship,
to dedicate this day
to holy elevation of the flesh.

He brings to light what is hidden
(breast and thigh go bare, go bare),
now, raised on high toward his altar, exalted,
A!
A tall man is more than his shoulders!

The Arbor, Sappho 612 B.C.

He seems to be a god, that man Facing you, who leans to be close, Smiles, and, alert and glad, listens To your mellow voice

And quickens in love at your laughter That stings my breast, jolts my heart If I dare the shock of a glance. I cannot speak

My tongue sticks to my dry mouth, Thin fire spreads beneath my skin, My eyes cannot see and my aching ears Roar in their labyrinths. Chill sweat glides down my back, I shake, I turn greener than grass. I am neither living nor dead and cry From the narrow between.

Ibycus, 560 B.C.

In the Spring the quince and the
pomegranate bloom in the
Sacred Park of the Maidens,
and the vine tendrils curls in
the shade of the downy vine leaf.
But for me Love never sleeps.
He scorches me like a blaze
of lightning and he shakes me
to the roots like a storm out of
Thrace, and he overwhelms my heart
with dark frenzy and seasickness.

Alceaus, 620-658 B.C.

I long for the call to council
that I will never hear.

Driven from the land that was my father’s,
from the land that was his father’s before.

The citizens bicker and battle
as I enter my exile, a wolf in his thicket.

Wandering the scorched, dark world.

Anonymous, Egyptian, 1900 B.C.

Death is before me today
like health to the sick
like leaving the bedroom after sickness.

Death is before me today
like the odor of myrrh
like sitting under a cloth on a day of wind.

Death is before me today
like the odor of lotus
like sitting down on the shore of drunkenness.

Death is before me today
like the end of the rain
like a man’s home-coming after the wars abroad.

Death is before me today
like the sky when it clears
like a man’s wish to see home after numberless years of captivity.

Song Inscribed on Earthenware Anonymous, Egyptian, 1100 B.C.

Once more you pass her house, deep in thought,
Darkness is fallen, hiding you:

I would gain entry there,
but for me no sort of welcome opens;
Yet the night is lovely for our soft purposes,
And doors are meant to give passage!

Doorlatch, my friend, you govern my
destiny: heaven for me needs a good turn
from you; (And once safe inside, our
longhorn as payment) – oppose no
spellbinding power! Add oxen in praise to the door, as needed,
Lesser beasts to the lock, slit geese
To doorjamb and lintel, suet for sockets –
And let all that moves turn quietly, quietly!

But the choicest cuts of our fine animal –
These goe instead to the sawyer’s
apprentice. If he makes us a new door – of
rushes, and a tie-latch of brittlest straw.

O then , a man big with love could come
anytime, Find her house welcomgin, open,
Discover the couch decked with closewoven
bedclothes, and a lovely young lady restless
among them! –

(You walk back and forth in the dark)
She whispers: “the mistress of this choice
spot has been lonely. Dear heart, who held
you so long?”

Ecclesiastes 11

Cast your bread upon the waters, for after many days you will find it again. Give portions to seven, yes to eight, for you do not know what disaster may come upon the land.

If clouds are full of water, they pour rain upon the earth. Whether a tree falls to the south or to the north, in the place where it falls, there will it lie.

Whoever watches the wind will not plant; whoever looks at the clouds will not reap. As you do not know the path of the wind, or how the body is formed in a mother's womb, so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things.

Sow your seed in the morning, and at evening let not your hands be idle, for you do not know which will succeed, whether this or that, or whether both will do equally well.

Light is sweet, and it pleases the eyes to see the sun. However many years a person may live, let all be enjoyed. But remember the days of darkness, for they will be many.

Everything to come is meaningless. Be happy, friend, while you are young, and let your heart give you joy in the days of your youth. Follow the ways of your heart and whatever your eyes see.

1 Corinthians 13

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

‘Phenomenal Woman’, Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

‘Bird-Understander’, Craig Arnold

Of the many reasons I love you here is one the way you write to me from the gate at the airport
so I can tell you everything will be alright

so you can tell me there is a bird
trapped in the terminal all the people
ignoring it because they do not know
what to do with it except to leave it alone
until it scares itself to death

it makes you terribly terribly sad

You wish you could take the bird outside
and set it free or (failing that)
call a bird-understander
to come help the bird

All you can do is notice the bird
and feel for the bird and write
to tell me how language feels
impossibly useless

but you are wrong
You are a bird-understander
better than I could ever be
who make so many noises
and call them song

These are your own words
your way of noticing
and saying plainly
of not turning away
from hurt

you have offered them
to me I am only
giving them back

if only I could show you
how very useless
they are not

‘Samurai Song’, Robert Pinsky

When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.

When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.

When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.

When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.

When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.

When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.

Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.

"So what do you want?"
"Nothing but thunder."

Michael Ondaatje

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

. W.S. Merwin

‘On the Back Porch’, Dorianne Laux

The cat calls for her dinner.
On the porch I bend and pour
brown soy stars into her bowl,
stroke her dark fur.
It's not quite night.
Pinpricks of light in the eastern sky.
Above my neighbor's roof, a transparent
moon, a pink rag of cloud.
Inside my house are those who love me.
My daughter dusts biscuit dough.
And there's a man who will lift my hair
in his hands, brush it
until it throws sparks.
Everything is just as I've left it.
Dinner simmers on the stove.
Glass bowls wait to be filled
with gold broth. Sprigs of parsley
on the cutting board.
I want to smell this rich soup, the air
around me going dark, as stars press
their simple shapes into the sky.
I want to stay on the back porch
while the world tilts
toward sleep, until what I love
misses me, and calls me in.

‘”Dangerous” things’, Konstantinos Kavafis

Said Myrtias (a Syrian student in Alexandria during the reign of Augustus Constans and Augustus Constantius; in part a pagan, and in part a Christian)

"Fortified by theory and study, I shall not fear my passions like a coward. I shall give my body to sensual delights, to enjoyments dreamt-of, to the most daring amorous desires, to the lustful impulses of my blood, without any fear, for whenever I want -- and I shall have the will, fortified as I shall be by theory and study -- at moments of crisis I shall find again my spirit, as before, ascetic."

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

Philippians 4:8

‘WARNING’,  Jenny Joseph

 When I am an old woman
I shall wear purple 
With a red hat which doesn’t go,
and doesn’t suit me. 
And I shall spend my pension on
brandy and summer gloves 
And satin sandals, and
say we’ve no money for butter.
  I shall sit down on the pavement
when I’m tired 
And gobble up samples in shops and
press alarm bells 
And run my stick along the public railings 
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. 
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain 
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens 
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and
grow more fat 
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
  Or only bread and pickle for a week 
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats
and things in boxes.

 But now we must have clothes
that keep us dry
 And pay our rent and
not swear in the street
 And set a good example for the children.
  We must have friends to dinner and
read the papers.

 But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
 So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised , when suddenly I am old,
and start to wear purple.

‘Solving the Puzzle’, Stephen Dunn

I couldn’t make all the pieces fit,
So I threw one away.

No expectations of success now,
None of that worry.

The remaining pieces seemed
to seek their companions.
A design appeared.

I could see the connection
Between the overgrown path
And the dark castle on the hill.

Something in the middle, though,
was missing.

It would have been important once.
I wouldn’t have been able to sleep
without it.

‘In My Next Life’, Mark Perlberg

I will own a sailboat sleek
as fingers of wind
and ply the green islands
of the gulf of Maine.
In my next life I will pilot a plane,
and enjoy the light artillery
of the air as I fly to our island
and set down with aplomb
on its grass runway.
I'll be a whiz at math, master five or six
of the world's languages, write poems
strong as Frost and Milosz.
In my next life I won't wonder why
I lie awake from four till daybreak.
I'll be amiable. mostly, but large
and formidable.

I'll insist you be present
in my next life—and the one after that.

“Cherish your solitude. Take trains by yourself to places you have never been. Sleep alone under the stars. Learn how to drive a stick shift. Go so far away that you stop being afraid of not coming back. Say no whenever you don’t want to do something. Say yes if your instincts are strong, even if everyone around you disagrees. Decide whether you want to be liked or admired. Decide if fitting in is more important than finding out what you’re doing here. Believe in kissing.”

Eve Ensler

‘Every Day You Play’, Pablo Neruda

Every day you play
with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive
in the flower and the water.
You are more than this
white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day,
between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out
among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke
among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before
you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at
my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later,
all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against
the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were
moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran
through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one,
you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it
. While the sad wind goes slaughtering
butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting
accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that
sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning
star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in
turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned
mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think
you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers
from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you
what spring does with cherry trees.

‘I Like For You To Be Still’, Pablo Neruda

I like for you to be still:
it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and
my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had
flown away and it seems that a kiss
had sealed your mouth.

As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things,
filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.

I like for you to be still,
and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting,
a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away,
and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.

And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night,
with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star,
as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still:
it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow
as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough. And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

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Celebrate Literacy
Diminish Superstition
Embrace Skepticism
Encourage Simple Living
Enhance Self-Respect
Enshrine Freedom
Help Us Smile
Millennium Development Goals
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Spread Creative Destruction
Teach Hygiene

Specifically Now

Bewilder Racists
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Francis Drake, 1577

Disturb us, Lord, when
we are too pleased with ourselves,
when our dreams have come true
because we dreamed too little,
when we arrived safely
because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when
with the abundance of things we possess
we have lost our thirst for the waters of life;
having fallen in love with life,
we have ceased to dream of eternity
and in our efforts to build a new earth,
we have allowed our vision
of the new Heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
to venture on wilder seas,
where storms will show Your mastery;
where losing sight of land,
we shall find the stars.

We ask you to push back
the horizons of our hopes;
and to push back the future
in strength, courage, hope, and love.

This we ask in the name of our Captain,
who is Jesus Christ.

Anonymous, from ‘The Cycle of Inanna’

Ianna spoke:
I bathed for the wild bull,
I bathed for the shepherd Dumazi,
I perfumed my sides with ointment,
I coated my mouth with
sweet-smelling amber;
I painted my eyes with kohl.

He shaped my loins with his fair hands,
The shepherd Dumazi filled my lap
with cream and milk,
He stroked my pubic hair,
He watered my womb.
He laid his hands on my holy vluva,
He smoothed my black boat with cream,
He quickened my narrow boat with milk,
He caressed me on the bed.

Now I will caress my high priest on the bed,
I will caress the faithful shepherd
Dumuzi,
I will caress his loins,
the shepherdship of the land,
I will decree (a sweet fate for him).

Anonymous, from The Cycle of Inanna: The Courtship of Ianna and Dumazi (written four thousand years ago)

Anonymous, Chinese, 800-500 B.C.

Shu is away in the hunting-fields,
there is no one living in our lane.
Of course there are people living in our lane;
but they are not like Shu,
so beautiful, so good.

Shu has gone after game.
No one drinks wine in our lane.
Of course people do drink wine in our lane
but they are not like Shu,
so beautiful, so good.

Shu has gone to the wilds,
no one drives horses in our lane.
Of course people do drive horses
in our lane.
but they are not like Shu,
so beautiful, so good.

Anonymous, Chinese, 800-500 B.C.

I beg of you, Chung Tzu,
do not climb into our homestead,
do not break the willows we have planted.
Not that I mind about the willows,
but I am afraid of my father and mother.
Chung Tzu I dearly love;
but what my father and mother say
indeed I am afraid.

I beg of you, Chung Tzu,
do not climb over our wall,
do not break the mulberry-trees we have planted.
Not that I mind about the mulberry-trees,
but I am afraid of my brothers.
Chung Tzu I dearly love;
but what my brothers say
indeed I am afraid.

I beg of you, Chung Tzu,
do not climb into our garden,
do not break the hardwood we have planted.
not that I mind about the hardwood,
but I am afraid of what people will say.
Chung Tzu I dearly love;
but of all that people will say
indeed I am afraid.

Haida Traditional

In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs
sweet, sweet was their odor
they were wet with tears
the sweetness will not leave my hands
no, not in the salt sea-washings
tears will not wash away sweetness
I shall have sweet hands for thy service

from "Songs of the Coast Dwellers"

Simonides, 556-468 B.C.

Because of these men's courage
no smoke rose skyward
from Tegea's burning.

They chose to leave their children
the broad land's township green
with freedom,
while in the front line they went down

Callimachus, 300-240 B.C.

The cause in the morning, unknown.
Yesterday, Kharmis, you were in our eyes.

Today we bury you. Yes, Kharmis, you.

Nothing

your father has ever seen has caused him more pain.

‘P.S.’, Franz Wright

I close my eyes and see
a seagull in the desert
high, against unbearably blue sky.

There is hope in the past.

I’m writing to you
all the time, I am writing

with both hands,
day and night.

‘Farewell’, Agha Shahid Ali

“At a certain point I lost track of you.
You needed me. You needed to perfect me.
In your absence you polished me
into the Enemy.
Your history gets in the way of my memory.
I am everything you lost.
You can’t forgive me.
I am everything you lost.
Your perfect Enemy.
Your memory gets in the way
of my memory:

If only somehow you could have been mine,
what wouldn’t have happened in the world?

I’m everything you lost.
You won’t forgive me.
My memory keeps getting in the way
of your history.
There is nothing to forgive,
so you can’t forgive me.
I hid my pain even from myself;
I revealed my pain only to myself.

If only somehow you could have been mine,
what would not have been possible in the world?”

‘A Bowl Of Warm Air’, Moniza Alvi

“Someone is falling towards you
as an apple falls from a branch,
moving slowly, imperceptibly, as if
into a new political epoch,
or excitedly like a dog towards a bone.
he is holding in both hands
everything he knows he has-
a bowl of warm air.

He has sighted you from afar
as if you were a dramatic crooked tree
on the horizon and he has seen you close up
like the underside of a mushroom.
but he cannot open you like a newspaper
or put you down like a newspaper.

And you are satisfied that he is veering towards you
and that he is adjusting his speed
and that the sun and the wind and rain are in front of him
and the sun and the wind and rain are behind him.”

Antipatros, 150 B.C.

Never again, Orpheus
will you lead the enchanted oaks,
nor the rocks, nor the beasts
that are their own masters.
Never again will you sing to sleep
the roaring wind, nor the hail,
nor the drifting snow, nor the boom
of the sea wave.
You are dead now.
Led by your mother, Calliope
the Muses shed tears
over you for a long time.
What good does it do us to mourn
for our sons when the immortal
gods are powerless to save
their own children from death?

Sonnets 44, 116, 27

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought
injurious distance should not stop my way;
for then, despite of space, I would be brought,
from limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
No matter then although my foot did stand
upon the farthest earth removed from thee;
for nimble thought can jump both sea and land, as soon as think the place where he would be.
But, ah, thought kills me that I am not thought
to leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
but that, so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend time’s leisure with my moan,
Receiving naught by elements so slow
but heavy tears, badges of either’s woe.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
admit impediments. Love is not love
which alters when it alteration finds,
or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
that looks on tempests and is never shaken;
it is the star to every wand’ring bark,
whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
but bears it out ev’n to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Weary with toil, I haste to 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’ 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.

‘Always’, Pablo Neruda

I am not jealous
of what came before me.

Come with a man on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your toes,
come like a waterfall of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!

Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth
to start our life!

‘Wild Nights’, Emily Dickinson

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds
To a heart in port,
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

You have to leave the place
where everyone worries about rank
and money,
where dogs bark and stay home.
Up here it is music and poetry
and the divine wind.

Rumi

‘The Thing Is’, Ellen Bass

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as watermore fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a facebetween your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.

‘The Absence’, Paul Eluard

The Absence Paul Eluard I speak to you across cities
I speak to you across plains

My mouth is upon your pillow

Both faces of the walls come meeting
My voice echoes upon you

I speak to you of eternity

O cities memories of cities
Cities wrapped in our desires
Cities come early cities come lately
Cities strong and cities secret
Plundered of their master's builders
All their thinkers all their ghosts

Fields pattern of emerald
Bright living surviving
The harvest of the sky over our earth
Feeds my voice I dream and weep
I laugh and dream among the flames
Among the clusters of the sun

And over my body your body spreads
The sheet of it's bright mirror.

‘If You Forget Me’, Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon,
at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Imagination Lighthouse

Films to Teach Humanity

Eric Machmer: Sunshine’s Little Friend Friday (a Meerkat Adventuress)