Shakespeare Sunday
“For worms, brave Percy: fare thee well, great heart! Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk! When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it was too small a bound; But now two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough: this earth that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. If thou wert sensible of courtesy, I should not make so dear a show of zeal: But let my favours hide thy mangled face; And, even in thy behalf, I’ll thank myself For doing these fair rites of tenderness. Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven! Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not remember’d in thy epitaph!” - William Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV
Shakespeare Sunday
“When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it was too small a bound; But now two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough: this earth that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. If thou wert sensible of courtesy, I should not make so dear a show of zeal: But let my favours hide thy mangled face; And, even in thy behalf, I'll thank myself For doing these fair rites of tenderness. Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven! Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not remember'd in thy epitaph!” - William Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV
I Would Write My Poems on Your Body (Redux) By Bud Koenemund I would write my poems on your body, With words that linger like kisses on skin; Timeless lines praising all you embody, And find no shame in committing this sin; I would give sonnets like warm caresses, To trace o’er your flesh eliciting sighs, And pen for you most unworthy verses Of love many know only with their eyes; The fire of our passion would become art, Raging higher as desire mates with rhyme, Requiring no fuel but these beating hearts To defeat assured death and outlast time. On flesh and bone the world will take its toll, But love grants endless life unto your soul.
"i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smoothness and which i will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh." - E.E. Cummings (died: 3 September 1962)
Well, I mean, it's only common sense. ;-)
I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom but carries the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself, and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose from the earth lives dimly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you directly without problems or pride: I love you like this because I don't know any other way to love, except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams. - Pablo Neruda (born: 12 July 1904)
Sports Illustrated has revealed the cover of its annual issue of Boobs: The Great Subsidy, and all the predictable heavy breathing that comes on a day like this has been joined by another kind of "buzz," as one might call it. Between now and the issue's publication date, you are probably going to see SI receiving a fair amount of praise for "featuring" a plus-size* model, Ashley Graham, in the swimsuit issue for the first time ever.
Shakespeare Sunday
"When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it was too small a bound; But now two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough: this earth that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman."
- William Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV
"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."
- Pablo Neruda (died: 23 September 1973)
I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.
- Sonnet XVII, Pablo Neruda (born: 12 July 1904)