A Brilliant Madness by R.M Drake

“She wildly burned for the one she loved and he stood there watching, hoping he too would catch a blaze from the violence stirring in her heart.” 

“Maybe love was meant to save us from ourselves.”  

“You’re not a bad person, you’re just a little bit different and I’m a sucker for that."

 “Maybe one day we’ll find that place, where you and I could be together and we’ll catch our dreams within the waves of change. So hear me, you are not alone.”

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Black Butterfly by R.M Drake

“It’s funny, for all it took was a broken heart and that alone was enough, enough for her to do everything she ever dreamed of.” 

“I had to learn to live without you and I couldn't make sense of it, because I left so much of me inside of you.”  

“The chaos in me is the chaos in you. Like the love in you is the love in me. So maybe we’re both a little crazy. Enough to believe we’re found where dreams are born and beneath our faults remain a science, where you and I will run away and leave nothing behind.”

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Beautiful Chaos by R.M Drake

“Somewhere along the way we all go a bit mad. So burn, let go and dive into the horror, because maybe it’s the chaos which helps us find where we belong.”

“She was a beautiful dreamer. The kind of girl, who kept her head in the clouds, loved above the stars and left regret beneath the earth she walked on.”

“Somewhere along the way we all go a bit mad. So burn, let go and dive into the horror, because maybe it’s the chaos which helps us find where we belong.”

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The Star-Splitter by Robert Forst

The Star-Splitter

 By Robert Frost

You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to?'
So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And spent the proceeds on a telescope
To satisfy a lifelong curiosity
About our place among the infinities.
`What do you want with one of those blame things?'
I asked him well beforehand. `Don't you get one!'
`Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything
More blameless in the sense of being less
A weapon in our human fight,' he said.
`I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it.'
There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move,
Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years
Trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And bought the telescope with what it came to.
He had been heard to say by several:
`The best thing that we're put here for's to see;
The strongest thing that's given us to see with's
A telescope. Someone in every town
Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
In Littleton it might as well be me.'
After such loose talk it was no surprise
When he did what he did and burned his house down.
Mean laughter went about the town that day
To let him know we weren't the least imposed on,
And he could wait---we'd see to him tomorrow.
But the first thing next morning we reflected
If one by one we counted people out
For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long
To get so we had no one left to live with.
For to be social is to be forgiving.
Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
We don't cut off from coming to church suppers,
But what we miss we go to him and ask for.
He promptly gives it back, that is if still
Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad
About his telescope. Beyond the age
Of being given one for Christmas gift,
He had to take the best way he knew how
To find himself in one. Well, all we said was
He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
Some sympathy was wasted on the house,
A good old-timer dating back along;
But a house isn't sentient; the house
Didn't feel anything. And if it did,
Why not regard it as a sacrifice,
And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction?
Out of a house and so out of a farm
At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn
To earn a living on the Concord railroad,
As under-ticket-agent at a station
Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
Was setting out, up track and down, not plants
As on a farm, but planets, evening stars
That varied in their hue from red to green.
He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
His new job gave him leisure for stargazing.
Often he bid me come and have a look
Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
At a star quaking in the other end.
I recollect a night of broken clouds
And underfoot snow melted down to ice,
And melting further in the wind to mud.
Bradford and I had out the telescope.
We spread our two legs as we spread its three,
Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
And standing at our leisure till the day broke,
Said some of the best things we ever said.
That telescope was christened the Star-Splitter,
Because it didn't do a thing but split
A star in two or three, the way you split
A globule of quicksilver in your hand
With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
It's a star-splitter if there ever was one,
And ought to do some good if splitting stars
'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.
We've looked and looked, but after all where are we?
Do we know any better where we are,
And how it stands between the night tonight
And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?
How different from the way it ever stood?

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Willian Shakespear

Willian Shakespear 

 

William Shakespeare was an English poet, playwright, and actor, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist.He is often called England's national poet, and the "Bard of Avon".His extant works, including collaborations, consist of approximately 38 plays,^{[nb 3]} 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and a few other verses, some of uncertain authorship. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.
Shakespeare was born and brought up in Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire. At the age of 18, he married Anne Hathaway, with whom he had three children: Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith. Sometime between 1585 and 1592, he began a successful career in London as an actor, writer, and part-owner of a playing company called the Lord Chamberlain's Men, later known as the King's Men. He appears to have retired to Stratford around 1613, at age 49, where he died three years later. Few records of Shakespeare's private life survive, which has stimulated considerable speculation about such matters as his physical appearance, sexuality, religious beliefs, and whether the works attributed to him were written by others.
Shakespeare produced most of his known work between 1589 and 1613. His early plays were primarily comedies and histories, which are regarded as some of the best work ever produced in these genres. He then wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608, including Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, and Macbeth, considered some of the finest works in the English language.In his last phase, he wrote tragicomedies, also known as romances, and collaborated with other playwrights.

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D.H Lawrence

D.H Lawrence

 

        David Herbert Lawrence (11 September 1885 – 2 March 1930) was an English novelist, poet, playwright, essayist, literary critic and painter. His collected works represent, among other things, an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation. Some of the issues Lawrence explores are sexuality, emotional health, vitality, spontaneity, and instinct.
Lawrence's opinions earned him many enemies and he endured official persecution, censorship, and misrepresentation of his creative work throughout the second half of his life, much of which he spent in a voluntary exile he called his "savage pilgrimage". At the time of his death, his public reputation was that of a pornographer who had wasted his considerable talents. E. M. Forster, in an obituary notice, challenged this widely held view, describing him as "the greatest imaginative novelist of our generation. Later, Cambridge critic F. R. Leavis championed both his artistic integrity and his moral seriousness, placing much of Lawrence's fiction within the canonical "great tradition" of the English novel.

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Chairil Anwar

Chairil Anwar

Anwar Chairil [1922-1949] was born in Medan, East Sumatra, his family moved to Djakarta and there isn't much information about his parents. He attended elementary school and the first two years of a Dutch-language middle school in Mulo.

Though he began writing quite early, in his adolescence, none of his early poetry has survived as according to him he destroyed them.
In Djakarta he became the pioneering force among young writers and artist, the "Generation of '45." He was also on the editorial of Siasat, an important literary journal that appeared in 1947. He was also active in political issues.
It was also through his writings that the Bahasa language which formally came to exist in 1928 became an important literary language.
Chairil's poetry is marked by his emotional, and sometimes unconventional use of language Although he had little formal education, he translated the poems of Rilke, Marsman and Slauerhoff, and modelled his Indonesian poems on them. His own approach to writing he once described: "In Art, vitality is the chaotic initial state; beauty the cosmic final state."
Among Charil's most famous poems is Aku mau hidup seribu tahun lagi  (1943), Aku a cry for freedom and life. Another poem from this period is Dipo Negro the title referring to an early nineteenth-century hero of the Indonesian national struggle.
During his lifetime Charil published only in periodicals, but there are several posthumous books, first of which were Deru tjampur Debu (1949), Kerikil Tadjam and Jang Terampas dan Jang Putus (1951). Chairil wrote fewer than seventy poems, some essays and radio addresses, and some fragmentary translations. He died on April 28, 1949, in Djakarta. Due to his influence, the developing Indonesian language attained equality with other languages as a literary medium. Chairil's complete poetry and prose has been published in English in The Voice of the Night (1992), translated by Burton Raffel.

Cintaku Jauh di Pulau
By Chairil Anwar

Cintaku jauh di pulau
Gadis manis, sekarang iseng sendiri

Perahu melancar, bulan memancar
di leher kukalungkan ole-ole buat si pacar
angin membantu, laut terang, tapi terasa
aku tidak ‘kan sampai padanya

Di air yang tenang, di angin mendayu
di perasaan penghabisan segala melaju
Ajal bertakhta, sambil berkata:
“Tujukan perahu ke pangkuanku saja.”

Amboi! Jalan sudah bertahun kutempuh!
Perahu yang bersama ‘kan merapuh
Mengapa Ajal memanggil dulu
Sebelum sempat berpeluk dengan cintaku?!

Manisku jauh di pulau,
kalau ‘ku mati, dia mati iseng sendiri.

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If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me

By 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

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W.S Rendra

W.S Rendra

Willibrordus Surendra Broto Rendra (7 November 1935 - 6 August 2009 in Depok, West Java - aged 73), widely known as Rendra or W. S. Rendra, was an Indonesian dramatist, poet, activist, performer, actor and director.

Born to a Roman Catholic family (his father was a Catholic English teacher) and baptized as Willibrordus Surendra Bawana Rendra, he changed his name to 'only' Rendra when he embraced Islam in 1970. After studying English literature and culture at Gajah Mada University in Yogyakarta (Central Java), he didn't make time to graduate because with his first theatrical project he was already gainfully employed. In 1963 he staged his first play ( "Dead Voices"), became fascinated with the craft, and from then on, with his traditional religious ritual performances, as well as Western avant-garde experiments, captured and kept large audiences. Because of the nature of his poetry readings and his sexy performances on the stage, he was given the nickname "Burung Merak“ (the Peacock) by the press.

Rendra continued to create numerous literary and cultural projects. In 2003, now long recognized internationally as a great poet, he hosted the first international poetry festival in Indonesia (in Makassar, Solo, Bandung and Jakarta). Rendra repeatedly stood on the list of candidates for the Nobel Prize for Literature and he saw international publications of his texts and made numerous appearances at literary festivals around the world. Until his death, he worked continuously on books, literature, and various projects and productions, and occasionally as a movie actor. His last home, in Depok, south of Jakarta, was a farm and until recently was also the home of the Bengkel Teater, where Rendra and his actors and artists lived, worked and also maintained an ecologically sustainable farming operation.

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Stellar By Kendall Rose

 Stellar

By Kendall Rose

Maybe I don't understand  

The Laws of Physics or
Stellar evolution,
But I know that
your atoms are composed of stardust
Maybe this is why the life in your eyes
is illuminating everything like a carbon giant.

In astronomy they told us
that the darkest parts of space
often contain the most energy
And I thought you should know,
that just like the ancient galaxies inside of you,
your darkest parts still shine.

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Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda 

         Pablo Neruda was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet-diplomat and politician Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto (July 12, 1904 – September 23, 1973). He derived his pen name from the Czech poet Jan Neruda. Pablo Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971.

Neruda became known as a poet when he was 10 years old. He wrote in a variety of styles, including surrealist poems, historical epics, overtly political manifestos, a prose autobiography, and passionate love poems such as the ones in his collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (1924). He often wrote in green ink, which was his personal symbol for desire and hope.

The Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez once called Neruda "the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language. Harold Bloom included Neruda as one of the 26 writers central to the Western tradition in his book The Western Canon.

 

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Sunlove by Joseph A. Orellana

 

  Sun love

By Joseph A. Orellana  

Your occasion Is the sky
Spilling forth
Thunderous
My nascence
For I was born
Within the taste
Of your shy-full lips-kiss
Glance,
And I went mesmerized
Tasting the apple
Sweetness of you
For headlong days
Looking in other lips for
New anxieties;
I’d become inevitable
Seeker of your
Chaliced taste:
Thinking you an accident,
I searched in other
Kisses what you’d conjured up
In my wanton heart
So great my lust of you,
I became lost and
Enamored famish
I filled with nothing but
Disenchantments
Until you surged forth
Flower of my soul,
With you being the reason
Of me, my all ardent sunlove

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Sapardi Djoko Damono

Sapardi Djoko Damono 

Sapardi Djoko Damono was born in Solo, Central Java, on 20 March 1940, and spent his childhood and adolescent years in his hometown. He studied English literature at Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta, and has translated many works of fiction and poetry from English into Indonesian. He was editor of the Indonesian literary magazines Basis, Horison, and Kalam. Now he is Professor Emeritus at the University of Indonesia’s Faculty of Humanities.
Among his poetry collections are Mata Pisau (Knife Point, 1974), Sihir Hujan (Rain Spell, 1984), Hujan Bulan Juni (Rain of June, 1994), Arloji (Wristwatch, 1999), Ayat-Ayat Api (Verses of Fire, 2000), Mata Jendela (Window’s Eye, 2001), Ada Berita Apa Hari Ini, Den Sastro? (What’s the News Today, Den Sastro?, 2002), and Kolam (Pond, 2009). He also writes short stories and has published two collections, Pengarang Telah Mati (The Author is Dead, 2001) and Membunuh Orang Gila (Killing a Madman, 2003). He compiled Mantra Orang Jawa (Mantras of the Javanese, 2005). His essay collections are, among others, Kesusastraan Indonesia Modern: Beberapa Catatan (Modern Indonesian Literature: Some Notes, 1983), Politik Ideologi dan Sastra Hibrida (Politics of Ideology and Hybrid Literature, 1999), and Sihir Rendra: Permainan Makna (Rendra’s Magic: Play of Meaning, 2000). His poems are included in several anthologies, such as Fire in the Sea: An Anthology of Poetry and Art (1996) and World Poetry: An Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time (1998).

Hujan Bulan Juni

By Sapardi Djoko Damono

“tak ada yang lebih tabah
dari hujan bulan Juni
dirahasiakannya rintik rindunya
kepada pohon berbunga itu

tak ada yang lebih bijak
dari hujan bulan Juni
dihapusnya jejak-jejak kakinya
yang ragu-ragu di jalan itu

tak ada yang lebih arif
dari hujan bulan Juni
dibiarkannya yang tak terucapkan
diserap akar pohon bunga itu”

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Memories by Lang Leav

Memories

By Lang Leav

“Love, he has abandoned me,
do with me as you will.
Love, he left - unceremoniously,
why must I love him still?

The best of me I gave to him -
the years, the days, the hours.
Precious little, in turn he'd given,
like dew to a wilting flower.

Love, he sheared away tenderly,
my beauty, my strength, my mind,
the gifts that were bestowed to me -
were swallowed in his pride.

Love, has he forgotten me?
Please tell me what you've heard,
I guard his memory jealously -
with him I'd place my worth.” 

“I want you to know how happy you once made me and though you really did hurt me, in the end, I was better for it. I don't know if what we had was love, but if it wasn't, I hope never to fall in love. Because of you, I know I am too fragile to bear it.”

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Aldebaran At Dusk by George Sterling

Aldebaran At Dusk

By  George Sterling

Thou art the star for which all evening waits--
O star of peace,come tenderly and soon,
Nor heed the drowsy and enchanted moon,
Who dreams in silver at the eastern gates
Ere yet she brim with light the blue estates
Abandoned by the eagles of the noon.
But shine thou swiftly on the darkling dune
And woodlands where the twilight hesitates.
Above that wide and ruby lake to-West,
Wherein the sunset waits reluctantly,
Stir silently the purple wings of Night.
She stands afar, upholding to her breast,
As mighty murmurs reach her from the sea,
Thy lone and everlasting rose of light

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Lullabies by Lang Leav

Lullabies
By Lang Leav

I still search you

“I still search for you in crowds,

in empty fields and soaring clouds.

In city lights and passing cars,

on winding roads and wishing stars.”

 

Entwined

There is a line
I’m yet to sever—
it goes from  me
to you.
There was a time
you swore forever,
And I am captive
to its pull.
If you were kind,
you’d cut the tether—
but I must ask you
to be cruel.

There are things I miss
that I shouldn't,
and those I don't
that I should.

Sometimes we want
what we couldn't—
sometimes we love
who we could.”

 

 

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