Manet 2

"Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore..."

Manet

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore..."

iMpuLs

Is there anything that can be found by searching? Can you, for example, look for the sleep? Can you consider something as ‘found’ after you realize that it was not what you were originally looking for? Can you replace what was ‘found’ with the ‘not found’ one? Would this replacement help you find what you were really looking for? Starting with what you ‘found’, can you reach the ‘not found’ one? Is it an end not to be able to find? An end that concludes it’s not possible to find anything by looking for it? Or a beginning of a new search? By the way, what is sought? Can the whole searching process make you forget what you were originally looking for, or is it just a motivation for you to live longer? If you look for more, will you find more or will you only live longer? Why would you want to live longer if you can not find what you are looking for anyways? What would you want from the life? Maybe a clue about the ‘not found’ one? Would the tips help you reach to the final? Finale? What is the final thing to search for? To search for and fail to find?

dead men's poetry

'...Earth has waited for them,

All the time of their growth

Fretting for their decay:

Now she has them at last!

In the strength of their strength

Suspended---stopped and held.

None saw their spirits' shadow shake the grass,

Or stood aside for the half used life to pass

Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth,

When the swift iron burning bee

Drained the wild honey of their youth.

Will they come?

Will they ever come?

Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules,

The quivering-bellied mules,

And the rushing wheels all mixed

With his tortured upturned sight,

So we crashed round the bend,

We heard his weak scream,

We heard his very last sound,

And our wheels grazed his dead face.'

wait for sleep

Standing by the window
Eyes upon the moon
Hoping that the memory will leave her spirit soon
She shuts the doors and lights
And lays her body on the bed
Where images and words are running deep
She has too much pride to pull the sheets above her head
So quietly she lays and waits for sleep

She stares at the ceiling
And tries not to think
And pictures the chain
She's been trying to link again
But the feeling is gone

And water can't cover her memory
And ashes can't answer her pain
God give me the power to take breath from a breeze
And call life from a cold metal frame

In with the ashes
Or up with the smoke from the fire
With wings up in heaven
Or here, lying in bed
Palm of her hand to my head
Now and forever curled in my heart
And the heart of the world

No Second Troy

WHY should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn? W.B. Yeats

A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow-

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand-

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep- while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe

Al bu buseyi kaşın üzerine!Ve işte şimdi ayrılıyorken,İzin ver itiraf edeceğim-Yanlış değildi söylediğinGünlerin bir rüyaydı derken;Uçup gittiyse umut yine deGeceleyin ya da gündüz,Hayalde, ya da hiçbirindePeki kaybımdan eksilen ne?Rüya içinde bir rüyadırHep gördüğümüz, göründüğümüz.Bir uğultunun ortasındayımDalgaların dövdüğü bir kıyıda,Ve avucumda tuttuğumAltın kum taneleri-Azlar! Ama nasıl da kayıyorlarDerinliğe parmaklarımdan,Ağlarken - ben ağlarken!Tanrım! Sıkıca tutamaz mıyımBırakmadan avucumdan?Tanrım! Kurtaramaz mıyımBirini acımasız dalgadan?Yoksa rüya içinde bir rüya mıHep gördüğümüz, göründüğümüz?