ModPo

I love this Yeats poem: Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Notes from Physics 221 external control is the objective, the prerequisite of which is knowledge of the workings of the internal forces which maintain the equilibrium of the body. possession of this prerequisite necessarily implies the attainment of a proportionate depth of insight with respect to that body out of which one wishes to emerge. separation from that body enables one to view objectively, judiciously, impartially the body, to measure its dimensions, define its properties, derive its qualities, understand its nature and origins. the energy required to thrust an internal body outward---

Alchemy broken pieces scattered all about, resisting silently their reconstruction. subatomic particles in random motion looking for the best nucleus to revolve around. mass confusion and disorder as the electrons collide, mix and split, rejecting organization, and responding only to light from a pure source.

Notes from Botany 140 Generations alternating naturally selecting, introducing variation, peacefully refusing weak connections and denying life to those that can't survive. Generations alternating genetically mutating, giving rise to every feature, showing bias to no creature, but preserving in its nature its desires and its drive. Generations alternating gametes fertilizing, energizing all creation, changing forms without cessation, seeking just that combination that will make its species thrive.

One of my favorite Claude McKay sonnets... Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth, Stealing my breath of life, I will confess I love this cultured hell that tests my youth! Her vigor flows like tides into my blood, Giving me strength erect against her hate. Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood. Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state, I stand within her walls with not a shred Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer. Darkly I gaze into the days ahead, And see her might and granite wonders there, Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand, Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

I love this John Masefield poem! I first heard it read in Mrs. Kennedy's fifth grade class, then studied it in the ninth grade (the third form). 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 grey mist on the sea's face and the 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 yawn from a laughing fellow rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Sweet peace, spring love was never meant to last: It's just a stint, a pause, a brief delay In what is otherwise a boring, gray Sojourn we call our lives. Today her buds And blossoms tantalize our eyes; in haste We contemplate the taste of spring romance. Sweet peace, spring's bittersweetness gives us cause To recollect and circumspect love's laws; And yet, spring love commands her subtle dues, And moves our thawing thoughts to feel her views. Spring love intoxicates us: drunkenly We stumble, stagger, tremble, wild and free. Sweet dreams, sweet peace, soft beats your angel wings, My weary, weathered soul awaits next spring.

We sought asylum after we were freed. Resettlement and refuge was our hope And dream. We recognized that we had been Excluded from the human race, and yet, We chose to cast our buckets where we were. Our nobleness convinced us that some day We’d reap in joy what we had sown before In blood and tears: and all the while our fears Suggested otherwise; to wit, we had no right To earn by birth what we had been endowed. In retrospect, we should have sought asylum Off these shores. One hundred years and more Have passed, too many years to resurrect those Pristine hopes and dreams. And now, today, The time has come to seize what we are due.

We mourn the setting of a brilliant star Who blazed a path for many, then burned out At first he sang sweet songs of puppy love He later sought through song to heal a world His passions lifted us before his fall As children we adored his boyish ways We grew, became adults with his success As men and women we thought we knew his pain His stardom overswept us like the dust That sweet melodic voice became a rasp On our subconsciousness, his call to heal Was crowded out by bills and laws and hate And so we mourn a man who paid the price And hope that lesser lights will now suffice

Remember years ago when we first met? You selling books, me browsing, reading books At Brandon’s store? We were so young, and life So unrevealed, so full of promises And boundless hopes and dreams, and guarantees And opportunities. You went away. I stayed and made mistakes. We met again, You east, me west, you school, me ships and seas. Confused, we erred and severed friendship’s bond, And all seemed lost between us save a thread, A laser beam of hope that, over time, Compressed, distilled and purified, survived Until today. We meet again. What fate Awaits is ours to plan, to recommend.