Bellum sine Bello » Poetry

I should’ve gone to the ballet

Pedro — Mon, 10 Apr 2006 00:21:19 +0000

Perfectly planned evening. Day even. But. All buts in my way, boredom seemingly my only motivation. And yet with the perspective of turning a perfectly planned evening into Hell, I stopped. What a clown. These are the days someone once told me, these are the days my friend. A perfectly planned evening at the ballet. Nothing in my way. And yet. yet. yet. yet.
I lack the hability of turning future projections into concrete fears and hopes. And yet.
I should've gone to the ballet.

[...] Farewell happy fields
Where joy for ever dwells: hail horrors, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new possessor: one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n
- Paradise Lost, Book I 249-264, John Milton

Technorati Tags: Life, Poetry, Ballet, Doubt, Milton

Boredom

Pedro — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 19:20:15 +0000

Passing the hours away. Nothing else to do, nohow to passaway hours. No will to do anything. Better fix it. Only indifference between death and life brings true freedom. Better to die of vodka than of boredom – Maiakovsky. Everything might for a moment seem impossible. Even the simplest action shudders when it is confronted with the enormity of time through which it will not resist. Resisting is impossible. Time will swallow what I was, what I did, where I lived. Time will swallow everything, thus everything is without meaning. God is either curel or incompetent. Or simply he never existed, or should've never existed. What are the roots that clutch you, Son of Man? Everything tastes sour, allthings seem ugly, everywhere hopeless. Time clutches and drags and weighs down, every fiber fights, but death must eventually approach and deliver. Deliver from pain to endless bliss of nothingness. Why must we strugle against the inevitable? We can only live by. For though everything is rendered meaningless by time, so does time make every small deed a necessity. We must spend our time somehow, only without purpose. No purpose necessary, no objective. Just fill time is all we can ever do. If possible.

Technorati Tags: Poetry, Boredom, Russia, Time, Death

“I will show you fear in a handful of dust”

Pedro — Sun, 09 Oct 2005 11:21:00 +0000

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,	20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,	25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Noigandres

Pedro — Fri, 16 Sep 2005 22:17:00 +0000

Noigandres, eh, Noigandres
Now what the DEFIL can that mean? – Ezra Pound