Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day Shakespeare – Sonnet XVIII Video Discovered by j. kiley Post Created on Saturday 16th November 2013 Posted On Saturday 23rd November Happy Birthday Gran Emily 133 yrs b. 23rd November 1880 POETRY OUT LOUD
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
“Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there – I do not sleep. I am the thousand winds that blow…” Mary Frye  One of my favorite poems. Dr. Mary Annie A.V. did a lovely & meaningful presentation on death & life. Meeting the end of one and entering the beginning another. Which is which? It is the ultimate Question. Tagore states in this post “…When one dies one lives.” I wonder myself if this is true. We all know death is in front of our time here. No one is ever really told when, even if one is gravely ill, the time is not given to us in an exact moment. Some say they feel it approaching. It is a grand philosophical question, poets, artists, writers, songs, express death, love, life, probably the most popular content of most art, these three subjects, but death is the one that haunts us the most. Reading this post has opened my mind to thinking about it in a poetic & philosophical way. It is something feared & expected & needs someday to be faced, in some manner or maybe not for some people. Is it better to be surprised or to be the poet and examine it through divine words of comfort & see it as an uplifting end to pain & a beginning of life as we all are meant to experience it fully. Great post. Love that you brought Mary Annie A.V. to us Niamh Clune. She has a very unique way of expressing such a delicate subject to many. Her choices in poetry and poets are so familiar to me. I feel all will enjoy & find a comfort in reading all that she has offered to us. by Jk the secret keeper Jennifer Kiley ps. Two poets I didn’t mention that Mary Annie A.V. writes about are Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, who, also, write about death. “Dying / Is an art, / like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well. / I do it so it feels like hell. / I do it so it feels real. / I guess you could say I’ve a call./
It is with great pleasure that I introduce a wonderful new Indian voice to our Wednesday Corner. Dr. Mary Annie A.V. writes with depth and passion about the subject of Death ~ a subject that has long-fascinated poets and philosophers throughout history. Thank you Mary for being our guest on the plum tree today and for sharing your profound thoughts on a subject that is often not spoken of.
i carry your heart with me by e.e. cummings Post Created by Jk the secret keeper Post Created On Sunday 6th October 2013 Posted On Saturday 12th October 2013 Poetry Out Loud
Edward Estlin Cummings (1894 — 1962) was an American poet, painter, essayist, author, and playwright. He was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA. Cummings’ poetry often deals with themes of love and nature, as well as the relationship of the individual to the masses and to the world. Modernism prevailed major part of his work.
[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] by e. e. cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter By Charles Bukowski
he lives in a house with a swimming pool
and says the job is
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to
get rid of
him. his novels keep coming
back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams
“go to New York and pump the hands of the
“no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a
small room and do the
“but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to
go by, some word, some sign!”
“some men did not think that way:
Van Gogh, Wagner—”
“oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him
paints whenever he
“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and
this guy walks in. a salesman. you know
how they talk. drove up in this new
car. talked about his vacation. said he went to
Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who
wrote it. now this guy is 54 years
old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only
opera.’ and then I told
him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he
asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and
you don’t know anything!’”
“I walked out.”
“you mean you left him there with
“I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a
job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and
they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for
this job, he won’t stay
so there’s really no sense in hiring
now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble:
you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a
job and they look at you and they think:
ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire
him he’ll stay a long time and work
“do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a
writer, that you write poetry?”
“you never talk about
it. not even to
me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d
have never known.”
“still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a
“I’d still like to
“well, they talk about you. they think you are just a
horseplayer and a drunk.”
“I am both of those.”
“well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone.
I’m the only friend you
“they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell
them you write
“leave it alone. I work here like they
do. we’re all the same.”
“well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why
I travel with
you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—”
“all right, I’ll respect your
wishes. but there’s something else—”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a
piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a
violin too but I can’t make up my
“buy a piano.”
he walks away
I was thinking about it
too: I figure he can always come over with his
violin and more
The Secret of My Endurance Written by Charles Bukowski
Video Poem Read by Charles Bukowski Post Created by Jk the secret keeper
Posted On Saturday 28th September 2013 Dedicated to C.D. for Guiding Me
To“The Secret of My Endurance”
I still get letters in the mail, mostly from cracked-up
men in tiny rooms with factory jobs or no jobs who are
living with whores or no woman at all, no hope, just
booze and madness.
I get most of their letters on lined paper
written with an unsharpened pencil or in ink
in tiny handwritings that slants to the left
and the paper is most often torn
usually halfway up the middle
and they say they like my stuff,
I’ve written from where it’s at,
they recognize it truly, I’ve given them some
chance, some recognition of where it’s at.
it’s true, I was there, even worse off than most of them.
but I wonder if they realize where their letter arrives?
well, it’s dropped into a box on a wire fence
behind a six-foot hedge and a long driveway
to a two car garage, rose garden, fruit trees,
animals, a beautiful woman, mortgage about half
paid after a years residence, a new car-
fireplace and a green rug two-inches deep
with a young boy to write my stuff now,
I keep him in a ten-foot square cage with a
typewriter, feed him whiskey and raw whores,
belt buckle him pretty good three or four times a week.
I’m 60 years old now and the critics say
my stuff is getting better than ever.
Private Writings: Chapter #27 — Getting to Know You
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
Published Introduction & Chapter #1
On 19th March 2013
Published Early Tuesday AM
Posted 24th September 2013
WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND CONTENT.
NOT SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN.
ALL CHARACTERS ARE FICTITIOUS.
ANYONE RESEMBLING ANYONE LIVING OR DEAD
IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
I am writing to Dr. Annie Haskell. My form of storytelling is through
letters containing dreams, thoughts, poems, music, describing my script
“Brief Sacrifice,” already made into a film but not yet released, psycho-
therapy, inspirations, reflective comments, the inner workings of the mind,
soul, body, emotions, and bipolar. I prefer mentally creative, interesting, or
having a brain misfiring. Included in the mix are childhood abuse, car crashes,
near drownings, drugs [the illegal kind at present], hallucinations, hypersexuality,
time warps, finding answers to unsolved mysteries, infatuation, imagination, fantasy,
and a need to discover my bliss.
See you inside.
Namaste! Madison Taylor
Private Writings: Chapter #27 — Getting to Know You
Tuesday 25th March 2008
Last week, I told you I felt your participating with Dr. George in pulling off his coup, to get me into a closure session with him, which I swore I would never do, he used you like a pedophile uses candy. It appeared to me after the fact, you both had conspired. After I heard in my head my accusation, I realized you were above his manipulations. I am truly sorry for even giving any credence to anything so outrageous.
It was so difficult to tell you I made a mistake. Saying I am sorry. Not my favorite choice word to use or do. Usually, if someone fucks up, they are gone from my life. No second chances. With you, I realize it has to do with my mother. She fucked my mind up with her sadist games. Made me the Apologizer.
I don’t want to behave in reaction to the way she made me feel, which was beaten down and pushed away. Inside of me, I felt I needed her. To get her back on my side, it was important I apologize until she forgave me. Groveling was the pattern. No more. I will not kneel like a slave and endure her form of humiliation.
Love is not meant to be as she made me feel it was. Something perverse and punishing. You don’t hurt someone you love by beating them into submission. To make them afraid of you. If they wanted your love, you had to obey them. Follow their orders and never stand up for yourself. Everything was in their control. My mother controlled everything. What I was allowed to know. I had to go to her just to get the basic things I needed to function as a human being.
I wasn’t supposed to know anything about my body. She tried to prevent me from attending a learning session about sex and reproduction at our school. I was too young to understand what I would be learning because she never told me a thing about sex or life or love. She was just abusive.
Her abuse, I have figured out over the years since I left my family and her behind, was grounded in sadomasochism. She was my master or mistress. There are supposed to be safe words to make the dominant person stop. We didn’t have one. She would beat me or whip me. It often was whip to naked flesh. It ripped my skin and made me bleed. There was no pleasure. I gave no consent. It was all her.
Never was there preparation for her abuse. She would corner me where she found me. We were always alone in the house whenever this would happen. The weapon of choice for any given day was always in her hand, prepared to strike. Her yelling accompanied the blows. When she stopped, it was never the end. I would be crying. This made her turn the beatings more violent. Her threats would come in shouting the words, the same words over and over. I knew them by heart.
“If you don’t stop crying, I will give you something to cry about.”
It was always the same. What more could she give me to cry about that would be worse than what she was doing to me. Humiliating me. It was often and always when no one else was expected to be around. No one would have protected me anyway. They were all abusers. I was their slave. My place was arranged so I would be there for them whenever they wanted something from me.
The detail are too difficult for me to write down. I will just say, my body did not belong to me. It was used by everyone. I hated it. I didn’t like what it made me feel or what it made them do to me. Inside of me are stored memories I have buried deeply. In my nightmares, symbols of the abuse are alive and haunt me when I attempt to sleep. It is why I avoid sleep as long as I am able.
My honesty, I hope does not turn you away. It is awful to feel and to say the words to you, the descriptions makes me ill. I can’t eat. Putting anything into my body repels me. Nourishing myself is keeping me alive. When I am alone, I think of death. Some would find my thoughts to be crazy but I am not. If the feelings come back, and I begin to cry, I will never cease. Life will pour out of me in the tears and the ground will absorb my energy. Dust is all that will remain.
Losing love is like death. Losing life is less painful. I want love but I am afraid to feel it. It will cause me pain for a moment of joy. My emotions flip over so quickly. They take me by surprise when I am feeling happy and so suddenly, I just want to die. Feeling suicidal is sweet. It is not as horrible a place as most believe it is. Being held in the arms of your guardian angel, protecting you, so you are not totally alone in the darkness set upon your soul.
It makes me think of the group member who was murdered. I feel she was even if no formal announcement has been made. Dr. George could well have done it. She was a bitch and possessed with her power to seduce. I think she was a bit of a sex addict. It wouldn’t surprise me if I had the same problem. So many people I have had sex with, no love involved. It wasn’t even enjoyable. And believe me when I say, I have no idea why it happened. Other therapists have told me it is a manifestation from the abuse I endured.
Why am I telling you this? It is so fucked up. Why would anyone want me? I am a broken toy, not even able to be played with, just used up and thrown away. Why shouldn’t I want to throw myself away as others want to do? It seems a trend. No one wants to take the time to make things work. It is a throw-away world. We are all cast aside and if not, we are forgotten where we are supposed to feel love.
I am depressed so quickly. Maybe it hides and tricks me into believing everything is alright, when it isn’t at all. The world has fallen apart. “The End Is Nigh.” That I what the signs say. They carry them around in all the big cities. Everyone waiting for the world to end or be bombed to death. No one knows how to get along.
Some know love and share it. It is something I want to do. To be loved and to love in return. To feel music when I am kissed. To be able just to feel the kiss, the touch of lips touching gently together. Is that too much to desire? To know what an honest, loving touch is without wanting to back away. I wonder what that is like.
I shouldn’t say I’ve never felt it. it isn’t true. There was someone, I felt extremely close to. We would sleep together without any expectations. No one touched, unless it was accidental. But what a lovely accident it would be. It allowed me to be free. No pressure was put on me to experience anything I didn’t want.
I never learned how to say stop and have it mean anything at all. With her, I wanted to learn how to say, “Don’t stop.” Now, that is a scary two words to think or to say out loud. I never learned how to do that either, I wish I could have told her how I felt and what I wanted. She knew but was as shy as me. People frightened her as well with all their demands on her. She was so beautiful and popular.
What does popular mean? It seems a strange state to be in. These are very heavy issues. So much to talk about and to learn. I wish I had someone like you as my mother. You speak so softly and calmly. I didn’t even mind when your hand touched my shoulder. It happened the time we met for our first session. You came out and I was so far away inside my mind. The music led me beyond the clouds. Maybe I was on the way to Neverland to escape facing you. All the time I wanted to have time alone with you to speak privately. My secrets are too dark to share with other people around me. Even alone, I am terrified at saying aloud what I just finished writing. It is too embarrassing and I feel so ashamed.
I know you are going to ask the questions and you are going to want to know the answers. They don’t exist in my conscious mind. My unconscious mind, however, it quite fertile with depths of secrets it holds for me. The secrets live in the dungeons of my deepest, darkest labyrinth. Hiding around a corner I have found yet.
You need to hold my hand and walk me ever so slowly through the dark. Until we meet each secret separately. When we talk about them, we must find a way for me not to lose myself inside. I fear I would be lost forever.
This is the beginning of the extremes of my confessions. Time to change directions.
Speaking of time, a brief update on my film script. The Friends of Nikola Tesla need to guard his secrets carefully and their own identities as well. There is an organization who are in pursuit of the secrets as well. They know the secrets are hidden and intend to find them and when they do, they will be destroyed. On the side of good, the Friends are in constant danger of discovery. The holder of the place where the secrets are held, each one separately. Tesla was not about to put them all together. He spread them out, in different locations. But there is more to where they are hidden then just knowing that piece of information.
Carter McLeod holds the key. But she has no idea what it is yet. Soon she will find out. When it is time, I will reveal what I know to you. It has to be kept between us. It would spoil the film if it ever got out. I’ve told you way too much already, but feel the secret will be safe with you. Being my therapist, aren’t you sworn to hold what I say to you in confidence? It is the only reason I would be able to share this with you. Not just the script but the secrets of my life I don’t wish anyone to know.
I kept my family a secret from the world and the rest my life, also. There are so many buried stories, it would make a priest want absolution after hearing my confession. Or is it really a confession? It’s more confessing for the sinners rather than the sinned upon.
It’s time for me to stop. We have far too much to sort through already. I will bring this letter to our next session. It should blow the lid off somewhat, and the light can set fire to the sins. Next, after a break, I want to write you a poem. It may hold within its words an understanding I really do not see at this moment of honest clarity.
I bid you a great week, as I sift through what may have been jarred loss by my writings tonight.
I am so amazed you are finally my therapist or analyst. Whichever you prefer.
Fondly, your client in need of you,
Dr. Annie Haskell’s Office as a Psychoanalyst
Somewhere In Time – John Barry
Written by Madison Taylor
25th March 2008
Heartbreak touches deep
Never abuse foreseeing
Kneel down forgiveness
Wall impossible to scale
Borders blocked denied entrance
Wait hear not sorry
Disappear rather than stay
Closed doors rejection complete
Canto: The Island [Passages XII... & XVI...] Written by Lord Byron
Post Created by Jk the secret keeper Poem Chosen by Jennifer Kiley
Post Created Saturday 21st September 2013
Posted on Saturday 21st September 2013 Poetry Out Loud
The Island: Canto II [Part of Passage XIII... & XVI...]
The love which maketh all things fond and fair,
The youth which makes one rainbow of the air,
The dangers past, that make even Man enjoy
The pause in which he ceases to destroy,
The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel
Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel,
United the half savage and the whole,
The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul.
No more the thundering memory of the fight
Wrapped his weaned bosom in its dark delight;
No more the irksome restlessness of Rest
Disturbed him like the eagle in her nest,
Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye
Darts for a victim over all the sky:
His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state,
At once Elysian and effeminate,
Which leaves no laurels o’er the Hero’s urn;
These wither when for aught save blood they burn;
Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid,
Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade? …
And let not this seem strange: the devotee
Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy;
Around him days and worlds are heedless driven,
His Soul is gone before his dust to Heaven.
Is Love less potent? No-his path is trod,
Alike uplifted gloriously to God;
Or linked to all we know of Heaven below,
The other better self, whose joy or woe
Is more than ours; the all-absorbing flame
Which, kindled by another, grows the same,
Wrapt in one blaze; the pure, yet funeral pile,
Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile.
How often we forget all time, when lone,
Admiring Nature’s universal throne,
Her woods-her wilds-her waters-the intense
Reply of hers to our intelligence!
Live not the Stars and Mountains? Are the Waves
Without a spirit? Are the dropping caves
Without a feeling in their silent tears? … — Lord Byron