And closing it out asThe rest now come to,Precisely guided byShuttling governance.Left out of sync with the week
And collapsed asleepAmidst the sprawl of day—A personal twilightShored up in forbearanceAgainst that blessed, clear eyed stateOf awareness and with itThe keening rush of contemptIn which there is no answer toThe mounting rancorous flush
That just as we areWe may yet remainIn submission beforeAn insurmountable caprice.Like rats that shelter from rain,We self-made lolling beasts
In ill-begotten cheap reposeOf thoughts run dryAnd tallow well depleted.Yes it warms and holds us close,But seldom when it's needed.
― sterl clover (s_clover), Tuesday, 19 December 2006 18:15 (fourteen years ago) link
Why is the word pretty so underrated?In November the leaf is pretty when it fallsThe stream grows deep in the woods after rainAnd in the pretty pool the pike stalks
He stalks his prey, and this is pretty too,The prey escapes with an underwater flashBut not for long, the great fish has him nowThe pike is a fish who always has his prey
And this is pretty. The water rat is prettyHis paws are not webbed, he cannot shut his nostrilsAs the otter can and the beaver, he is torn betweenThe land and water. Not ‘torn’, he does not mind.
The owl hunts in the evening and it is prettyThe lake water below him rustles with iceThere is frost coming from the ground, in the air mistAll this is pretty, it could not be prettier.
Yes, it could always be prettier, the eye abashesIt is becoming an eye that cannot see enough,Out of the wood the eye climbs. This is prettierA field in the evening, tilting up.
The field tilts to the sky. Though it is lateThe sky is lighter than the hill fieldAll this looks easy but really it is extraordinaryWell, it is extraordinary to be so pretty.
And it is careless, and that is always prettyThis field, this owl, this pike, this pool are careless,As Nature is always careless and indifferentWho sees, who steps, means nothing, and this is pretty.
So a person can come along like a thief—pretty!—Stealing a look, pinching the sound and feel,Lick the icicle broken from the bankAnd still say nothing at all, only cry pretty.
Cry pretty, pretty, pretty and you’ll be ableVery soon not even to cry prettyAnd so be delivered entirely from humanityThis is prettiest of all, it is very pretty.
― Øystein (Øystein), Tuesday, 19 December 2006 20:09 (fourteen years ago) link
― Alun Job, Friday, 22 December 2006 18:39 (fourteen years ago) link