Category Archives: Poetry

Poetry

My Immortal

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one of several versions by Evanesence

I’m so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave
Your presence still lingers here
And it won’t leave me alone

These wounds won’t seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There’s just too much that time cannot erase

When you cried I’d wipe away all of your tears
And you’d scream I’d fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have all of me

You used to captivate me
By your resonating light
Now I’m bound by the life you left behind
Your face it haunts
My once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away
All the sanity in me

These wounds won’t seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There’s just too much that time cannot erase

When you cried I’d wipe away all of your tears
When you’d scream I’d fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have all of me

I’ve tried so hard to tell myself that you’re gone
But though you’re still with me
I’ve been alone all along

Amy Lee commented in Rock Sound magazine on the subtext of her video :

You know what? When you see the video it’s really amazing. Obviously we filmed it before [Ben Moody’s departure] happened and it’s amazing irony, how much it makes sense. We’re all separated and wandering the streets looking like it’s the day after a funeral, with Ben in a suit and bare feet, and I’m never touching the ground. I’m sitting on a phone booth or lying on a car, to hint that I’m dead, that I’m singing from the dead. It’s all about separation. It’s almost like the director knew what was going to happen, but he can’t have known. It’s just one of those fate things.

Maybe the director listened to the words of the song?

Poetry, Security

Bright Star

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by John Keats

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art–
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors–
No–yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever–or else swoon to death.

The ever present question…constellation or shooting star?

History, Poetry

$50K Pooh

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It is not every day that you read in the news that someone has paid $50K for Pooh:

The oval pencil sketch by E.H. Shepard, one of children’s literature’s most famous illustrators, shows Pooh dipping his paw into a pot of honey while sitting at a table as Piglet and Tigger look on.

Auctioneer Bonhams said the successful telephone bidder was from Germany and bought the picture for his wife, a long-time Pooh fan.

With this kind of success, especially during hard times, more Pooh is on the way.