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“Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly;
Man got to sit and wonder 'why, why, why?'
Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand.”
― Cat’s Cradle
Man got to sit and wonder 'why, why, why?'
Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand.”
― Cat’s Cradle
“Trees like traveling
A tree
is always
thinking of
the day when it will set out on its journey,
as it stands, rooted in one place,
immobile.
It flowers,
invites insects and the wind,
hurries to bear fruit,
whispering,
“somewhere far away,”
“somewhere far away.”
At last the birds peck at its fruit
and the wild beasts come to nibble.
A tree needs no backpack, no suitcase, no passport to travel.
It hitches a ride on a bird’s belly,
stealthily making its own airship,
and, when the day comes, it sets out abruptly,
into the sky.
The seed falls.
“Here’s a good place. I can see a lake.
I’ll stay here for a while.”
It becomes a seedling and puts down roots
and, like the tree from which it came,
it too begins to dream of the day it will set out on its own journey.
When I touch the trunk of a tree
I understand how it aches:
how it loves to travel
how it yearns to wander
how it writhes, longing to be a nomad.
translated by: Greg Vanderbilt”
―
A tree
is always
thinking of
the day when it will set out on its journey,
as it stands, rooted in one place,
immobile.
It flowers,
invites insects and the wind,
hurries to bear fruit,
whispering,
“somewhere far away,”
“somewhere far away.”
At last the birds peck at its fruit
and the wild beasts come to nibble.
A tree needs no backpack, no suitcase, no passport to travel.
It hitches a ride on a bird’s belly,
stealthily making its own airship,
and, when the day comes, it sets out abruptly,
into the sky.
The seed falls.
“Here’s a good place. I can see a lake.
I’ll stay here for a while.”
It becomes a seedling and puts down roots
and, like the tree from which it came,
it too begins to dream of the day it will set out on its own journey.
When I touch the trunk of a tree
I understand how it aches:
how it loves to travel
how it yearns to wander
how it writhes, longing to be a nomad.
translated by: Greg Vanderbilt”
―
“Places We Love
Places we love exist only through us,
Space destroyed is only illusion in the constancy of time,
Places we love we can never leave,
Places we love together, together, together,
And is this room really a room, or an embrace,
And what is beneath the window: a street or years?
And the window is only the imprint left by
The first rain we understood, returning endlessly,
And this wall does not define the room, but perhaps the night
Your son began to move in your sleeping blood,
A son like a butterfly of flame in your hall of mirrors,
The night you were frightened by your own light,
And this door leads into any afternoon
Which outlives it, forever peopled
With your casual movements, as you stepped,
Like fire into copper, into my only memory;
When you go, space closes over like water behind you,
Do not look back: there is nothing outside you,
Space is only time visible in a different way,
Places we love we can never leave.”
―
Places we love exist only through us,
Space destroyed is only illusion in the constancy of time,
Places we love we can never leave,
Places we love together, together, together,
And is this room really a room, or an embrace,
And what is beneath the window: a street or years?
And the window is only the imprint left by
The first rain we understood, returning endlessly,
And this wall does not define the room, but perhaps the night
Your son began to move in your sleeping blood,
A son like a butterfly of flame in your hall of mirrors,
The night you were frightened by your own light,
And this door leads into any afternoon
Which outlives it, forever peopled
With your casual movements, as you stepped,
Like fire into copper, into my only memory;
When you go, space closes over like water behind you,
Do not look back: there is nothing outside you,
Space is only time visible in a different way,
Places we love we can never leave.”
―
“It all comes down, as it must, to the desires of individual men. Oh, and women too of course, bless their empty little heads.”
― Gravity’s Rainbow
― Gravity’s Rainbow
“The Layers
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.”
― The Collected Poems
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.”
― The Collected Poems
Elichka’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Elichka’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
299 books
|
43 friends
542 books
|
116 friends
654 books
|
5,039 friends
390 books
|
90 friends
1,856 books
|
742 friends
293 books
|
5 friends
510 books
|
42 friends
344 books
|
274 friends
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