The Eternal Optimist

Monday, February 26, 2007

Don't you just hate it when a memory creeps its way into your consciousness, then lingers long enough to stir you out of your current state and evoke some sort of emotion? And you know, you just know, that for the rest of the day, you'll never be the same...

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Poetry Schmoetry

Observations by Arthur Lundkvist

I was another person yesterday, I will become yet another tomorrow. What I have seen I have forgotten, but it is still there somewhere in the attic.

The fear is not mine, I have only borrowed it as long as I need it.

This is the most common comic effect: someone throws himself with full forces against an open door.

Dreams that are born inside bottles amount to no more than ships that sail in bottles.

Clothes can be so light that they rise to the ceiling as soon as they are freed from their bodies.

At night the windows should stand open for Something that wants to go out or in. The horizon has turned over in the thickets of roses like a wagon, and the pines seem to stagger, as if very strong dwarfs wrestled with them.

The glances of the waiting fishermen's wives flatten out the waves, as if they were an iron for wrinkled water.

Scarecrows stand in Sunday suits, black as guests at a funeral in the midst of all the arriving city dwellers in garish rags. A man in a broad-brimmed black hat can scarcely be anything other than a preacher passing through. The negligent wife boils the fish so long that their eyes loosen like pearls.

No prayers help when lightning makes the window shade fly up with a snap. But somebody can open a book and enter into a wonderful garden.

What is repressed in dreams breaks out in reality and what the cuckoos write in May will fly on its own wings in September.

The Eternal Optimist

Monday, February 26, 2007

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Poetry Schmoetry