All great truths begin as blasphemies.
George Bernard Shaw
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There is nothing to read here. The content is over there, to your right.
I may, however, at some point, put something here. Some day. Eventually. No pressure.
one poet two moments
I loved you; and perhaps I love you still,
The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet
It burns so quietly within my soul,
No longer should you feel distressed by it.
Silently and hopelessly I loved you,
At times too jealous and at times too shy.
God grant you find another who will love you
As tenderly and truthfully as I.
Alexander Pushkin, 1829
- It was during dinner, our second or third since having been introduced, that I quoted from an other Pushkin poem. We had been discussing literature's ability (responsibility?) to either form or shatter societal norms and the verse I mentioned was apropos of such. They did not recognize it until B. translated it for her mother. Once in their native tongue, they knew it immediately. This was followed with too much toasting and too much vodka and an impossibly pompous argument about the "classics".
At that moment and since, they have loved me as a daughter.
I adore this poem. I memorized it in grade 11 while I hid among the library stacks, having skipped third period chemistry. The boy with beautiful hands kissed me that night.
The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet
It burns so quietly within my soul,
No longer should you feel distressed by it.
Silently and hopelessly I loved you,
At times too jealous and at times too shy.
God grant you find another who will love you
As tenderly and truthfully as I.
Alexander Pushkin, 1829
- It was during dinner, our second or third since having been introduced, that I quoted from an other Pushkin poem. We had been discussing literature's ability (responsibility?) to either form or shatter societal norms and the verse I mentioned was apropos of such. They did not recognize it until B. translated it for her mother. Once in their native tongue, they knew it immediately. This was followed with too much toasting and too much vodka and an impossibly pompous argument about the "classics".
At that moment and since, they have loved me as a daughter.
I adore this poem. I memorized it in grade 11 while I hid among the library stacks, having skipped third period chemistry. The boy with beautiful hands kissed me that night.
Read/Post Comments (2)
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