November graveyard: by Sylvia Plath

The scene stands stubborn : skinflint trees

Hoard last year's leaves, won't mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn

To elegiac dryads, and dour grass

Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness
However the grandiloquent mind may scorn
Such poverty. No dead men's cries

Flower forget-me-nots between the stones
Paving this grave ground. Here's honest rot
To unpick the heart, pare bone
Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton
Bulks real, all saints' tongues fall quiet :
Flies watch no resurrections in the sun.

At the essential landscape stare, stare

Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind :

Whatever lost ghosts flare,

Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor

Rave on the leash of the starving mind

Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air.

From: The collected poems by Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath

In a world that embraces all kinds of bigotry and contradiction so tight, i am obliged to submit to an unauthentic ideology, the "only me" axiom, I correspondingly betray my voluntary, quixotic dogma, and follow a capitalistic, morally low tactic, one that is exclusively devoted to my own benefit.

Artists may be born not made, yet some have to proclaim themselves as artists to get away with their unsettled minds. Artists are always excused or overlooked for being madmen/women.

Ironic poem about prostitution: by George Orwell

When I was young and had no sense
In far-off Mandalay
I lost my heart to a Burmese girl
As lovely as the day.

Her skin was gold, her hair was jet,
Her teeth were ivory;
I said, “for twenty silver pieces,
Maiden, sleep with me”.

She looked at me, so pure, so sad,
The loveliest thing alive,

And in her lisping, virgin voice,

Stood out for twenty-five.

1925 - Published under Orwell's birthname of "Eric Blair".

George Orwell

A tribute to Paul Gauguin

My long hair... it's not a bland sort of beautification, it's a dramatic tribute to Gauguin's primitivism...



Paul Gauguin - Day of the Gods (1894)