From Jules et Jim by Francois Truffaut

An ode to Beauty from two beautiful fools

To worship
At the altar of Beauty,
To feel her loveliness and pain,
To thrill
At the wonder of her gorgeous moon
Or the sharp, swift, silver swords
Of falling rain

To walk in a golden garden
When an autumn sun
Has almost set,
When a near night's purple splendor
Shimmers to a star-shine net.
To worship
At the altar of Beauty
Is a pleasure divine,
Not given to the many many
But to fools
Who drink Beauty's wine.
not given to the many many
But to fools
Who seek no other goddess
Nor grapes
Plucked from another's
Vine.
To Beauty by Langston Hughes







          

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth - the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a-night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names. 

I Died For Beauty by Emily Dickinson 

Still feeling the seasons

I'm starting to feel 

An autumn chill

A crispness still

As a newborn sky

It does not disturb

But rather please these marveled eyes   

That look for Beauty

No yonder

Than nature’s canvas

Outside my windowsill

That I adorned with mournful flowers

Glasses of wine and coffee pots

To brew the perfect dose

For mornings like these

Of forty degrees

And autumn breeze

The waft of air

With its lilac breath

Tickles the leaves

That giggle hysterical

Like hyenas

And smile

In some hybrid fashion

Of innocence and flair

When I step outside

I kick the soot

Of summer residue

With my stern black boot

And I split the root

Of a defying Daisy
In two

But inside

It is an evening of tea

Warm chamomile spices

For warmth entices the mind

Into all kinds of adventures

Beneath the sheets

Between lover and lover

Although tonight

Is just for me

And the tapping

Of this rusty heater

And the gust of wind

That has left its icy reminder

Outside my windowpane

With the splendor of autumn days

I hardly feel pain 

  

Morning Sun by Edward Hopper


 

Zen Lunatics redone:

 

 

1960's Peruvian punk at its best

"I'm not sentimental about writers. But I'm inclined to think that most writers, and most other artists, too, are primarily motivated in their desperate vocation by a desire to find and separate truth from the complex of lies and evasions they live in, and I think that this impulse is what makes their work not so much a profession as a vocation, a true 'calling'."
-Tennessee Williams in The World I Live In 

Pumpkin Spice

It is fall, yet again

And the flittering of leaves indicate that pumpkins round the corner and apples are being plucked

The ashen red outside my cold windowpanes still manages to amaze me

The tint of buildings and pavements  

And sometimes the fog of rainy evenings seems to adopt this seasonal hue

It is the changing of the seasons

The normative routine

The spices and ciders

The bats and the spiders all claiming their much awaited return

But I sit with no transfigured inertia

My feelings un-transmuted, per say

Clenching my sheets as I am used to doing during cold mornings

Drinking black coffee to fit my unchanging patterns

The trees offer this dignified gentility

Such flaunting of nobility almost seems feigned

Moribund leaves succumbing with admirable poise

After years of this trend one would think I would tire of such sights 

But it still manages to amaze me

Such elegance I could never display

Withering away with such refined modesty    

No. When I go, I really go

My fall not akin to fine dances