Journals13
Newest
Devious Journal Entry
1 min read
Hello everyone, its been long since I logged in but i think i am comin back with photos from my phone..and soon hopefully from my camera
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Devious Journal Entry
1 min read
long time since i loged in to my deviant...wow..time flies....
well got nothing to say...jut nice seein your works again ones more especially urs...u know who u r...so need mentioning...c ya
well got nothing to say...jut nice seein your works again ones more especially urs...
u know who u r...so need mentioning...c ya
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Happy New Year...!!!!!!!!!!
1 min read
well it feels like it was January yesterday but it is December now...amazin how time flies...it was a good year and i expect a better one ...wish you all Happy new year and God Bless us all
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
life
1 min read
........
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
hey Does any one remember this Poem....
2 min read
some one definitly remembers this poem coz she used to recite it at home...lol
i hope it brings u good memories...
Cow
By Selima Hill
I want to be a cow
and not my mother's daughter.
I want to be a cow
and not in love with you.
I want to feel free to feel calm.
I want to be a cow who never knows
the kind of love you 'fall in love with' with;
a queenly cow, with hips as big and sound
as a department store,
a cow the farmer milks on bended knee,
who when she dies will feel dawn
bending over her like lawn to wet her lips.
I want to be a cow,
nothing fancy –
a cargo of grass,
a hammock of soupy milk
whose floating and rocking and dribbling's undisturbed
by the echo of hooves to the city;
of crunching boots;
of suspicious-looking trailers parked on verges;
of unscrupulous restaurant-owners
who stumble, pink-eyed, from stale beds
into a world of lobsters and warm telephones;
of streamlined Japanese freighters
ironing the night,
heavy with sweet desire like bowls of jam.
The Tibetans have 85 words for states of consciousness.
This dozy cow I want to be has none.
She doesn't speak.
She doesn't do housework or worry about her appearance.
She doesn't roam.
Safe in her fleet
of shorn-white-bowl-like friends,
she needs, and loves, and's loved by,
only this –
the farm I want to be a cow on too.
Don't come looking for me.
Don't come walking out into the bright sunlight
looking for me,
black in your gloves and stockings and sleeves
and large hat.
Don't call the tractorman.
Don't call the neighbours.
Don't make a special fruit-cake for when I come home:
I'm not coming home.
I'm going to be a cowman's counted cow.
I'm going to be a cow
and you won't know me.
Source: Astley, Neil (ed.) (2002) Staying Alive: real poems for unreal
times, Tarset: Bloodaxe.
The poetry book this is from, by the way, Staying Alive, totally awesome. It's a book everyone should have. There is another poem in there, called "A Puppy Called Puberty" that is terrific. Hysterical too.
i hope it brings u good memories...
Cow
By Selima Hill
I want to be a cow
and not my mother's daughter.
I want to be a cow
and not in love with you.
I want to feel free to feel calm.
I want to be a cow who never knows
the kind of love you 'fall in love with' with;
a queenly cow, with hips as big and sound
as a department store,
a cow the farmer milks on bended knee,
who when she dies will feel dawn
bending over her like lawn to wet her lips.
I want to be a cow,
nothing fancy –
a cargo of grass,
a hammock of soupy milk
whose floating and rocking and dribbling's undisturbed
by the echo of hooves to the city;
of crunching boots;
of suspicious-looking trailers parked on verges;
of unscrupulous restaurant-owners
who stumble, pink-eyed, from stale beds
into a world of lobsters and warm telephones;
of streamlined Japanese freighters
ironing the night,
heavy with sweet desire like bowls of jam.
The Tibetans have 85 words for states of consciousness.
This dozy cow I want to be has none.
She doesn't speak.
She doesn't do housework or worry about her appearance.
She doesn't roam.
Safe in her fleet
of shorn-white-bowl-like friends,
she needs, and loves, and's loved by,
only this –
the farm I want to be a cow on too.
Don't come looking for me.
Don't come walking out into the bright sunlight
looking for me,
black in your gloves and stockings and sleeves
and large hat.
Don't call the tractorman.
Don't call the neighbours.
Don't make a special fruit-cake for when I come home:
I'm not coming home.
I'm going to be a cowman's counted cow.
I'm going to be a cow
and you won't know me.
Source: Astley, Neil (ed.) (2002) Staying Alive: real poems for unreal
times, Tarset: Bloodaxe.
The poetry book this is from, by the way, Staying Alive, totally awesome. It's a book everyone should have. There is another poem in there, called "A Puppy Called Puberty" that is terrific. Hysterical too.
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In