Favorite Poetic Passages

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A friendly polly ode perhaps,

Meanwhile we do no harm for they that with a God have striven not hearing much of what we say take what the God has given. Though like a wave breaking it may be or like a changed familiar tree or like a stairway to the sea wheredown the blind are driven.---E.A. Robinson

-- Carlos (riffraff@cybertime.net), July 17, 2001

Answers

Meanwhile, we do no harm, for they that with a god have striven

Not hearing much of what we say

take what the god has given

Though like waves breaking it may be

Or like a changed familiar tree

Or like a stairway to the sea

where down the blind are driven

------------------------

I've seen Eyos Tyrannos descibed as one of the best written poems in the English language. Thanks Carlos

-- (-@-.-), July 18, 2001.


My pleasure --. The guy was a gloomer if ever but sill one of my favorite poets. Hard to find one that so well exploited the simplest and most common of human misery. Still, four Pulitizers while still alive is still a record I think.

-- Carlos (riffraff@cybertime.net), July 18, 2001.

And perhaps a little prose:

Happiness is the greatest paradox in Nature. It can grow in any soil, live under any condition.

It defies environment. It comes from within; it is the revelation of the depths of the inner life as light and heat proclaim the sun from which they radiate.

Happiness consists not of having, but of being; not of possessing, but of enjoying. It is the warm glow of a heart at peace with itself. A martyr at the stake may have happiness that a king on his throne might envy.

Man is the creator of his own happiness; it is the aroma of life lived in harmony with high ideals. . . .

---William George Jordan

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), July 18, 2001.


This Persian wino wasn't a gloomer but he could fool a fella,

Tis all a checkerboard of nights and days

where fate with men for pieces plays.

Hither moves and mates and slays

Then one by one back in the closet lays.--- Omar Khayyam

-- Carlos (riffraff@cybertime.net), July 18, 2001.


forgot the "thither" didn't I "--"?

-- Carlos (riffraff@cybertime.net), July 18, 2001.


The Most Beautiful Flower

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose
And declared with overacted surprise,
"It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful,too.
That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors: orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied,"Just what I need."
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver; tears shone in the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life,
And appreciate every second that's mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy, Another weed in his hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

"May the Lord open the eyes of our hearts."

--Author Unknown


-- (cin@cin.cin), July 18, 2001.

Ever since turning 50, I have loved this last stanza from T. S. Eliot's East Coker.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older

the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated

Of dead and living. Not the intense moment

Isolated, with no before and after,

But a lifetime burning in every moment

And not the lifetime of one man only

But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.

There is a time for the evening under starlight,

A time for the evening under lamplight

(The evening with the photograph album).

Love is most nearly itself

When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers

Here or there does not matter

We must be still and still moving

Into another intensity

For a further union, a deeper communion

Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,

The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters

Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

--Thomas Stearns Eliot

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), July 19, 2001.


"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"-- "O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

--"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"-- "Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

--"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,' And 'thik oon' and 'theäs oon' and 't'other'; but now Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compan-ny!"-- "Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

--"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"-- "We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

--"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"-- "True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

--"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town."-- "My dear - a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.

-- The Ruined Maid (thomas@hardy.poet), July 19, 2001.


There is nothing I can give you which you have not; but there is much I cannot give that you can take. No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present instant. Take peace! The gloom of the world is but a shadow; behind it, yet within reach is joy. Take joy!

There is a radiance and glory in the darkness, could we but see; And to see, we have only to look. I beseech you to look. Life is so generous a giver, but we, judging its gifts by their covering, cast them away as ugly, or heavy, or hard. Remove the covering, and you will find beneath it a living splendor, woven of love, by wisdom, with power. Welcome it, grasp it, and you touch the angel’s hand that brings it to you.

Everything we call a trial, a sorrow, or a duty, believe me, that angel’s hand is there; the gift is here, and the wonder of an overshadowing presence. Our joys too: be not content with them as joys. They, too, conceal diviner gifts.

And so, at this time, I greet you. Not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks, and the shadows flee away.

~ Fra Giovanni

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), July 20, 2001.


This is a prayer but I think it qualifies as prose-poetry,

--------------------------------

Let me use all things for one sole reason: to find my joy in giving You glory.

Therefore, keep me, above all things, from sin. Keep me from the death of deadly sin which puts hell in my soul. Keep me from the murder of lust that blinds and poisons my heart. Keep me from the sins that eat a man's flesh with irresistible fire until he is devoured. Keep me from loving money in which is hatred, from avarice [greed] and ambition that suffocate my life. Keep me from the dead works of vanity and the thankless labor in which artists destroy themselves for pride and money and reputation, and saints are smothered under the avalanche of their own importunate zeal. Staunch in me the rank wound of covetousness and the hungers that exhaust my nature with their bleeding. Stamp out the serpent envy that stings love with poison and kills all joy.

Untie my hands and deliver my heart from sloth. Set me free from the laziness that goes about disguised as activity when activity is not required of me, and from the cowardice that does what is not demanded, in order to escape sacrifice.

But give me the strength that waits upon You in silence and peace. Give me humility in which alone is rest, and deliver me from pride which is the heaviest of burdens. And possess my whole heart and soul with the simplicity of love. Occupy my whole life with the one thought and the one desire of love, that I may love not for the sake of merit, not for the sake of perfection, not for the sake of virtue, not for the sake of sanctity, but for You alone.

--Thomas Merton, Trappist Monk, New Seeds of Contemplation, 1961

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), July 20, 2001.



To be grateful is to recognize the Love of God in everything He has given us ~ and He has given us everything. Every breath we draw is a gift of His love, every moment of existence is a grace, for it brings with it immense graces from Him. Gratitude therefore takes nothing for granted, is never unresponsive, is constantly awakening to new wonder and to praise of the goodness of God. For the grateful person knows that God is good, not by hearsay but by experience. And that is what makes all the difference.

----Thomas Merton

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), July 21, 2001.


"Phenomenal Woman"

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

--Maya Angelou


-- (cin@cin.cin), July 21, 2001.

"Touched by An Angel"

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

--Maya Angelou


-- (cin@cin.cin), July 21, 2001.

"Phenomenal Hunko"

Hunky men wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fullback's tee shirt size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the grip of my hands

The twist in my hips,

The stride of my step

The curl of my lips.

I'm a hunko

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal hunko,

That's me.

---------

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a babe,

The ladies stand or

crawl on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flesh of my buns,

The swing in my crotch,

And the roar of my guns.

I'm a hunko

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal hunko,

That's me.

-------------

Babes themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mastery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The roll of my walk,

The bounce of my balls,

The rap that I talk.

I'm a hunko

--------------

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal hunko,

That's me.

-------------

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

don't try to please no crowd.

When you see me passing

You know you gonna be plowed.

I say,

It's in the spin of my wheels,

The smell of my beer,

the back of my hand,

The need of my sneer,

'Cause I'm a hunko

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal hunko,

That's me.

-- (nemesis@awol.com), July 21, 2001.


omg...

i think i love you

LOLOL

-- (cin@cin.cin), July 21, 2001.



oh. my. god.

I think I love you too

-- Debra (Thisis@it.com), July 21, 2001.


Dr. Seuss on the Golden Years

I cannot see

I cannot pee

I cannot chew

I cannot screw

My memory shrinks

My hearing stinks

No sense of smell

I look like hell

My body's drooping

Have trouble pooping

The Golden Years have come at last

The Golden Years can kiss my ass

-- Debra (Thisis@it.com), July 21, 2001.


The nemesis fan club will now come to disorder...

-- helen (lol@nemesis.lol), July 21, 2001.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

~

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.

~

The Eagle by Alfred Tennyson

-- flora (***@__._), July 21, 2001.


This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. Welcome and attend them all! Even if they're a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight. Welcome difficulty. Learn the alchemy True Human Beings know: the moment you accept what troubles you've been given, the door opens. ---Jelaluddin Rumi

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), July 22, 2001.


Not sure why, but I've always liked this poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson:

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

-- Pammy (pamela_sue57@hotmail.com), July 22, 2001.

Those who realize true wisdom,

rapt with this clear awareness,

see me as the universe's origin,

imperishable.

All their words and all their actions

issue from the depths of worship;

held in my embrace, they know me

as a woman knows her lover.

Creatures rise, creatures vanish;

I alone am real, Arjuna,

looking out, amused, from deep

within the eyes of every creature.

I am the object of all knowledge,

father of the world, its mother,

source of all things, of impure and pure,

of holiness and horror.

I am the goal, the root, the witness,

home and refuge, dearest friend,

creation and annihilation,

everlasting seed and treasure.

I am the radiance of the sun,

I open or withhold the rain clouds,

I am immortality and death,

I am being and nonbeing.

I am the Self, Arjuna,

seated in the heart of every creature.

am the origin, the middle,

and the end that all must come to.

Those who worship me sincerely

with their minds and bodies,

giving up their whole lives in devotion,

find in me their heart's fulfillment.

Even those who do not know me,

if their actions are straightforward,

just, and loving, venerate me

with the truest kind of worship.

All your thoughts, all your actions,

all your fears and disappointments,

offer them to me, clear-hearted;

know them all as passing visions.

Thus you free yourself from bondage,

from both good and evil karma;

through your nonattachment,

you embody me, in utter freedom.

I am justice; clear, impartial,

favoring no one, hating no one.

But in those who have cured themselves

of selfishness. I shine with brilliance.

Even murderers and rapists,

tyrants, the most cruel fanatics,

ultimately know redemption through my love,

if they surrender to my harsh but healing graces.

Passing through excruciating transformations,

they find freedom and their hearts find peace within them.

I am always with all beings;

I abandon no one. And

however great your inner darkness,

you are never separate from me.

Let your thoughts flow past you, calmly;

keep me near, at every moment;

trust me with your life, because

I am you, more than you yourself are.

---Bhagavad Gita

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), July 23, 2001.


Alfred Lord Tennisanyone

-- (nemesis@awol.com), July 23, 2001.

The Giving Tree

Once there was a tree…
and she loved a little boy.
And every day the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree…
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
And the tree said, "Come, Boy, come and climb
up my trunk and swing from my branches
and eat my apples and play in my shade and be happy."
"I am too big to climb and play," said the boy.
"I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money.
Can you give me some money?"
"I’m sorry," said the tree, "but I have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in the city.
Then you will have money
and you will be happy."
And so the boy climbed up the tree
and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time…
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy and she said,
"Come boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy."
"I am too busy to climb trees," said the boy.
"I want a house to keep me warm," he said.
"I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house. Can you give me a house?"
"I have no house," said the tree.
"The forest is my house, but you may cut my branches and build a house.
Then you will be happy."
And so the boy cut off her branches and carried them away to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back, the tree was so happy she could hardly speak.
"Come boy," she whispered, "come and play."
"I am too old and sad to play," said the boy.
"I want a boat that will take me far away from here. Can you give me a boat?"
"Cut down my trunk and make a boat," said the tree. "Then you can sail away and be happy."
And so the boy cut down her trunk and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy…
but not really.
And after a long time the boy came back again,
"I am sorry Boy," said the tree,
"but I have nothing left to give you-
my apples are gone."
"My teeth are too weak for apples," said the boy.
"My branches are gone," said the tree.
"You cannot swing on them-"
"I am too old to swing on branches," said the boy.
"My trunk is gone," said the tree.
"You cannot climb-"
"I am too tired to climb," said the boy.
"I am sorry," sighed the tree.
"I wish that I could give you something…
but I have nothing left. I am just an old stump.
I am sorry…"
"I don’t need very much now," said the boy,
"just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired."
"Well," said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could,
"Well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting.
Come boy, sit down.
Sit down and rest."
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.
The End.

-- Shel Silverstein

-- (cin@cin.cin), July 28, 2001.

Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.

Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust-

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

(Now am I free to be poetical?)

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows-

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father’s trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be.

It’s when I’m weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig’s having lashed across it open. I’d like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:

I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.

I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

--Robert Frost

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), July 29, 2001.


nemesis...please email me

-- (cin@cin.cin), July 30, 2001.

Two problemos babe:

I don't know your addy

I'm PW'd

-- (nemesis@awol.com), July 31, 2001.


Again and again throughout the day
I meet a cat.
In the tree's shade, in the sun, in the crowding brown leaves
After the success of a few fish bones
Or inside a skeleton of white earth
I find it, as absorbed in the purring
Of its own heart as a bee.
Still it sharpens its claws on the gulmohar tree
And follows the sun all day long.

Now I see it and then its gone,
Losing itself somewhere.
On an autumn evening I have watched it play,
Stroking the soft body of the saffron sun
With a white paw. Then it caught
The darkness in paws like small balls
And scattered it all over the earth.

Jibananda Das

-- Bemused (and_amazed@you.people), July 31, 2001.


Fog

The fog comes in on little cat's feet.

It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.

--Carl Sandburg

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), July 31, 2001.


every man kills what he loves, the coward with a kiss, the brave with a sword.

--Oscar Wilde

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), August 02, 2001.


As you embrace the present and become one with it,

and merge with it, you will experience a fire, a glow,

a sparkle of ecstasy throbbing in every sentient being. As you begin to experience this exultation of spirit

in everything that is alive, as you become intimate with it,

joy will be born within you, and you will drop the terrible

burdens of defensiveness, resentment, and hurtfulness...

then you will become lighthearted, carefree, joyous, and free.

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), August 02, 2001.


As you embrace the present and become one with it,

and merge with it, you will experience a fire, a glow,

a sparkle of ecstasy throbbing in every sentient being. As you begin to experience this exultation of spirit

--Deepak Chopra

in everything that is alive, as you become intimate with it,

joy will be born within you, and you will drop the terrible

burdens of defensiveness, resentment, and hurtfulness...

then you will become lighthearted, carefree, joyous, and free.

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), August 02, 2001.


The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends upon

a red wheel barrow

glazed with rain water

beside the white chickens.

-- William Carlos Williams

-- (larsguy@yahoo.com), August 03, 2001.


Cross

My old man's a white old man

And my old mother's black.

If ever I cursed my white old man

I take my curses back.

If ever I cursed my black old mother

And wished she were in hell,

I'm sorry for that evil wish

And now I wish her well

My old man died in a fine big house.

My ma died in a shack.

I wonder were I'm going to die,

Being neither white nor black?

--Lanston Hughes

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), August 05, 2001.


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