The Encounter by Nabokov

 

The Encounter

Longing, and mystery, and delight…
as if from the swaying blackness
of some slow-motion masquerade
onto the dim bridge you came.

And night flowed, and silent there floated
into its satin streams
that black mask’s wolf-like profile
and those tender lips of yours.

And under the chestnuts, along the canal
you passed, luring me askance.
What did my heart discern in you,
how did you move me so?

In your momentary tenderness,
or in the changing contour of your shoulders,
did I experience a dim sketch
of other — irrevocable — encounters?

Perhaps romantic pity
led you to understand
what had set trembling that arrow
now piercing through my verse?

I know nothing. Strangely
the verse vibrates, and in it, an arrow…
Perhaps you, still nameless, were
the genuine, the awaited one?

But sorrow not yet quite cried out
perturbed our starry hour.
Into the night returned the double fissure
of your eyes, eyes not yet illumed.

For long? For ever? Far off
I wander, and strain to hear
the movement of the stars above our encounter
and what if you are to be my fate…

Longing, and mystery, and delight,
and like a distant supplication….
My heart must travel on.
But if you are to be my fate…

Unlike today's relationships, the days of yore promised a love that arrived to stay. Nabokov, the great literary master, wrote this poem for a woman who was instantly won over and became his wife for more than 50 years, till death. © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes   

Kids and Teens Jewelry

 

Daddy BY SYLVIA PLATH

  Daddy

BY SYLVIA PLATH

You do not do, you do not do   

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot   

For thirty years, poor and white,   

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.   

You died before I had time——

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,   

Ghastly statue with one gray toe   

Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic   

Where it pours bean green over blue   

In the waters off beautiful Nauset.   

I used to pray to recover you.

Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town   

Scraped flat by the roller

Of wars, wars, wars.

But the name of the town is common.   

My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.   

So I never could tell where you   

Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.

The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.   

Ich, ich, ich, ich,

I could hardly speak.

I thought every German was you.   

And the language obscene

An engine, an engine

Chuffing me off like a Jew.

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.   

I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna   

Are not very pure or true.

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck   

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.   

And your neat mustache

And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.   

Every woman adores a Fascist,   

The boot in the face, the brute   

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,   

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot   

But no less a devil for that, no not   

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.   

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,   

And they stuck me together with glue.   

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.   

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I’m finally through.

The black telephone’s off at the root,   

The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——

The vampire who said he was you   

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart   

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.   

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through

Girl By Jamaica Kincaid June 19, 1978

 

Photograph by Nina Leen / Time Life Pictures / Getty

Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap; wash the color clothes on Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry; don’t walk bare-head in the hot sun; cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil; soak your little cloths right after you take them off; when buying cotton to make yourself a nice blouse, be sure that it doesn’t have gum in it, because that way it won’t hold up well after a wash; soak salt fish overnight before you cook it; is it true that you sing benna in Sunday school?; always eat your food in such a way that it won’t turn someone else’s stomach; on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are so bent on becoming; don’t sing benna in Sunday school; you mustn’t speak to wharf-rat boys, not even to give directions; don’t eat fruits on the street—flies will follow you; but I don’t sing benna on Sundays at all and never in Sunday school; this is how to sew on a button; this is how to make a buttonhole for the button you have just sewed on; this is how to hem a dress when you see the hem coming down and so to prevent yourself from looking like the slut I know you are so bent on becoming; this is how you iron your father’s khaki shirt so that it doesn’t have a crease; this is how you iron your father’s khaki pants so that they don’t have a crease; this is how you grow okra—far from the house, because okra tree harbors red ants; when you are growing dasheen, make sure it gets plenty of water or else it makes your throat itch when you are eating it; this is how you sweep a corner; this is how you sweep a whole house; this is how you sweep a yard; this is how you smile to someone you don’t like too much; this is how you smile to someone you don’t like at all; this is how you smile to someone you like completely; this is how you set a table for tea; this is how you set a table for dinner; this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest; this is how you set a table for lunch; this is how you set a table for breakfast; this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming; be sure to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit; don’t squat down to play marbles—you are not a boy, you know; don’t pick people’s flowers—you might catch something; don’t throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all; this is how to make a bread pudding; this is how to make doukona; this is how to make pepper pot; this is how to make a good medicine for a cold; this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child; this is how to catch a fish; this is how to throw back a fish you don’t like, and that way something bad won’t fall on you; this is how to bully a man; this is how a man bullies you; this is how to love a man, and if this doesn’t work there are other ways, and if they don’t work don’t feel too bad about giving up; this is how to spit up in the air if you feel like it, and this is how to move quick so that it doesn’t fall on you; this is how to make ends meet; always squeeze bread to make sure it’s fresh; but what if the baker won’t let me feel t

Love of a daughter

 

Pretty doll

 

1980s love longs

 

“Come Slowly, Eden” by Emily Dickinson

Come slowly, Eden

Lips unused to thee.

Bashful, sip thy jasmines,

As the fainting bee,

Reaching late his flower,

Round her chamber hums,

Counts his nectars—alights,

And is lost in balms

THE GARDEN OF DOLORES

  THE GARDEN OF DOLORES

THE garden of Dolores! Here she walked
When fretted in the twilight's pallid space
The trees were black and delicate as lace,
And palms were etchings, sharp and slender-stalked.

Now riots summer in these magic closes,
And life is rounded in the frailest spray . . . .
Dolores, cold and buried yesterday,
Is it thy spirit here among the roses?

For restless murmurs through the garden seek;
To shadowy caress the flowers unclose;
A blossom in the dark magnolia glows—
Or leaning pallor of an oval cheek?

Upon the dusk is borne a strange long cry,
And one quick sob of wind the air has moved.
Ah, perfect garden that Dolores loved,
Her soul has called to thee . . . a far goodbye.

no child of mine

 

Single White Female

 

The crush

 

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

 To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

BY ROBERT HERRICK

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he’s a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry;

For having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry. 

  

Galadriel's Song

Original par J.R.R. Tolkien

I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:
Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew.
Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,
And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree.
Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,
In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.
There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,
While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears.
O Lórien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day;
The leaves are falling in the stream, the River flows away.
O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore
And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.
But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?

Elbereth

 

Original par J.R.R. Tolkien

Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear!
O Queen beyond the Western Seas!
O Light to us that wander here
Amid the world of woven trees!

Gilthoniel! O Elbereth!
Clear are thy eyes and bright thy breath!
Snow-white! Snow-white! We sing to thee
In a far land beyond the Sea.

O stars that in the Sunless Year
With shining hand by her were sawn,
In windy fields now bright and clear
We see your silver blossom blown!

O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!
We still remember, we who dwell
In this far land beneath the trees,
Thy starlight on the Western Seas

K-pop girl group

 

Evgeny Baratynsky "I Love You, Goddesses Of Singing"

 

Evgeny Baratynsky

"I Love You, Goddesses Of Singing"

I love you, goddesses of singing,
But your invasion, so fine,
That tremor of the spirit thrilling,
Is a herald of the future pines.

The Muses’ love and Fortune’s striking
Are one. I’m silent. I’m afraid:
My fingers, casting on the light strings, 
Might here awake these storms and lightnings
In which my sleeping fate was laid.

And, with strong torments ever wound,
I leave the Muse, who favours me,
And say: “Till tomorrow, sounds,
Let the day expire quietly.”

Lolita

 ❤“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.”

― Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

Lolita poems

 🍒

Sophia H   Follow

11 months ago

Sixteen Going On Seventeen

I wipe my cherry stained lips
and glance up, unwittingly meeting your gaze,
captivated by the innocence of my elusivity.
I wonder to myself, do I make you feel
how you felt when you were sixteen?
Though, the stumbling dance of your voice
tells me all I need to know.

It is in the way my nimble fingers
paint their tips a Lolita red,
and messily decorate my wide eyes
that I coquettishly bat at the senior guys.
How I twirl my hair and pout my lips,
ever so kittenish as I whisper in the ear of a friend
with a crooked grin and a stifled giggle.

I pull away as desperation washes over me,
a sudden realization that in one year’s time
those enigmatic senior boys I fancy,
known only by wrinkled pages adorned with pink cursive,
will be long gone.
For it will be me walking the halls
with seniority in my step,
to the beat of time’s ceaseless march.
And I wonder what would be of life if not lived
through the heart shaped sunglasses of a little girl?

From where this funny feeling came, I couldn’t say.
It’s simply the way I find calm
in this feminine facade.
My hairless legs crossed as I pretend
to not notice their eyes, gawking at the way I sit,
a cigarette in my dainty hand and Kafka on my lap,
listening to cars pass me by, harmonizing with
voices and whistles of which I pay no mind.

I’ll get lost in introspection
and try reversing time, to treasure
my naivety and freeze it in this rhyme.
It’s an indescribable romance,
like the fire in your loins,
the way I adore this feeling so fondly.
I find myself high on the thrill
of being just sixteen,
going on seventeen,
as I clutch to the virtue of my slipping youth.

First time posting my poetry anywhere! I'm sixteen and this is about the greatest fear that plagues my mind, becoming an adult. I adore being a teenage girl and doing teenage girl things, it's the loveliest thing in the world. © 11 months ago   lolita • teen • love • school • feminine • feminism   

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aspiringpoetv   Follow

a year ago

She

Some believe Lolita was a muse
Mostly because She was depicted as having a choice in the matter
We all knew She was suffering from abuse
So why was there a surprise element at the end of her chapter?

Maybe it was because personalities like her are never believed
How could someone so seductive be so clueless to her actions?
But women like her are always perceived
To like the reactions to their interactions

Men have never understood the concept of an independent woman
A woman that does not need anyone but herself
A woman that sees herself as a competent human
And not as a piece of meat meant to gratify himself

I once saw Lolita as an inspiration
A beautiful girl sought by a man who could give her everything She wanted
Then I grew up and realized She was nothing but a figment of his imagination
A twisted, sick mind in which She was concocted

He described her as his nymphet
His favorite little girl who he could use without guilt
His absence of sin alerted me that there was a limit
But men don’t understand limits until everything is spilled

I was groomed when I was a child, maybe twelve or thirteen
He didn’t care that I was well under eighteen
Only that I didn’t tell anyone and He could see me on his screen
I was so happy that someone finally noticed me, not realizing I was only a tween

I will never forget the interactions I shared with him and the many that came after
I blamed myself for believing they cared about me
I told my friends and we all burst into a bout of laughter
At that moment I knew who would make my life insufferable, He

© a year ago   lolita • pain • rhyme • child • women   

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poisonedKisses   Follow

5 years ago

play with me

in a dusty room, where no-one goes,
the closets locked and the windows closed,
a doll sits quietly with porcelain skin,
her hair, silky brown and her soft lips thin.
cracks stretch across the ancient ceiling,
the aura around her gives you an eerie feeling.

her dress, a lace Victorian ivory,
her shoes made from silk, her ribbons ebony
dorned in her hair, her bangs, an ornate style,
her lips curve up into an eerie smile,
her lashes long, her eyelids closed,
she opens them suddenly, crimson eyes exposed.

she tilts her head innocently to the side,
her lips open slowly, the smile now wide,
her voice was soft but sounded quite haunting
this now seems pretty daunting.
"no one walks within this room" shed giggle as she'd say
"you seem like fun, do you want to play?"

a rough draft of a halloween poem i'd been working on.. may be a little late to put it on but ah well  © 5 years ago, cli furlong   halloween • doll • lolita • horror • fantasy   

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Tina Papados   Follow

8 years ago

Moulin Rouge

Mountains of a million men
A velocity of cinematic lights
giving birth to flames; like rising dragons
transforming into women, into art.

Fires, feathers and golden snakes
caved bodies of femme fatales
hell's transgressive angels
fulfil fantasies of married men.

Crowds, celebrating with beer and cigars
chanting in French, desiring sweet flesh.
No woman resembled his fatal lover,
Lady Moulin Rouge.

In crowds of lust, danger gleamed upon
that young, seductive touch
of a female, lost within
mountains of a million men.

The nymphet of his desire
Soft and stark naked
holding a cigar; inhaling
the sweet betrayal of suicide.

A child, ten years of age
with the haunting resemblance
of Lady Rouge; forbidden knowledge
HE lost his daughter.

© 8 years ago   love • lust • moulin-rouge • beer • alcohol • men • forbidden-knowledge • nymphat • lolita • child • desire • life • smoking • haunting • horror • man • mistake • lover • suicide • fatal • transgressive • femme-fatale • overpowering • dragon • fire • feathers • snake • spiritual • d   

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Kairos   Follow

8 years ago

Waiting on Nightfall

You come to me in dreams
and every second I'm sleeping,
the tiny part of me that is barely conscious
is begging to stay asleep;
because the way you hold me and whisper
my name in dreams is something
nothing I'm awake for could ever
make me feel.
It makes me sad that I can only dream
of your touch; because waking up to you
would surely be a dream in itself.
I want to roll over at two in the morning
and lay my head on your chest;
feeling it rise and fall as we breathe
in sweet synchronicity.
What I'd give to come home to you,
your tie loosened and your top buttons
undone, that familiar worn and tired
expression hanging like a painting on your face
after a long day.
What I'd give to repaint it with gentle kisses
and tender words.
Let me undo the rest of your buttons and pull
you back into warmth;
into me.
You are at the heart of my deepest
desires- these feelings whose
existence I can barely admit to myself.
If there ever comes a night
when my dreams no longer grant
my waking wishes;
I'll stay awake forever,
because anything short of your dreamy
touch would only be a nightmare.

© 8 years ago   lolita • sex • love • dark • older-men • 1   

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