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Quote by Marianne Moore

“The pulse of intention does not move so that one Can see it, and moral machinery is not labelled, but The future of time is determined by the power of volition.”

Quote by Marianne Moore

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Marianne Moore
Marianne Moore

American poet known for her unique modernist style and profound philosophical insights. Her poetry is concise and insightful, often exploring themes of nature, art, and the human condition. more

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“We're foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin’ over Africa! Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin’ over Africa— (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!) There’s no discharge in the war! Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an’-twenty mile to-day— Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before— (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!) There’s no discharge in the war! Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—look at what’s in front of you. (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again!) Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin’ ’em, And there’s no discharge in the war! Try—try—try—try—to think o’ something different— Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin’ lunatic! (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again!) There’s no discharge in the war! Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers. If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o’ you (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!) There’s no discharge in the war! We—can—stick—out—’unger, thirst, an’ weariness, But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of ’em— Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again! An’ there’s no discharge in the war! ’Tain’t—so—bad—by—day because o’ company, But—night—brings—long—strings—o’ forty thousand million Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again. There’s no discharge in the war! I—’ave—marched—six—weeks in ’Ell an’ certify It—is—not—fire—devils—dark or anything, But boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again, An’ there’s no discharge in the war!”

WarPoemBootsInfantryThe Five Nations
Book:The Five Nations
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“নদীর বৈকালিক ছায়ার মতো শীতল হয়ে আছে— স্তব্ধতার বালুকাময় শবাগার। যখনই মনে পড়ে সুপারিবাগান ঘেরা মাটিরঙা স্মৃতিগুচ্ছের কথা, তার কথা, আলগোছে ভাবি, ফের যদি ডাক দিই তাকে? ফের যদি নতজানু হই। সহসা নিশ্চুপে আমি আমাকেই বলি, ফের তুমি নতজানু হবে? কাকে ডাকবে? কাকে ফের জানাবে আমন্ত্রণ? কার প্রতি নতজানু হবে? দায়হীন বেলুনয়ালার মতো যেকোনো দৈনন্দিন অছিলায় তোমাকে বাতাসে উড়িয়ে দিয়েছিলো যে, তার প্রতি? তার অন্তিম উচ্চারণগুলো মগ্নচৈতন্যের মতো করাঘাত করে আমার নিরেট সদরে-অন্দরে। আমি আমন্ত্রণ মুছে, ভাবনা মুছে, স্মৃতি মুছে, বালুকাকণা ঝেড়ে ফেলি আস্তিনের ভাঁজ থেকে, ইচ্ছে আর আকাঙ্ক্ষার রঙিন চিরকুটগুলো নিস্পৃহ বাদলা হাওয়ায় উড়িয়ে দিয়ে ধীরে ধীরে ফের তীক্ষ্ণ ইস্পাত-অস্ত্রের মতো শিরদাঁড়া সোজা করে হেঁটে চলে যাই অবিরল বিস্মরণের দিকে।”

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“A Vigilante Stalks by Stewart Stafford O slain avenger on the mortal shore, Moral compass of an immoral craft, Virtue cloaked with malignant wings, Intravenous vengeance on two legs. Grinning charm gave way to coercion, Cold eyes unwavering from the prize, Art critic and thief in a rogues' gallery, Breaking fingers reeking of corruption. Serving a brew of fear to the fearsome, Never made you a flavour of the month, Festering secrets spewed in last breaths, Before they made you yesterday's man. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

JusticeCrimePoemRevengeVengeanceVigilanteAvengerAvenging AngelVigilante PoetsGet Carter
Author:Stewart Stafford
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“Tonight, I decided to take a stroll down to my local liquor store. Maybe I’ll find a refreshment to wash down this full moon. Some nights you feel like you're on an alien planet or some kind of time machine entering a liquor store with its neon signs and retro touches; besides the new done up stores looking like a polished toilet. I prefer the beaten down, rough and strange liquor store. I’m a regular and the man at the counter always asked me about my latest book, he told me to stay away and write until old age. Anyways got my shit, walked out and the alarm beep went off, barely covering the tax. Took the long way home, to get away from that haunting typewriter. Sat down at some park bench, as I started to open my poison, a memory rushed into me. A empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s under the Christmas tree. I thought my dad would want another drink, so started to pour my bottle into the dirt and cry as the moon went over the horizon and crossed into the section where my heart was filled up with the hidden moons glow.”

LoveArtEarthSpacePoemDrinkMoonChristmasCelebrateFree
Author:Brandon Villasenor
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