3D Genetic Algorithms - Abstract #89

pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
—- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born —- pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if —- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go

e e cummings.

3D Genetic Algorithms - Abstract #88

Life did not bring me silken gowns,
Nor jewels for my hair,
Nor signs of gabled foreign towns
In distant countries fair,
But I can glimpse, beyond my pane, a green and friendly hill,
And red geraniums aflame upon my window sill.
The brambled cares of everyday,
The tiny humdrum things,
May bind my feet when they would stray,
But still my heart has wings
While red geraniums are bloomed against my window glass,
And low above my green-sweet hill the gypsy wind-clouds pass.

And if my dreamings ne'er come true,
The brightest and the best,
But leave me lone my journey through,
I'll set my heart at rest,
And thank God for home-sweet things, a green and friendly hill,
And red geraniums aflame upon my window sill.

Martha Haskell Clark, "Red Geraniums"

Creature of the Light #17

Para Catalina.

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times…
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,
In life after life, in age after age, forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it's age-old pain,
It's ancient tale of being apart or together.
As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,
Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:
You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
At the heart of time, love of one for another.
We have played along side millions of lovers, shared in the same
Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell-
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you
The love of all man’s days both past and forever:
Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.
The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours –
And the songs of every poet past and forever.

Rabindranath Tagore, "Unending love".

3D Genetic Algorithms - Abstract #87

My hero bares his nerves along my wrist
That rules from wrist to shoulder,
Unpacks the head that, like a sleepy ghost,
Leans on my mortal ruler,
The proud spine spurning turn and twist.

And these poor nerves so wired to the skull
Ache on the lovelorn paper
I hug to love with my unruly scrawl
That utters all love hunger
And tells the page the empty ill.

My hero bares my side and sees his heart
Tread; like a naked Venus,
The beach of flesh, and wind her bloodred plait;
Stripping my loin of promise,
He promises a secret heat.

He holds the wire from this box of nerves
Praising the mortal error
Of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,
And the hunger's emperor;
He pulls that chain, the cistern moves.

Dylan Thomas, "My hero bares his nerves".

3D Genetic Algorithms - Abstract #86

The green frog has green worms in his green lungs; or something like that. A flu, or a cold. I shouldn't be blogging. The doc forbid that in particular: "No blog for you!". He's the blog nazi.
Fever talk.

I don't want to come, yet suddenly I'm here;
I don't want to leave, yet suddenly I'm gone.
Don't know where I've come from. or gone from, either.
In this there is, of course, True News.

Since heaven can't speak, I'll have to pass it on.
Just wait for old Master Chaos to come back to life.
If I search for myself, I'll certainly find me.

Yuan Mei, "Delirium (joking at illness)".

3D Genetic Algorithms - Abstract #85

I have sought all the colors in the prism;
I have brought them home again with me,
And feebly give them out upon the earth.
Sometimes I have sung
With a long sad cry in my throat
Or with a murmuring as of curiously wrought shells.

Sometimes I have danced
With pink clouds, in a dense forest,
Over the moist brown moss,
And curved my white body in long lines,
Like a white reed swaying in a slight wind;
And in growing tired of sweet things,
Have sunk upon the earth
And in a passion gathered in my hands
Warm, red clay, and hued a woman
With a haunted face, or a panther
Creeping close to the ground.
And when the sun set, I painted,
Deliberately choosing my colors and fusing them,
Or I would splash heavily with paint,
Giving you a glimpse of subtle strength.
I would give, give, give of myself or go mad,
But all these efforts are futile and they rend me,
For through one medium only may I give, though poorly,
A rude pencil is ever ready to my hand,
And my thoughts are prisoned souls
That sob to be born in bodies.

Isobel Stone, "Creator".