
“قال ابو تمام.
نقل فؤادك حيث شئت من الهوى ** ما الحب إلا للحبيب الأول
كم منزل في الأرض يألفه الفتى ** وحنــــينه أبدا لأول منزل
_وقال : العلوي الاصبهاني
.دع حب أول من كلفت بحبه ** ما الحب إلا للحــــــبيب الآخر
ماقد تولى لا ارتجاع لطيـبه ** هل غائب اللذات مثل الحاضر
_وقال : ديك الجن
اشرب على وجه الحبيب المقبل ** وعلى الفم المتبسم المتقبل
نقل فؤادك حيث شئت فلن ترى ** كهوى جــــديد أو كوصل مقبل
وقال : آخر :
قلبي رهين بالهوى المقتــــبل ** فالويل لي في الحب إن لم أعدل
أنا مبتلى ببليتين من الهـــوى ** شوق إلى الثاني وذكـــــــر الأول”
―
نقل فؤادك حيث شئت من الهوى ** ما الحب إلا للحبيب الأول
كم منزل في الأرض يألفه الفتى ** وحنــــينه أبدا لأول منزل
_وقال : العلوي الاصبهاني
.دع حب أول من كلفت بحبه ** ما الحب إلا للحــــــبيب الآخر
ماقد تولى لا ارتجاع لطيـبه ** هل غائب اللذات مثل الحاضر
_وقال : ديك الجن
اشرب على وجه الحبيب المقبل ** وعلى الفم المتبسم المتقبل
نقل فؤادك حيث شئت فلن ترى ** كهوى جــــديد أو كوصل مقبل
وقال : آخر :
قلبي رهين بالهوى المقتــــبل ** فالويل لي في الحب إن لم أعدل
أنا مبتلى ببليتين من الهـــوى ** شوق إلى الثاني وذكـــــــر الأول”
―

“. . . Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what's inside you, to make your soul grow.
Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you're Count Dracula.
Here's an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don't do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don't tell anybody what you're doing. Don't show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK?
Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals [sic]. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what's inside you, and you have made your soul grow.”
―
Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you're Count Dracula.
Here's an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don't do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don't tell anybody what you're doing. Don't show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK?
Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals [sic]. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what's inside you, and you have made your soul grow.”
―

“I mean, language fascinates me anyway, and different words have different energies and you can change the whole drive of a sentence.”
―
―

“It’s a human need to be told stories. The more we’re governed by idiots and have no control over our destinies, the more we need to tell stories to each other about who we are, why we are, where we come from, and what might be possible.”
―
―
Adam’s 2024 Year in Books
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