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Bullshido: Martial Arts Without The BS | Bullshido |
Best viewed with Firefox  slideyfoot Interests 70s - 80s - a tribe called quest - abc - akira kurosawa - anime - art - atheism - ben folds five - bjj - brazilian jiu jitsu - bruce lee - bullshido - cinema - cocteau twins - comics - conan the barbarian - david bowie - de la soul - disco - elizabeth bishop - facebook - fantasy - feminism - film - funk - gene lebell - gene wolfe - history - james brown - jazz - john ashbery - judo - k 1 - marianne moore - marion zimmer bradley - martial arts - mma - music - mythology - new wave - paul muldoon - peter reading - philip larkin - piers anthony - poetry - pride fc - reading - robert lowell - rpgs - sci fi - science fiction - sylvia plath - the cure - the drifters - the smiths - the the - thom gunn - toshiro mifune - travel - trevor horn - trip hop - ts eliot - ufc - video games - wilfred owen - writing - Elizabeth Bishop - One Art The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of them will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master thought it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.  Sylvia Plath - Moonrise Grub-white mulberries redden among leaves. I’ll go out and sit in white like they do, Doing nothing. July’s juice rounds their nubs. This park is fleshed with idiot petals. White catalpa flowers tower, topple, Cast a round white shadow in their dying. A pigeon rudders down. Its fan-tail’s white. Vocation enough: opening, shutting White petals, white fan-tails, ten white fingers. Enough for fingernails to make half-moons Redden in white palms no labor reddens. White bruises towards color, else collapses. Berries redden. A body of whiteness Rots, and smells of rot under its headstone Though the body walk out in clean linen. I smell that whiteness here, beneath the stones Where small ants roll their eggs, where grubs fatten. Death may whiten in sun or out of it. Death whitens in the egg and out of it. I can see no color for this whiteness. White: it is a complexion of the mind. I tire, imagining white Niagaras Build up from a rock root, as fountains build Against the weighty image of their fall. Lucina, bony mother, laboring Among the socketed white stars, your face Of candor pares white flesh to the white bone, Who drag our ancient father at the heel, White-bearded, weary. The berries purple And bleed. The white stomach may ripen yet.  John Ashbery - The Picture of Little J.A. In a Prospect of Flowers He was spoilt from childhood by the future, which he mastered rather early and apparently without great difficulty Boris Pasternak I Darkness falls like a wet sponge And Dick gives Genevieve a swift punch In the pajamas. “Aroint thee, witch.” Her tongue from previous ecstasy Releases thoughts like little hats. “He clap’d me first during the eclipse. Afterwards I noted his manner Much altered. But he sending At that time certain handsome jewels I durst not seem to take offence.” In a far recess of summer Monks are playing soccer. II So far goodness a mere memory Or naming of recent scenes of badness That even these lives, children, You may pass through to be blessed, So fair does each invent his virtue. And coming from a white world, music Will sparkle at the lips of many who are Beloved. Then these, as dirty handmaidens To some transparent witch, will dream Of a white hero’s subtle wooing, And time shall force a gift on each. That beggar to whom you gave no cent Striped the night with his strange descant. III Yet I cannot escape the picture Of my small self in that bank of flowers: My head among the blazing phlox Seemed a pale and gigantic fungus. I had a hard stare, accepting Everything, taking nothing, As though the rolled-up future might stink As loud as stood the sick moment The shutter clicked. Though I was wrong, Still, as the loveliest feelings Must soon find words, and these, yes, Displace them, so I am not wrong In calling this comic version of myself The true one. For as change is horror, Virtue is really stubbornness And only in the light of lost words Can we imagine our rewards. | .
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Network Interests My Network |  Thom Gunn - Barren Leaves Spontaneous overflows of powerful feeling: Wet dreams, wet dreams, in libraries congealing. About Me
 . My name is Can (pronounced like this). I was born in Belgium to a German mother and Turkish father, but we moved to the UK three months later, meaning I'm fairly Anglicized. My life is focused around several interests, especially martial arts and poetry, the latter also being my area of academic study for the past seven years or so. The other major focus is of course my girlfriend, who I live with for half the week. I'm currently doing a part-time PhD in English Lit. My martial arts training kicked off with a year of fencing back at school. It took me until university in 1999 to get serious about martial arts, when I began training in Zhuan Shu Kuan, briefly trying out various other styles during undergrad. In November 2006, I finally got my arse down to BJJ, so have been trying to train at least twice a week at the Roger Gracie Academy in London since then (see blog).  Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse They fuck you up, your mum and dad.  Alfred, Lord Tennyson - In Memoriam: LVI "So careful of the type?" but no. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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