Art – Elsa Beskow
Art – Elsa Beskow
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.
I am grateful.
Then, by the end of morning,
he’s gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.”
― Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings
A more poetical “Less is more”. The poetry of music is undermined by its continuity…
The song of the thrush is perfect, mysterious, and atoning for all the sadness and grimness of winter…
In my culture there is an old saying “miracles last for two days”. Banality cuts deep also into the birds’ song not just into a fabrication of people that is classical music.
Spring is the Renaissance age of the entire year when the marvels of the new earth dictates the rhythm of life.
Uriah Heep from David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
“I am well aware that I am the umblest person going,” said Uriah Heep modestly, “let the other be where he may. My mother is likewise a very umble person. We live in an umble abode, Master Copperfield, but have much to be thankful for. My father’s former calling was umble; he was a sexton.”
His name has become synonymous with sycophancy.
Captain Ahab from Moby Dick – Charles Melville
“Human madness is oftentimes a cunning and most feline thing. When you think it fled, it may have but become transfigured into some still subtler form.”
“All my means are sane, my motive and my object mad.”
“Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush! Naught’s an obstacle, naught’s an angle to the iron way!”
(From his object mad I extracted the question “Who is your white whale?”, question I ask my customers.)
Miss Havisham from Great Expectations – Charles Dickens (a forger of astounding characters)
“I stole her heart away and put ice in its place.”
“Break their hearts my pride and hope, break their hearts and have no mercy.”
I’ll tell you,” said she, in the same hurried passionate whisper, “what real love it. It is blind devotion, unquestioning self-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the smiter – as I did!”
“Love her, love her, love her! If she favours you, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to pieces – and as it gets older and stronger, it will tear deeper – love her, love her, love her!”
Berenice from Berenice – short story by Edgar Allan Poe
“Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my paternal halls. Yet differently we grew –I ill of health, and buried in gloom –she agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy; hers the ramble on the hill-side –mine the studies of the cloister –I living within my own heart, and addicted body and soul to the most intense and painful meditation –she roaming carelessly through life with no thought of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the raven-winged hours. Berenice! –I call upon her name –Berenice! –and from the gray ruins of memory a thousand tumultuous recollections are startled at the sound! Ah! vividly is her image before me now, as in the early days of her light-heartedness and joy! Oh! gorgeous yet fantastic beauty! Oh! sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim! –Oh! Naiad among its fountains! –and then –then all is mystery and terror, and a tale which should not be told.”
Art – Uriah Heep by Fred Barnard
Also featured at Quora.com.
I have answered this at Quora.
The Snows of Kilimanjaro by Ernest Hemingway.
“The cot the man lay on was in the wide shade of a mimosa tree and as he looked out past the shade onto the glare of the plain there were three of the big birds squatted obscenely, while in the sky a dozen more sailed, making quick-moving shadows as they passed.”
“Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting. Well he would never know, now.”
by John Milton
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc’d fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his wat’ry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
SAMUEL PALMER – An Illustration to Milton’s ‘Lycidas’
If You Forget Me
I want you to know
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
if each day,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
– Pablo Neruda
Art – Thomas Edwin Mostyn
Also published at Quora.com.
As being confined at my home, I have gone through my books now that I will (probably) have more time to read.
Next to my first poems published in the Sudden Denouement Anthology Volume I, there it was the black luster of my graduation paper. In the both I have put my passion and toil, sweat and tears.
My graduation year was one of the worst, being squeezed under job worries, preparation for the Post graduate exams, completing my graduation paper and being caught in a troublesome web of love and pain.
While leafing through my thesis I couldn’t imagine how on earth I had the patience and fortitude to set off upon the journey of the Gods through the Victorian Age.
Must be the love for ideals, love for hope, love for Mythology, love for word-work that helped me swam under all worries aided only by the unicorn-blue sheen of the moon onto the leaves of that forlorn summer.
Presently, I am travelling the world with the help of a sack of books and I am rearranging memories upon their shelves.
Art – Kinuko Craft
The Great Empty at the New York Times
Only these come to mind:
“The terror that whispers in darkness and flames in light,
The doubt that speaks in the silence of earth and sea,
The sense, more fearful at noon than in midmost night,
Of wrath scarce hushed and of imminent till to be,
Where are they? Heaven is as earth, and as heaven to me
Earth: for the shadows that sundered them here take flight;
And naught is all, as am I, but a dream of thee.”
– Charles Algernon Swinburne (1837–1909)
Art – John Harris
The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest;
The courteous host, and all-approving guest,
Again to that accustom’d couch must creep
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep,
And man, o’erlabour’d with his being’s strife,
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life:
What better name may slumber’s bed become?
Night’s sepulchre, the universal home,
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine,
Alike in naked helplessness recline;
Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath,
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death,
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased,
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.
– George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824), Lara
Benjamin Haughton – Dawn