Celia, you are so right about poetry. Even now I have sentimental tears falling for the beauty of the human heart to be able to reach another.
This sentence from a priceless book entitled "They Mystical City of God": The stone tends to move whithersoever its own weight draws it, that is to its centre of attraction; love is the weight of the heart, drawing it to its centre, namely, to that which it loves."
Celia, it sounds like a little thing but from my vantage point it is huge the meaning of love is disguised by its overuse love is a sacred condition and is inappropriate and confusing for young brains to hear the word tossed about indiscriminately old brains have already been stripped and so it goes thank you for your diligence and warm nature! Health mike
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Fuck Emily Oster,
And fuck amnesty too.
Hey, they haven’t won, I really love that poem.
"All Some Kind Of Dream"
I saw my brother in a stranger's face
I saw my sister in a smile
My mother's laughter in a far off place
My father's footsteps in each mile
I thought I knew who my neighbour was
We didn't need to be redeemed
Oh, what could I have been thinking of?
Was it all some kind of dream?
I saw my country in the hungry eyes
Of a million refugees
Between the rocks and the rising tide
As they were tossed across the sea
There was a time when we were them
Just as now they all are we
Was there an hour when we took them in?
Or was it all some kind of dream?
I saw the children in the holding pens
I saw the families ripped apart
And though I try I cannot begin
To know what it did inside their hearts
There was a time when we held them close
And weren't so cruel, low, and mean
And we did good unto the least of those
Or was it all some kind of dream?
I saw justice with a tattered hem
I saw compassion on the run
But I saw dignity in spite of them
I prayed its day would finally come
There was a time when we chose our sides
And we refused to live between
We rose to fight for what we knew was right
Or was it all some kind of dream?
Last night I lay in my true love's bed
And she lay there close beside
And we lay thinking 'bout what lay ahead
And wondering if the sun would rise
For it seems that these are darker days
Than any others that we've seen
Oh, how we wished that we weren't wide awake
And this was all some kind of dream
Josh Ritter
Tea at the Palaz of Hoon
by Wallace Stevens
Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.
What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?
Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:
I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
Celia, you are so right about poetry. Even now I have sentimental tears falling for the beauty of the human heart to be able to reach another.
This sentence from a priceless book entitled "They Mystical City of God": The stone tends to move whithersoever its own weight draws it, that is to its centre of attraction; love is the weight of the heart, drawing it to its centre, namely, to that which it loves."
This is why I can wake each day and be.
"November," by Thomas Hood (1799-1845)
No sun — no moon!
No morn — no noon —
No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member —
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! —
November!
Why poetry?...this: "In my country, tender proofs of spring and badly dressed birds are preferred to far-off goals."
If it don't bother nobody
We can all be happy and free
The Rule of Freedom to be
In a free country
We can all be happy and free
The Rule of Freedom is meant to be
Rule of Freedom for you and me
The Rule of Freedom from
Sea to shining sea
Sea to shining
Sea to shining
Sea to shining
Sea
A ha
“Truth waits for dawn beside a candle...”
Beautiful
🌼very talented poet🌼
https://jamesduff.substack.com/
Love this.
i was just thinking this exact thought!!!
Celia ,
I have something here that I really want to share with you, and of course with all of your readers
https://youtu.be/4Mc0kwROHRU
(Because I would be intrigued by your opinion )
That was wonderfully haunting;
It is occurring to me that the ambiguity of meaning of poetry - is a very potent fuel for an ever expanding and creative interpretative state-
Celia, it sounds like a little thing but from my vantage point it is huge the meaning of love is disguised by its overuse love is a sacred condition and is inappropriate and confusing for young brains to hear the word tossed about indiscriminately old brains have already been stripped and so it goes thank you for your diligence and warm nature! Health mike
OH HOW I LOVE THIS!
Poetry is pure bliss!
Defying the total slavery agenda of the globalists,
POETRY IS ONE OF THE BEST WAYS TO RESIST! COMPUTER AI ALGORITHMS CAN'T DO THIS!
HUMANITY WILL PERSIST!
Come see real
Flowers
Of this painful world.
~Basho
Poet's Obligation
To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or harsh prison cell:
to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.
So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my awareness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn's castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
saying "How can I reach the sea?"
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and of quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing,
the grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.
So, through me, freedom and the sea
will make their answer to the shuttered heart.
Pablo Neruda