At the end of the day, the USA is level with the UK.People love to learn.
At the end of the day, the USA is level with the UK.People love to learn.
When does pain become too much to bear
Perhaps when love has gone as has peace fair
The joy of being wanted and of care
Distracts the mind from ruminations bare.
As long as I can see with my one eye
And write despite the pain of emptiness
I shall push away my wavelike wish to die
For else I cannot live whenmy love’s lost.
By man or God, when penetrated deep
By one who in his arms encircled me
The price of knowledge did not seem too steep
But when engrossed in love we scarcely see.
The measuring of worth seems hard when blind
The proper measure of a man is kind
People do not seem to realize that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character. Ralph Waldo Emerson
Read more at: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/r/ralph_waldo_emerson.html
“Poetry is what gets lost in translation.” Robert Frost
1Bring or recall (a feeling, memory, or image) to the conscious mind:
2Invoke (a spirit or deity):
Early 17th century (in evoke): from Latin evocare, from e- (variant of ex-) out of, from + vocare to call.
Sometimes, when sad, I feel it is like climbing a long staircase to get out of bed in the morning.But don’t climb this one!
I have studied books about the history of Germany ,The holocaust and what follows.One writer asks if it even POSSIBLE for the Jews to grieve the destruction of European Jewry ans the destruction of Yiddish as a common language.Inability to grieve leads to paranoia.
I am asking, is it not the duty of us in Europe to mourn our loss too and our destructiveness?For who needed WW1?Who began it?Why? Was it neccessary?
I think not.
We lost also gypsies,disabled children,homosexuals and political people who attempted to change what was going on.
And why did Churchill bomb innocent Dresden but not the railway lines taking Jews and others to the Death Camps?
Why do we have no shame?
”It is painful to recall a past intensity, to estimate your distance from the Belsen heap, to make your peace with numbers. Just to get up each morning is to make a kind of peace.”
Leonard Cohen (b. 1934), Canadian singer, poet, novelist. “Lines from My Grandfather’s Journal,” The Spice-Box of Earth (1965).
Poetry takes as its purview what is deeply felt and is essentially unsayable; that is the paradox on which the poem necessarily turns.
Poetry takes as its purview what is deeply felt and is essentially unsayable; that is the paradox on which the poem necessarily turns. A poet uses language as a painter uses color, a primary material out of which to make art. But language that is used all the time and all around us—in sound bites, advertisements, political rhetoric, newsprint—needs to be rinsed free so that it can be used as the stuff of art.
The poem in its act of meaning-making turns away from the literal, its truth bound to what can be evoked. And evocation is sparked by memory. Abhinavagupta (ca. 950–1020 ce) realized this clearly. In his reflections, he writes of how poetry—far from dealing with the literal—reaches into what lies in memory, in memory fragments. It is in this way that rasa, the quick of aesthetic pleasure, is reached:
On the other hand rasa is something that one cannot dream of expressing by the literal sense. It does not fall within workday expression. It is rather of a form that must be tasted by an act of blissful relishing on the part of a delicate mind through the stimulation of previously deposited memory elements . . . beautiful because of their appeal to the heart. . . . The suggesting of such a sense is called rasadhvaniand is found to operate only in poetry. This in a strict sense is the soul of poetry. (Source: The Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana with the Locana of Abhinavagupta, Harvard University Press, 1990)
While poetry is bound to the sensorium, to the sensual powers of bodily being, to memory that draws its power from feelings heightened by the senses, it is also bound to place. It is in place that we locate ourselves, mark ourselves in relation with others; it is in place that we survive. But what becomes of the past when place is torn away, when the sensorium is radically displaced, and when exile or dislocation marks out the limits of existence?
Etymology doesn’t help—it only highlights that the apples and oranges here are how the thing is made and how it moves. Poetry is from the Greek poiein, “to make”: a poem is something made, or in English we would more naturally say crafted. Yet everyone agrees good prose is well crafted, too. Prose means, literally, “straightforward,” from the Latin prosa, proversus, “turned to face forward” (whereas verse is all wound up, twisty and snaky, “turned” in every direction except, apparently, forward). Yet we all know that poems can be clear and direct, too, especially when they’re songs.
Sidelining sonnets and quarantining quatrains in the poetry ghetto does produce a certain clarity. But of course it also creates problems when translating from languages that gerrymander poetry differently. In German, for example, writer is a word even more literal than the English “someone who writes”: it’s Schriftsteller, a put-down-on-paper-er (Schrift = “writing,” stellen = “to place, to put”). Autor is a word used a bit less often for pretty much the same thing, unlike in English, where there’s a difference: author expresses a professional and financial identity (there are no “unpublished authors,” unless maybe the manuscript is finished and the contract is signed), while a writer is someone pursuing an activity (published or not, paid or not, read or not).
And then there’s a Dichter, usually translated “poet” but meaning a creator of poetry in the grand sense. The verb dichten means “to write poetry, ” and a poem is a dichten-ed thing, a Gedicht, but dichten means more generally to write poetically and well. The good stuff. The writer as hero of the spirit. How do you say that in English? We don’t have heroes of the spirit.
A single tear fell
Into the peace lily’s pot
I hope it will grow.
I’m good at weeping
I got my D.Phil early.
It does not help me.
Studies do not dissolve pain
But they distract me.
Love lasts for a day
Is it a good idea,
Like a flower is?
There are a few more choice snippets from Shelley’s 1821 essay, A Defence of Poetry, that articulated the essence of poetry:
“Poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once the centre and circumference of knowledge; it is that which comprehends all science, and that to which all science must be referred. It is at the same time the root and blossom of all other systems of thought; it is that from which all spring, and that which adorns all; and that which, if blighted, denies the fruit and the seed, and withholds from the barren world the nourishment and the succession of the scions of the tree of life. It is the perfect and consummate surface and bloom of all things; it is as the odor and the color of the rose to the texture of the elements which compose it, as the form and splendor of unfaded beauty to the secrets of anatomy and corruption.”
“Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.”
“Poetry, in a general sense, may be defined to be ‘the expression of the imagination’: and poetry is connate with the origin of man.”
“Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.”
“Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.”
“All high poetry is infinite; it is as the first acorn, which contained all oaks potentially.”