Day: March 4, 2017
I could not measure justice nor what’s fair
When I was burning with the fire of rage
Or speaking in a voice emotion bare
I did not find escape from my small cage
When I misused the knowledge of my age
And for another did not feel much care
I was burning bright with fire enraged
When I with my own mind did not engage
I could not measure justice nor what’s fair
I could not find escape from my small cage
But when I saw the view from off the page
At this right angle placed, I knew to say:
I shall not fight a friend ,when trapped in rage
Now I thank the metaphoric trade
Which symbolises feelings’ higher ways
I found at last the exit from my cage
Looking with the broad view of child’s play,
I found the path which seems to be my way
No longer burning with the fires of rage
I found escape from my unholy cage
Share this:
An ancient ,holy sound begins the Spring.
Although it’s dark out there the blackbird sings
His territory is the same as in the past
An ancient ,holy sound begins the Spring.
These birds are little dinosaurs with wings
Like the spider they adapted and so last
Although it’s dark, out there my blackbird sings.
What other pleasures will the season bring?
Alas the seasons come and too soon pass
An ancient ,holy sound begins the Spring.
In my leafy wood, birds wisely throng.
We have no cat nor greenhouse with its glass
Although it’s dark, out there my blackbird sings.
In my heart, for Northern moors I long;
The heather where we loved, the sheep shorn grass
As ancient ,holy sounds began the Spring.
Yet I am never mournful for the past
God lives in each small moment,life’s our Mass
Although it’s dark out there the blackbird sings
An ancient ,holy sound begins the Spring.
Share this:
Nostalgia and its problems
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/feb/25/mohsin-hamid-danger-nostalgia-brighter-future
“Why are we so strongly attracted to nostalgia today? In part, I think, because the pace of change is accelerating. Despite our close relationship with technology, at this point in our evolution human beings are still animals, and animals struggle to adapt to change that occurs too rapidly. Given enough time, polar bears might migrate off the Arctic ice, evolve darker coats, find a different diet and thrive in a new, warmer climate. But if the ice on which they depend disappears in a few decades, they are likely to die. Our adaptive capacity is far greater, but we too experience change as stress. The world my grandparents grew up in would not have been that strange to their grandparents. “
Share this:
The Destruction of Sennacherib
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Share this:
Writing and depression
People think writing is therapeutic but this article explains why that is not always true.And if you are professional that adds to the problems.Not many writers become rich.
http://www.elizabethmoon.com/writing-depression.html
“In fact, if you wanted to make a cheery person with no predisposition to depression depressed, you could stick him in front of a typewriter or computer for hours a day–feed him a typical writer’s diet–forbid him to exercise, isolate him from friends, and convince him that his personal worth depended on his “numbers.” Make him live the writer’s life, in other words, and watch him sag.”
Share this:
The Tyger
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
How my heart sings 