From “Elusive Elements in Practice (Psychology, Psychoanalysis & Psychotherapy Book 3)” by Bernardine Bishop, Angela Foster, Josephine Klein, Victoria O’Connell
“”Grant, I may not like puddle lie In a corrupt security, Where, if a traveller water crave, He finds it dead, and in a grave; But as this restless, vocal spring All day and night doth run, and sing, And, though here born, yet is acquainted Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted; So let me all my busy age In thy free services engage …” Vaughan, “The Dawning”, 1622-1695″
\Now, do I believe that poems change persons? Yes. Do I believe they change people? No. I’m interested in the effects poets like Adrienne Rich and Allen Ginsberg began to have on culture over time, but I don’t know that I can quantify that other than to say that reading Rich’s books helped me understand my thinking was
Inspiration is always more active than mere appreciation. There’s a thrilling feeling of elevation, a burst of energy, an awareness of enlarged possibilities. The person in the grip of inspiration has received, as if by magic, some new perception, some holistic understanding, along with the feeling that she is capable of more than she thought.
Well I’m reading “The Wisdom of the Heart” by Henry Miller and wanted to share this quote with you.
“The art of living is based on rhythm, on give and take, ebb and flow, light and dark, life and death. By acceptance of all the aspects of life, good and bad, right and wrong, yours and mine, the static, defensive life, which is what most people are cursed with, is co
– I
“The real function of the dance is—metamorphosis. One can dance to sorrow or to joy; one can even dance abstractly, as Helba Huara proved to the world. But the point is that, by the mere act of dancing, the elements which compose it are transformed; the dance is an end in itself, just like life. The acceptance of the situation, any situation, brings about a flow, a rhythmic impulse towards self-expression. To relax is the first thing , the dancer has to learn.
I wish I were on Hutton Roof again
The limestone and the little open flowers
The sea at Arnside like a distant gem
The spaciousness like days with extra hours
I wish I were as agile now as then
I might climb High White Stones for serious fun
The whole mere down below still winding on
The handsome lake, the Old Man, Coniston
I wish I were in Dent, the curious shapes
The hills and their deep mystery engross
The height, the little river, the mistakes
The lost loved man alive, to hold me close
I wish I were on Hutton Roof today
The holy smell of grass, the feel of air
Four o’clock– and the sun’s still glowing Four o’clock – of a colour bright day, Up above, pink-tinged clouds are sliding Down still sky, sweeping sun away.
Come back sweet sun, do not yet leave us. Come back bright beams,I need sunlight Down on earth,it’s witch moon darkness, When your golden face is out of sight.
I see the orange clouds extending I feel such sense of sky lit bright. But gently now, the mist surrounds you And sweeps away that happy sight.
Into velvet blackness sinking, The dazzling, dreaming darkness falls. Goodbye to haste,and glare, and sunshine, Time for reverie,night time calls.
On the night-trains gentle journeys, On this trackless train we ride Strange new visions, haunting pictures We will see in dreams’ designs.
In my night train,I’ll be happy In such rich deep reverie. We visit darkness in our sleeping, There we learn its ecstasy.
Now we may have no God to hold us, In His Hands of Living Love, What will help us trust deep blackness If there’s no Saviour from above?
Must we enter that great darkness, Go back to dark from which we came, Into dark all living creatures, In that darkness find our home?
Trust the dark unknown, to hold us, Trust the dark,both night and day. Must we walk into that darkness And trust it is our safest way?
