It’s worth recalling that “tragedy,” a word we use to describe events like this one, originally designated a literary genre, a form of storytelling. Whatever is going on in us when we experience a tragic narrative — Aristotle wasn’t the last to speculate about it — we surely learn something about our own emotional repertory; it may serve as a rehearsal of our responses to actual horrors. Classic novels have taken inspiration
Anxious or annoyed to the point of frenzy.The doctor hasn’t called me with the test results yet, so I’ve been climbing the walls.If she makes another foolish blunder like that, I’ll be climbing the walls.
For i provedt would seem—her case it—that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver. – Orlando
The mind is deeper than a well and wider than a star I lose myself in waters deep ,symbolic ,sweet and clear I rest embraced by this love and wish for nothing more I dream I walk in meadows sweet The daisies in my hair
The heart has reasons and desires as if it were a mind If it’s soft as cashmere wool then it will remain kind Yet if it’s hard then it may crack and we will split ,divide I dream I walk by river fleet With heart and mind combined
The other self that dwells alone in privacy divine Needs sacred care and sweet respect and peace from what’s malign The inner nature of us all is given and then transformed I dream I walk on long white sands By seas blue, crystaline
The weirdest thing can happen while we’re working intently on the computer or responding to texts on our phones: We accidentally stop breathing. It can be subtle, and it’s not always for long, but it’s enough to disrupt our regular flow of oxygen and unwittingly kick our stress response into gear.
“Email apnea is a phenomenon where people unconsciously hold their breath or drop into shallow breathing when they’re responding to email or texting,” says Niraj
This very old form of poetry was made famous by none other than William Shakespeare, but the sonnet actually originated in 13th century Italy where it was perfected by the poet Petrarch. The word ‘sonnet’ is derived from the Italian word ‘sonnetto’ which means ‘little song’. Traditionally, sonnets are made up of 14 lines and usually deal with love. As a rule, Petrarchan (Italian) sonnets follow an ABBA ABBA CDE CDE rhyme scheme, whereas Shakespearean (English) sonnets are typically ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. But of course, rules are made to be broken!
I’m in deep now,never been this deep before The world’s hollow like a shell and I’m out its door. In so deep, the ocean has its own startled floor. I’m down,down.down.never been so dark , so more
I can’t rightly tell how I got where I am I think I had an accident,fell over, then I swam. Sometimes it’s a loss, be times it’s my man. I guess I only do it cos I know some folk can.
I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain Would I choose to relive if, I was born again? The deep joy is the amazing gain. But the sorrow is damn sad, let’s admit it plain.
I’m in deep and it’s over my head What was I thinking of,when I fell out of that bed? I look up and the sea’s so turquoise like that mist is red When we get good and mad and wish some loon was dead.
At first, it was all just black,black pain But from the bottom of the well, I looked up with awed love again. That’s when I recalled,feelings are deep and sane Joy is much greater when we’re in the deep,deep zone.
I dunno if I’m ever comin’ out. We can’t control it,ain’t that what life’s all about? I’ll never love with innocence again,nor not feel doubt. But I’m no teapot and the devil ain’t got my spout.
I’m swimming and the ocean’s so mysteriously bright Down here we don’t have no day nor no night Fish nudge me with big grins and teeth white Sea flowers fondle me and whisper,turn off that light
1
I’m in d
I can’t rightly tell how I got where I am I think I had an accident,fell over, then I swam. Sometimes it’s a loss, be times it’s my man. I guess I only do it cos I know some folk can.
I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain Would I choose to relive if, I was born again? The deep joy is the amazing gain. But the sorrow is damn sad, let’s admit it plain.
I’m in deep and it’s over my head What was I thinking of,when I fell out of that bed? I look up and the sea’s so turquoise like that mist is red When we get good and mad and wish some loon was dead.
At first, it was all just black,black pain But from the bottom of the well, I looked up with awed love again. That’s when I recalled,feelings are deep and sane Joy is much greater when we’re in the deep,deep zone.
In France, a parallel poetic form called “vers libre” was also developing. (The term translates literally as “free verse.”) French poets including Paul Verlaine, Charles Baudelaire, Stéphane Mallarmé—many of
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 ‘d climb a Langdale Pike just for some for 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
