is time enough to cry oh I when you are hurt.
Gakiibatha ni koi ni karithoitha
He who spends his time adorning himself knows he is going to a dance
There is a reason for everything
Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?
by Mary Oliver
Don’t call this world adorable, or useful, that’s not it.
It’s frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
feet of the trees
whose mouths open.
Doesn’t the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?
Haven’t the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
until at last, now, they shine
in your own yard?
Don’t call this world an explanation, or even an education.
When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
outward, to the mountains so solidly there
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking
to the centre of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
that was also there,
beautiful as a thumb
curved and touching the finger, tenderly,
as he whirled,
oh jug of breath,
in the garden of dust?
Why I Wake Early
Eltham and Whittlesea Shires Advertiser and Diamond Creek Valley Advocate (Vic. : 1917 – 1922), Friday 5 October 1917,
Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone,
The wild goose has raised his wonted cry.
Irish Poem, Translated by Caitlin Matthews
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Atlantic Monthly Press & Mary Oliver
Woroni (Canberra, ACT : 1950 – 2007), Monday 2 July 1973, page 1
National Library of Australia http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article140093399
It is walking in the night
after the theatres and before the milkman
alerted by some signal from the golden drug tapeworm
that eats yr
flesh and drinks yr peace
you reach for a needle and busy yrself
preparing the Utopia substance in a blackened
spoon held in candle flame
by now yr thumb and finger are leathery
being so often burned this way
it hurts much less than withdrawal and the hand
is needed for little else now anyway
Then cordon off the arm with a belt
probe for a vein, send the dream transfusion out
on a voyage among your body machinery.
Hits you like sleep –
sweet illusory, fast, with a semblance of forever.
For a while the fire dies down in you
until you die down in the fires.
Once you become a drug addict
will never want to be anything else.
The Author of this poem is now dead.
“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.”
― Edgar Allan Poe
Child, you are wise in your simple trust,
For the wisest man knows no more than you
Over The Range
by Banjo Paterson (1864-1941)
foto of izzy foreal at the pub with no beer in taylor’s arm nsw australia
A Pub With No Beer
Oh it’s-a lonesome away from your kindred and all
By the campfire at night we’ll hear the wild dingoes call
But there’s-a nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear
Than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer
Now the publican’s anxious for the quota to come
And there’s a far away look on the face of the bum
The maid’s gone all cranky and the cook’s acting queer
Oh what a terrible place is a pub with no beer
Then the stockman rides up with his dry dusty throat
He breasts up to the bar and pulls a wad from his coat
But the smile on his face quickly turns to a sneer
As the barman says sadly the pub’s got no beer
Then the swaggie comes in smothered in dust and flies
He throws down his roll and rubs the sweat from his eyes
But when he is told, he says what’s this I hear
I’ve trudged fifty flamin’ miles to a pub with no beer
Now there’s a dog on the v’randa, for his master he waits
But the boss is inside drinking wine with his mates
He hurries for cover and he cringes in fear
It’s no place for a dog ’round a pub with no beer
And old Billy the blacksmith, the first time in his life
Why he’s gone home cold sober to his darling wife
He walks in the kitchen, she says you’re early Bill dear
But then he breaks down and tells her the pub’s got no beer
Oh it’s hard to believe that there’s customers still
But the money’s still tinkling in the old ancient till
The wine buffs are happy and I know they’re sincere
When they say they don’t care if the pub’s got no beer
So it’s-a lonesome away from your kindred and all
By the campfire at night we’ll hear the wild dingoes call
But there’s-a nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear-a.
Than to stand in the bar of that pub with no beer.
|Lizard, lizard on the wall.
I don’t mind spiders, I don’t mind bugs,
Right through summer, seen around,
An eye on the computer…I can’t think,
Lizard, lizard on the wall., a poem by Nishu Mathur, India
Have you ever been surfing? Imagine you’re on your surfboard now, waiting for the big one to come. Get ready to get carried with that energy. Now, here it comes. Are you with that energy right now? That’s empathy. No words – just being with that energy. When I connect with what’s alive in another person, I have feelings similar to when I’m surfing.
He thrust his joy against the weight of the sea;
climbed through, slid under those long banks of
(hawthorn hedges in spring, thorns in the face stinging).
How his brown strength drove through the hollow and coil
of green-through weirs of water!
Muscle of arm thrust down long muscle of water;
and swimming so, went out of sight
where mortal, masterful, frail, the gulls went wheeling
in air as he in water, with delight.
Turn home, the sun goes down; swimmer, turn home.
Last leaf of gold vanishes from the sea-curve.
Take the big roller’s shoulder, speed and serve;
come to the long beach home like a gull diving.
For on the sand the grey-wolf sea lies, snarling,
cold twilight wind splits the waves’ hair and shows
the bones they worry in their wolf-teeth. O, wind blows
and sea crouches on sand, fawning and mouthing;
drops there and snatches again, drops and again snatches
its broken toys, its whitened pebbles and shells.
“A remote stick doesn’t kill a snake.”
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
– See more at: http://quoteocean.com/water-quotes#sthash.9NuXOUCS.dpuf
― A.S. King, Please Ignore Vera Dietz
One Variation on People Pleasing
Merging. One to please someone is to be like them. Here you aren’t just trying to be what another person wants you to be, you are trying to be a copy of them. If they are upset by something, you should be, too. If they are happy, you should be happy. The way to please them is to merge with them. If you have this variation, you are likely to merge with one special person–a parent, a sibling, a lover, a spouse. Sometimes both people have this pattern; they are merged with each other. There are a number of ways to merge: (1) Searching inside to find the part of you that feels like the other person,. (2) Assuming you feel the same as they do. (3) Distorting what you feel to make it the same. When the two people actually feel differently, this can be confusing.
― Nick Drake
”We need a type of theatre which not only releases the feelings, insights and impulses possible within the particular historical field of human relations in which the action takes place, but employs and encourages those thoughts and feelings which help transform the field itself.”
… Jean Cocteau
“Any way I slice reality it comes out poorly, and I feel an urge to not exist, something I have never felt before; and now here it comes with conviction, almost panic. I mentally bless and exonerate anyone who has kicked a chair out from beneath her or swallowed opium in large chunks. My mind has met their environment, here in the void. I understand perfectly.”
― Suzanne Finnamore, Split: A Memoir of Divorce
― C.J. Sansom, Dissolution
Of all tyrannies, a tyranny exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end, for they do so with the approval of their consciences.
― Michel Faber, The Crimson Petal and the White
by Henry Lawson
My eyes are dry, I cannot cry,
I’ve got no heart for breakin’,
But where it was in days gone by,
A dull and empty achin’.
My last boy ran away from me,
I know my temper’s wearin’,
But now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin’.
Past wearyin’ or carin’,
Past feelin’ and despairin’;
And now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin’.
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
“If you are a member of a small group or class, I urge you to make a group covenant that includes the nine characteristics of biblical fellowship: We will share our true feelings (authenticity), forgive each other (mercy), speak the truth in love (honesty), admit our weaknesses (humility), respect our differences (courtesy), not gossip (confidentiality), and make group a priority (frequency).”
― Rick Warren, The Purpose Driven Life: What on Earth am I Here for?
― Tabitha Suzuma, Forbidden
If a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me to it,
I should not mind a bit.
but if a friend of mine had a sorrow
and refused to allow me to share it,
I should feel it most bitterly.
If he shut the doors of the house of mourning against me,
I would move back again and again and beg to be admitted
so that I might share in what I was entitled to share.
If he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with him,
I should feel it as the most poignant humiliation.
– Oscar Wilde
― John Truby, The Anatomy of Story: 22 Steps to Becoming a Master Storyteller
“There’s nothing more embarrassing than a person who tries to guess what the great American public would like, makes a compromise for the first time, and falls flat on his face… I would rather be a failure on my own terms than a success on someone else’s. That’s a difficult statement to live up to, but then I’ve always believed that the way you affect your audience is more important than how many of them are there.”
― Tom Waits
― P.G. Wodehouse
“This is that moment in the hangover in which you discover that your keys are in your hat, the cat is in the sink, and you attempted late the previous night to make stew out of a pot holder. Things are in the wrong place. Religion is in the box where science used to be. Politics is on the shelf where you thought you left science the previous afternoon. Entertainment seems to have been knocked over and spilled on
― Charles P. Pierce, Idiot America: How Stupidity Became a Virtue in the Land of the Free
― Carl Honoré, In Praise of Slowness: Challenging the Cult of Speed
It is the work of one’s hands that decides what one eats for dinner – for some it is pounded yam, for others it is pounded plantain or nothing.