Category Archives: LONGING

The savage loves his native shore.

Les Murray: “Stone statues of ancient waves, tongue like dingoes on shore”.

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 edvardmunch00munc_0074

On the Shore.

R.K. WEEKS.

HERE many a time she must have walked,

The dull sand brightening ‘neath her feet,

The cool air quivering as she talked,

Or laughed, or warbled sweet.

The shifting sand no trace of her,

No sound the wandering wind retains,

But, breaking where the footprints were.

Loudly the sea complains.

1880 ‘On the Shore.’, The Queenslander(Brisbane, Qld. : 1866 – 1939), 28 February, p. 265, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article20331530

 

 

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 edvardmun2ch00munc_0074

Walking a solitary road

  
   A young boy or girl knows that if they want to be part of a 
   group that drinks, they have to drink.  If they want to be part 
   of a group that parties, they have to party.  If they  want to 
   be part of a group that uses bad language, they have to use bad 
   language.  If they want to be part of a group that engages 
   in a certain kind of behavior, they have to participate in 
   that behavior.  If they want to be accepted by some particular 
   group they have to participate in that group's behavior.  They 
   know all that by instinct.  They know what they must do to be 
   liked and accepted.  They must conform to the attitudes, 
   outlooks and values of the group they wish to be accepted into.  
   If a young person looks around and sees that everyone is 
   drinking, partying and using bad language he knows he has a 
   choice.  He can either join them or walk a lonely road.  The 
   young person who decides within himself that he will not drink, 
   that he will be a total abstainer, knows there will be a price 
   for that, there will be consequences for himself.  The 
   teetotaler is aware that he has freely chosen a path that 
   necessarily makes him a loner, an outcast, an object of 
   ridicule and scorn, to a large portion of society.  The young 
   person who has determined within himself to take the route of 
   never using low, profane or bad language knows there will be 
   consequences.  He knows he cannot ever be really accepted by 
   that large portion of society that does these things.  He knows 
   he will walk a lonely road.  The young person with scruples, 
   high personal standards, integrity who looks at the crowd and 
   has moral objections to their behavior has a choice:  he can 
   maintain his standards and principles and walk a lonely road or 
   he can give them up and join the crowd.  

   A young person knows that one must either go with the crowd and 
   be one of them or have the courage and strength to stand alone.  
   The young person who chooses a path of strict principle in 
   regard to drinking, smoking, low language, etc. knows what he 
   is doing.  He knows he has chosen to buck the crowd rather than 
   go with it.  He knows he has chosen a lonely path, a solitary 
   path.  He knows he has freely chosen a way that will bring upon 
   himself ridicule and rejection and ostracism.  He knows that 
   you cannot have both the approval of the crowd and of God.  You 
   have to choose.  You have to have the strength to stand alone, 
   to walk alone.  You have to be willing to accept ostricism and 
   rejection.  The crowd doesn't like the person who doesn't go 
   along with it.  The drinkers and partying don't want a non-
   drinker around when they are partying.  He is a wet blanket, a 
   kill-joy.  Those whose minds and language are gutter don't 
   like those who don't accept their language, mind and humour.  
   The person of integrity, the person of moral standards who 
   objects to the moral depravity of the crowd walks a solitary 
   road.  He lives on a different wavelength.  He is a different 
   species, a creature from another planet, a creature from an 
   alien culture. 

   What induces a person to walk a solitary road?  Well, 
   conscience, fear of God, love of God.  But yet it is not really 
   a solitary road.  God is with him.  God is his friend.  And he 
   is his own friend.  He has two true friends: God and himself. 

   May 2008
http://www.solitaryroad.com/a961.html

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 edvardmunch00munc_0074.jpg2

Australian Town and Country Journal (Sydney, NSW : 1870 – 1907), Saturday 3 January 1891,

1 1 1 1 1 1 1

Advertisements

Boys do not grow up gradually. They move forward in spurts like the hands of clocks in railway stations. – Cyril Connolly

haymarkettheatre00lawr_0024 2

 

Brian Dunnett & Mark Gregory . . . research archive

The Northern Mail

The Northern Mail is moving fast
With seven hundred souls;
Though many vow this ride’s their last,
The fireman shovels coal.

Who knows the drama buried here
Within this lurching throng?
Who knows what tales of love and fear—
Who knows who’s right—or wrong?

There’s cutters, shearers, spielers, thugs,
Commercials with cigars
With town-men, bushmen, bad men, mugs,
They jostle through the cars.

The Northern Mail goes roaring on,
A comet through the night;
The sun goes down, the bush has gone,
The farm-lamps fly from sight.

And some arrange, with weary hand,
A bundle in the rack;
Only the bush can understand
Their fate—along the track….

And some for health and pleasure go,
And some go riding free,
And some sleep now who do not know
Where their next bed will be.

God knows what’s in those trunks and ports,
Or where they’ve been—and why;
The whistle screams, the head-lamp glows,
The Northern Mail flies by.

There are sleepers restless of the roar,
But few of them recall,
For some can sleep upon the floor;
And some don’t sleep at all.

Some day, perhaps, I’ll put down roots,
Hear no more ‘Tickets please’
And bid farewell to smoke and soot,
Farewell to cramp and fleas.

The Northern Mail comes panting by,
We rattle round the bend;
For some, new roads of life begin,
For others, old ones end.

The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.” Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

1 1 1 1 1 swim mon

 

Sea Monster (Poetry)

by Mikaela Borgas, Booleroo Centre District School – Australia

I look out at the wailing sea
Every wave like an arm
Curling to get me
To swallow my body in the blackness

The moonlight reaches down and touches the water
And the whirling blackness shimmers back in glory
It is whispering to me
Every crash of a wave is another word

It wants me to go out there
Into the blackness
Into its clutches
It knows I wont resist

http://www.write4fun.net/view-entry/82077

Your tenderness has given me love to keep nigh

Tenderness, a poem by Helen Margaret Crutchett, Australia

http://www.voicesnet.org/displayonepoem.aspx?poemid=259893

1 1 1 1 1 tenderness

“What is Christmas? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is a fervent wish that every cup may overflow with blessings rich and eternal, and that every path may lead to peace.” 

Agnes M. Pharo 

“Worry is a thin stream of fear trickling through the mind. If encouraged, it cuts a channel into which all other thoughts are drained.”

A.S. Roche

http://www.marinal-anon.org/pages/welcome/quotes-and-sayings.php

1 1 1 1 1 piedpiperofhamel00brow2_0032

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

― Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

If you decide to eat a toad, you should at least select one that is big.

(Igbo)

zz woodlandtales00setouoft_0034

“Turn from that road’s beguiling ease; return
to your hunger’s turret. Enter, climb the stair
chill with disuse, where the croaking toad of time
regards from shimmering eyes your slow ascent
and the drip, drip, of darkness glimmers on the stone
to show you how your longing waits alone.
What alchemy shines from under that shut door,
spinning out gold from the hollow of the heart?

(“The Sea’s Wash In The Hollow Of The Heart”)”

― Denise Levertov

all his longings came out as a kind of disdain for what he longed for.

― Alan Hollinghurst, The Line of Beauty

kinglongbeardora00macgiala_0155

No tears, Celia, now shall win

         My resolv’d heart to return;

I have search’d thy soul within,

         And find nought, but pride, and scorn;

I have learn’d thy arts, and now

Can disdain as much as thou.

Some power, in my revenge, convey

That love to her I cast away.

Disdain Returned

BY THOMAS CAREW

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173131