Category Archives: SILENCE

“She knew the true shape of the world. All else was shadow and the sound of distant drums.” Patrick Rothfuss, The Slow Regard of Silent Things

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I held you close to me
Once in a distant dream
Far from the shores of my fear
I sailed on the ocean where
All I imagined could happen
And now you are here

It’s so hard to touch
What is out of our hands
To know and to trust
What the heart understands

Only the ones who believe
Ever see that they dream
Ever dream what comes true

Life gives us magic and
Life brings us tragedy
Everyone suffers some loss
Still we have faith in it childlike hope
There’s a reason
That outweighs the cost

And gravity throws
All these rules in our way
And sometimes the spirit
Refuses to play

Only the ones who believe
Ever see what they dream
Ever dream what comes true

And oh, love
Turn me around in your arms
And in this dream we share
Let us not miss one kiss

And add my regrets
To the tears in the rain
For that’s what the color
Of roses contain

Only the ones who believe
Ever see what they dream, ever dream
Ever dream what comes true


Read more: Bette Midler – Color Of Roses Lyrics | MetroLyrics

They are spoiling the oldest art in the world the art of pantomime. They are ruining the great beauty of silence. Chao

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Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys,
We thank you for coming along,
You’re in for a very special night,
Of laughter, dance and song.

The plot is very loosely based,
On a story that you know,
Updated with a modern twist,
And gags throughout the show.

In order to see birds it is necessary to become a part of the silence.” ― Robert Lynd

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I saw a navy blue bird

flying way above the sea

I walked on & I learned later

that this navy blue bird was me

I returned a paler blue bird

and this is the advice they gave me

“you must not try to be too pure

you must fly closer to the sea”

 Sinead O’Connor in “I do not want what I haven’t got”

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You thought, as a boy, that a mage is one who can do anything. So I thought once. So did we all. And the truth is at as a man’s real power grows and his knowledge widens, ever the way he can follow grows narrower: until at last he chooses nothing, but does only and wholly what he must do.

– Ursula K. LeGuin

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He had that rare weird electricity about him — that extremely wild and heavy presence that you only see in a person who has abandoned all hope of ever behaving “normally.” Hunter S. Thompson, “Fear and Loathing ’72”

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Why does the darkness make voices more likely
to win or break our hearts?

Soon it will be dawn, soon it will be
weirdly beautiful - the water a foot from the floorboards,
high-set verandahs kissing their reflections,
six-foot fences vanquished - and soon we'll realise
          we're trapped.

But for now, it's night, and there's just
the torchlight, and the radio voices
and the raising things up, the lifting that is like belief:
the best we can do
          but never high enough.

Michelle Dicinoski: Electricity for Beginners

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Queensland Times (Ipswich) (Qld. : 1909 – 1954), Tuesday 26 December 1950,

1 1 1 1 Queensland Times (Ipswich) (Qld. - 1909 - 1954), Tuesday 26 December 1950,

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In order to see birds it is necessary to become a part of the silence. Robert Lynd

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Maka’ala ke kanaka kahea manu.

A man who calls birds should always be alert.

The Hawaiian alii (chiefs) wore beautiful capes and headdresses crafted by weaving in thousands of tiny feathers. The Kanaka kahea manu, the  bird-catcher, would imitate bird-calls to attract the birds to catch them, pluck out a small number of tiny feathers and let them go. Once he had called the birds, he had to stay alert and be prepared to catch them quickly when they came near. The saying advises one who wishes to succeed to be alert to any opportunity that should arise.

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A D Hope, “The Death of a Bird”

For every bird there is this last migration;
Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;
With a warm passage to the summer station
Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.

Year after year a speck on the map divided
By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come;
Season after season, sure and safely guided,
Going away she is also coming home;

And being home, memory becomes a passion
With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest;
Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart’s possession
And exiled love mourning within the breast.

The sands are green with a mirage of valleys;
The palm-tree casts a shadow not its own;
Down the long architrave of temple or palace
Blows a cool air from moorland scraps of stone.

And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger,
That delicate voice, more urgent with despair,
Custom and fear constraining her no longer,
Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air.

A vanishing speck in those inane dominions,
Single and frail, uncertain of her place.
Alone in the bright host of her companions,
Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space.

She feels it close now, the appointed season:
The invisible thread is broken as she flies;
Suddenly, without warning, without reason,
The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies.

Try as she will the trackless world delivers
No way, the wilderness of light no sign,
The immense and complex map of hills and rivers
Mocks her small wisdom with its vast design.

And darkness rises from the eastern valleys,
And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath,
And the great earth, with neither grief nor malice,
Receives the tiny burden of her death.

– A. D. Hope (1907-2000)

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The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 8 January 1949,

1 1 1 1 The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 8 January 1949,

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There should be those among whom we can sit and weep and still be counted as warriors. Native American.

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I have spent too long
telling the world the world is the world
and poetry is made of language.
Today on the Bedford platform, I began
the great poem: weeping openly on the public
telephone—the way some were staring
as they swirled past, the way some
weren’t—yes: it was truth
at last.

—Jan Zwicky

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one of my favourite poems


An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

The word goes round Repins,
the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,
at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There’s a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can’t stop him.

The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
There’s a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.

The man we surround, the man no one approaches
simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even
sob very loudly—yet the dignity of his weeping

holds us back from his space, the hollow he makes about him
in the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
and uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
longing for tears as children for a rainbow.

Some will say, in the years to come, a halo
or force stood around him. There is no such thing.
Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
but they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood,
the toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us

trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected
judgements of peace. Some in the concourse scream
who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children
and such as look out of Paradise come near him
and sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons.

Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops
his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit—
and I see a woman, shining, stretch her hand
and shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
as many as follow her also receive it

and many weep for sheer acceptance, and more
refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
but the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,
the man who weeps ignores us, and cries out
of his writhen face and ordinary body

not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow,
hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea—
and when he stops, he simply walks between us
mopping his face with the dignity of one
man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.

Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.
The Weatherboard Cathedral, 1969

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Beautiful words don’t put porridge in the pot. ~Botswana


Words can be twisted into any shape. Promises can be made to lull the heart and seduce the soul. In the final analysis, words mean nothing. They are labels we give things in an effort to wrap our puny little brains around their underlying natures, when ninety-nine percent of the time the totality of the reality is an entirely different beast. The wisest man is the silent one. Examine his actions. Judge him by them.”

― Karen Marie Moning

“Love conquers all,” Aphrodite promised.

“Love conquers all,” Aphrodite promised. “Look at Helen and Paris. Did they let anything come between them?”
“Didn’t they start the Trojan War and get thousands of people killed?”
“Pfft. That’s not the point. Follow your heart.” 

― Rick Riordan, The Titan’s Curse


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“Silent. So it should be. You have no place in this world, Luthiel. And there is no other.’ Zalos reached out and lifted a few strands of her hair. ‘Bright songs and the magic of hope are but a dangerous illusion. The fake comfort of witches charms.” 

― Robert Fanney

Enlightenment must come little by little-otherwise it would overwhelm. Idries Shah


foto of the bellinger river from chinatown in urunga nsw

Reflections by Noel Davis

Meeting in being
Out with the land once more
with the mountains sitting all around
their fiery colours now fast asleep
but the sky wide awake
her stars rapt in the moon
close to the top of the night.
A jet day and a world away from the noise of
do and go
and the lights of illusion
listening to the desert quiet
calling me home.
Still . . .
so still
this land in shadow
deep in the Dreaming
not a word from the trees
not a sigh from the rocks
not a whisper from the dry grass
not a sound . . .
all about silent
meeting in being.

The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married. Cyril Connolly


foto of raleigh rumblers in december 2013

The Lonely Crossing

A man on foot came down to the river,
A silent man, on the road alone,
And dropped his swag with a chill-born shiver,
And sat to rest on a wind-worn stone.

He slid then down to the long grass, bending
His arms above as the resting do,
And watched a snow-white chariot trending
Its wind-made way o’er the wedgewood blue.

In it sat one of the fairest ladies
That mind could mould, in a crown of white,
But close beside came a fiend from Hades
In a chariot black as the heart of night.

The man, he sighed as the fiend would clasp her,
Then smiled as the wind by a wise decree
Her white steeds turned to the streets of Jaspar,
And Satan drave to a sin-black sea.

The wattles waved, and their sweet reflection 
In crystal fathoms responses made;
The sunlight silted each soft inflection
And fretted with silver the short’ning shade.

A restless fish made the thin reeds shiver,
A waking wind made the willows moan,
But the resting man by the noon-bright river
Lay dreaming on, in the long grass prone.

The bell-bird called to its tardy lover,
The grebe clouds all to the west had sped,
But the river of death had a soul crossed over,
The man with the swag on the bank was dead.

Lawson, Louisa (Dora Falconer)(1848-1920)

I have never heard a more eloquent silence.” Laurie Halse Anderson, Speak

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Mithridatum of Despair

We know no mithridatum of despair
as drunks, the angry penguins of the night,
straddling the cobbles of the square,
tying a shoelace by fogged lamplight.
We know no astringent pain,
no flecking of thought’s dull eternal sea
in garret image, of Spain
and love…now love’s parody.

See – chaos spark, struck from flint
and the plunging distemper, flare in the dawn’s dull seep
of milkcart horse, morning horse
chaos horse, walking at three to the doors of sleep
with the creamy poison.
convulsions endure
from nine to five,
all life immure.
and still alive.

we know no mithridatum, nor the remembered dregs of fear,
the glass stands dry and silted; no end is near.


When the kookaburras bless the world because the world is good.

The Kookaburras  by John O’Brien

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FOTO of kookaburra at raleigh nsw

Could I Hear the Kookaburras Once Again

May a fading fancy hover round a gladness that is over?
May a dreamer in the silence rake the ashes of the past?
So a spirit might awaken in the best the years have taken,
And the Jove that left him lonely might be with him at the last.
While he searches in the by-ways, shall his heart forget the highways
Where the sunburnt arms are toiling in the sun-shine and the rain,
Where the simple things and lowly make their lives sublime and holy,
And the kookaburras chorus once again?


If you want to be the best, learn from the best.

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foto george of raleigh nsw australia 2013

 Sara Bruxner

the (for) getting

leapt onto google for a definition of wisdom

to nail this fortnight’s theme

devoted hours of my finite life watching Gandhi for understanding

read his quotes which chilled

like the coffee beside me with

it’s uninspiring liquid beneath and scum on top


gave goethe, marley, elvis and theresa all a turn

nothing stuck


sitting in the sun watching it tease the abandoned pool

or listening to the garden hum on this glinting winter’s day

would’ve been wiser


i could’ve read again my daughter’s last note

or watch the sky and remember

the stars are only brave at night


then a friend said as we sat around the fire

that we are insignificant small egotistical and problematic

nothing in this elusive vast universe




and that’s the wisest thing I can know

Harry was left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls would sink to get revenge.”

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

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“For the taking of revenge, a man locks himself up alone and thinks. His stomach must be empty for his head to be full. Vengeance comes a little from the heart and a lot from the mind; one must take oneself apart from the noise of men and of things, even from what resembles them; only the voices of bells and of thunder are allowed. Let the room in which you meditate be dark, narrow and warm.”

― Xavier Forneret

Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery.”

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

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In seeking wisdom, the first step is silence, the second listening, the third remembering, the fourth practicing, the fifth — teaching others. -Ibn Gabirol