Rabbit, run ...

... by John Updike ... describes the journey of a young man lost in 50s America and his own needs ...

"Afraid, really afraid, he remembers what once consoled him by seeming to make a hole where he looked through into underlying brightness, and lifts his eyes to the church window. It is, because of church poverty or the late summer nights or just carelessness, unlit, a dark circle in a limestone facade.

There is light, though, in the streetlights; muffled by trees their mingling cones retreat to the unseen end of Summer Street. Nearby, to his left, directly under one, the rough asphalt looks like dimpled snow. He decides to walk around the block, to clear his head and pick his path. Funny, how what makes you moves so simple and the field you must move in is so crowded. His legs take strength from the distinction, scissor among evenly. Goodness lies inside, there is nothing outside, those things he was trying to balance have no weight. He feels his inside as very real suddenly, a pure blank space in the middle of a dense net. I don't know, he kept telling Ruth; he doesn't know, what to do, where to go, what will happen, the thought that he doesn't know seems to make him infinitely small and impossible to capture. Its smallness fills him like a vastness. It's like when they heard you were great and put two men on you and no matter which way you turned you bumped into one of them and the only thing to do was pass. So you passed and the ball belonged to the others and your hands were empty and the men on you looked foolish because in effect there was nobody there.

Rabbit comes to the curb but instead of going to his right and around the block he steps down, with as big a feeling as if this little sidestreet is a wide river, and crosses. He wants to travel to the next patch of snow. Although this block of brick three-stories is just like the one he left, something in it makes him happy; the steps and windowsills seem to twitch and shift in the corner of his eye, alive. This illusion trips him. His hands lift of their own and he feels the wind on his ears even before, his heels hitting heavily on the pavement at first but with an effortless gathering out of a kind of sweet panic growing lighter and quicker and quieter, he runs. Ah: runs. Runs.'

Butterfly ...

... by Weezer with Allison Allport on the harps, is just a beautiful song, and has accompanied many hours of my revision for MRCPscyh this week ..

Yesterday I went outside
With my mama's mason jar,
Caught a lovely butterfly
When I woke up today
Looked in on my fairy pet
She had withered all away
No more sighing in the breast

I'm sorry for what I did
I did what my body told me to
I didn't mean to do you harm
Everytime I pin down what I think I want it slips away
The goal slips away

Smell you on my hands for days
I can't wash away your scent
If I'm a dog then you're a bitch [pause]
I guess you're as real as me
Maybe I can live with that
Maybe I need fantasy
Life of chasing butterfly

I'm sorry for what I did
I did what my body told me to
I didn't mean to do you harm
Everytime I pin down what I think I want it slips away
The goal slips away

I told you I would return
When the robin makes his nest
But I ain't never coming back
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry

Sunflower ...

... is the title of a book by Gyula Krudy ... and its ending is a beautiful little exchange between Eveline and Almos-Dreamer ...

"And what about me, couldn't I understand you?"
"Let's wait for winter. The first, the second, the third winter ... Let's wait for the monotonous evenings of this place, the courses of the moon, the howling-wolf nights. We'll just have to make sure to wind the clocks each day, bury our memories, sit in tranquillity by the warm fireside, play enough tric-trac, and never, never write letters without each others' knowledge, no matter how overcast the twilight."
"I'll be waiting for you."
"Let crazy life rush headlong on the highway for others; we shall contemplate the sunflowers, watch them sprout, blossom, fade away. Yesterday, they were still giants, but now, in autumn, they are thatch on the roof."

From an Atlas of the difficult world ...

... by Adrienne Rich reminds a little of Calvino's "If on a winter's night a traveller" in terms of styles and the range of possibilities it creates, even in a difficult world ...

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

Suffering ...

... is a question which I am not even closed to start contemplating about it ... this page is the beginning of a series of thoughts which I have come across in my search for a greater understanding ...

May 2010
Paul Tournier - The person matures, develops, becomes more creative, not because of the deprivation in itself, but through his own active response to misfortune, through the struggle to come to terms with it, and morally to overcome it, even if in spite of everything there is no cure ...

Simone Weil - The extreme greatness of Christianity lies in the fact that it does not seek a supernatural remedy for suffering, but a supernatural use for it.

Oswald Chambers - A man up against things feels that he has lost God, while in reality, he has come face to face with Him.

June 2010
Shadowlands -
C.S. Lewis (Jack): Why love, if losing hurts so much? I have no answers anymore: only the life I have lived. Twice in that life I've been given the choice: as a boy and as a man. The boy chose safety, the man chooses suffering. The pain now is part of the happiness then. That's the deal.

C. S. Lewis: Pain is God's megaphone to rouse a deaf world.

July 2010
Hudson Taylor
From my inmost soul I delight in the knowledge that God does or deliberately permits all things, and causes all things to work together for good to those who love Him. He, and he only, knew what my dear wife was to me. He know how the light of my eyes and the joy of my heart were in her ... But he saw that it was good to take her; good indeed for her, and in his love he took her painlessly; and not less good for me who must henceforth toil and suffer alone - yet not alone, for God is nearer to me than ever".

A letter to ...

... a long lost love was published in The Guardian yesterday ... It may not be the most beautiful letter ever written but its sentiments feel so true ... As for the last paragraph, it does make you wonder ...

"A letter to … a long-lost love" from The Guardian's "The letter you always wanted to write" ~ Sat 8 May

Our Uncle Simon died in April, a bachelor and a very solitary man with a very dry and quick wit. Among his personal effects we discovered this letter, which would have been written in 1947/48, when he was at Liverpool University. Ruth, the recipient of the letter, was a dental student. These letters were a revelation to the family as Simon had never indicated that there was a significant relationship in his life; even his six brothers were unaware of any romantic involvements. He would have been 26 at the time of writing and we wonder if rejection by Ruth prevented him from making any commitment for the rest of his life. A significant factor, and one alluded to in the letter, is that as the son of Orthodox Jews, a relationship with a non-Jew would have caused Simon much soul-searching.
~ Jennifer and Mavis Henley

Last year I was in no position to decide my future. But now I am able to make plans. I have always intended to leave Liverpool and take a job somewhere south. I believe I shall be happier there, somehow, and free from interference.

There is something I can do, which will solve our problem. I have been thinking over it for some time. It will be easy. But I am not able to describe it to you in a letter. It needs to be discussed in conversation.

I ought to say that I fell in love with you the first moment I saw you, when I felt I wanted to marry you; although I did not realise it at the time. If I afterwards had doubts it was because I was not my own master. But I soon will be. When my father died I went off the deep end with grief. Yet a thing like that may happen to anybody. The emotion that such trouble causes is only temporary, after all. You seem to have felt, however, that I had averted myself from you for always. But it was not so. The pain I caused you was no less than the suffering I inflicted upon myself. Parting from you was like cutting off my right hand.

There is nothing in the world that I would not do in order to show my love for you. Nothing. You are part of my life, friend in mind as the ideal of the good and the beautiful. I believe that we are meant and made for one another, that we belong together. I am willing to go to any lengths … in order to ensure your happiness. I will marry you, if you will have me, no matter what the risks may be and no matter what the consequences. The risks I am sure are negligible and the consequences will be wholly good. And just because we are conscious of the possible snags, we shall succeed. If only because we appreciate one another's outlook we shall achieve tolerance and mutual understanding and attain to that satisfaction and joyful peace, which result from a sound marriage. The attainment of all this depends, as I said, upon the idea mentioned above. I hope to discuss it with you.

I love you so much that I cannot bear to be parted from you and every minute of separation is torment to me. I feel that I cannot live without you. Everything I do is done or said with reference to you. You may be astonished to learn that consciously or unconsciously I have always thought of you as my wife.

So, when I thought I had lost you for ever the agony I felt was terrible. It was like being bereaved. But because I had thought, or rather hoped that you understood, the misunderstanding grew deeper, to our mutual hurt. What has happened in the last few weeks is of no importance in my eyes. I am in any case almost wholly to blame for it.

I am deadly serious, my darling. Here it is in black and white, a proposal of marriage made with no reservations but with all the earnestness of which a man is capable, for all the world to see. It does not matter who knows.

I love you, my sweet, precious darling. I will do all I can to make you happy. I will work my hardest. I will stand by you until death.

There are many religions but only one God. I believe he will look upon us two with kindly indifference. I am not sure about that. But I am sure about you.

You could be happy ...

... is a song by Snow Patrol, introduced to me by someone who is pretty amazing and probably one of my favourite people on earth ... The sentiment expressed is painful but beautiful ... Sometimes, we do view past relationships through rose-tinted glasses, but the purified memories may just make the world a little more bearable ...

You could be happy and I won't know
But you weren't happy the day I watched you go

And all the things that I wished I had not said
Are played on loops 'till it's madness in my head

Is it too late to remind you how we were
But not our last days of silence, screaming, blur

Most of what I remember makes me sure
I should have stopped you from walking out the door

You could be happy, I hope you are
You made me happier than I'd been by far

Somehow everything I own smells of you
And for the tiniest moment it's all not true

Do the things that you always wanted to
Without me there to hold you back, don't think, just do

More than anything I want to see you go
Take a glorious bite out of the whole world

Why Lord?

Why Lord is there no-one?
No-one who cares.
The emptiness and bitterness
grow with passing years.

Why Lord can't I love?
Just anyone will do.
Someone who thinks I'm special.
Not only you.

Why Lord is there nothing?
Nothing to call mine.
Why Lord is there nowhere?
Nowhere to go.
Why Lord don't they want me?
Not even one.
Why Lord do they leave me?
Ever alone.

Will you go too, Lord?
Or were you ever there?
Created of necessity
to be someone to care.

... by Elizabeth Stewart is a poem about the darkness in our lives, when God is Deus absconditus, hidden from our searches ... Today, however, answers the last question asked ... Happy Easter ...

Smilin' through ...

... is a song which the singer Patricia Hammond sings when she visits a retirement home .... and despite 90% of its residents being widows, their favourite part is the last verse ...

"And if ever I'm left in this world all alone,
I shall wait for my call patiently,
If the heavens be kind
I shall wake there to find
Those two eyes of blue
Still smilin' through
At me".

We are nowhere and it's now ...

... is a song by Bright Eyes. It resonates so much with the world which surrounds me, as each of us tries to find the long lost "yellow bird", while holding onto the "silver wreath", hoping that it will lead us somewhere ... We are made of conflicting contradictions, and maybe we all have to answer the questions - "And if you swear that there's no truth and who cares / how come you say it like you are right? / Why are you scared to dream of God / when it's salvation that you want?"

If you hate the taste of wine
Why do you drink it till you're blind?
And if you swear that there's no truth and who cares
How come you say it like you're right?
Why are you scared to dream of God
When it's salvation that you want?
You see stars that clear have been dead for years
But the idea just lives on...

In our wheels that roll around
As we move over the ground
And all day it seems we've been in between
A past and future town

We are nowhere and it's now
We are nowhere and it's now

And like a ten minute dream in the passenger's seat
While the world was flying by
I haven't been gone very long
But it feels like a lifetime

I've been sleeping so strange at night
Side effects they don't advertise
I've been sleeping so strange
With a head full of pesticide

I've got no plans and too much time
I feel too restless to unwind
I'm always lost in thought as I walk a block
To my favorite neon sign
Where the waitress looks concerned
But she never says a word
Just turns the jukebox on and we hum along
And I smile back at her

And my friend comes after work
When the features start to blur
She says these bars are filled with things that kill
By now you probably should have learned

Did you forget that yellow bird?
But how could you forget your yellow bird?
She took a small silver wreath and pinned it onto me
She said this one will bring you love
And I don't know if it's true
But I keep it for good luck

If on a winter's night a traveller ...

... by Calvino is a book written for anyone who loves reading, writing or has ever fallen under the spell of the written words ...

"Every new book I read comes to be a part of that overall and unitary book that is the sum of my readings. This does not come about without some effort: to compose that general book, each individual book must be transformed, enter into a relationship with the books I have read previously, become their corollary or development or confutation or gloss or reference text".

John Newton ...

... said the following at the furnael of his friend William Cowper who had depression ...

He drank tea with me in the afternoon. The next morning a violent storm overtook him ,,. I used to visit him often but no argument could prevail with him to come and see me. He used to point with his finger to the church and say: "You know the comfort I have had there and how I have seen the glory of the Lord in His house, and until I go there I'll not go anywhere else." He was one of those who came out of great tribulations. He suffered much here for twenty-seven years, but eternity is long enough to make amends for all. For what is all he endured in this life, when compared with thr rest which remaineth for the children of God."

... And wrote the following while he watched the dawn outside his window ...

The day is now breaking: how beautiful its appearance! How welcome the expression of the approaching sun! It is this thought makes the dawn agreeable, that it is the presage of a brighter light; otherwise, if we expect no more day than it is this minute, we should rather complain of darkness, than rejoice in the early beauties of the morning. Thus the Life of grace is the dawn of immortality: beautiful beyond expression, if compared with the night and thick darkness which formerly covered us; yet faint, indistinct, and unsatisfying, in comparison of the glory which shall be revealed.

Trust in a future which is yet to be fully revealed, while appreciating the beauty and wonders which this world has to offer now ...

Che Fece ... Il Gran Rifiuto

... by Constantine P Cavafy ... is a little poem from the past for one to ponder ...

For some people the day comes
when they have to declare the great Yes
or the great No. It's clear at once who has the Yes
ready within him; and saying it,

he goes from honor to honor, strong in his conviction.
He who refuses does not repent. Asked again,
he'd still say no. Yet that no-the right no-
drags him down all his life.

The best times of the day ...

... by Raymond Carver is beautifully simple, and warms one's heart on this cold cold Valentine's night ...

Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.

Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love

these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.

The late Mattia Pascal ...

... is an interesting little book by Luigi Pirandello ... I cannot make my mind up about it, but I do like this little passage.

"Every object is transformed within us according to the images it evokes, the sensations that cluster around it. To be sure, an object may please us for itself alone, for the pleasant feelings that a harmonious sight inspires in us; but far more often the pleasure that an object affords us does not derive from the object in itself. Our fantasy embellishes it, surrounding it, making it resplendent with images dear to us. Then we no longer see it for what it is, but animated by the images it arouses in us or by the things we associate with it. In short, what we love about the object is what we put in it of ourselves, the harmony established between it and us, the soul that it acquires only through us, a soul composed of our memories".

This concept can also apply to people and our relationship with them ... Sometimes, we do need some space and distance for clarity, and it reminds me a little of the "object-relation" idea ...

Peaceful the World lays me down ...

... is a song by Noah and the Whale ... it has taken me a long long time to pick up the pieces, to be able to breath fully, to find joy in little things again; be it a sunset, complicated writings, laughter with friends, letters from aboard, cakes with ten millions layers of chocolates, discovering long forgotten music, having meandering conversations, wandering under the Blue Lights ...

Oh, well it's hard to look deep into your soul.
Not everything you'll find will be perfect gold.
There are ghosts and demons that hide in the dark.
Oh, they wait till you find them and then they laugh.
Oh, they know that my body is no way good enough.
Know that my heart is no way strong enough
to bear the sorrows that love brings.
When I recoil in fear, oh, the demons shake.

But it's a hollow love for a heart with no blood in its veins.

Oh, there is no endless devotion,
that is free from the force of erosion.
Oh, if you don't believe in God,
how can you believe in love?
When we're all just matter that will one day scatter,
when peaceful the world lays us down.
Oh and finding love is a matter of luck,
and unettled lovers move from f*** to f***
Oh, and compare their achievements like discussing bereavements
And compare their abrasions with romantic quotations,
Oh, as peaceful, the world watches down.

But oh we were blown out of the water.
Oh, and we walk on the feet we have grown.
Oh, and we were given a heart, of which love is a part.
Oh, and we cornered the thing from which all life will spring.
And it gave value to the world that surrounds us.

But we consider the world just for a moment.
Oh, and it's gone before we even know.
Oh, but I'll follow it round yeah I'll follow it round.
Oh, I'll follow it round yeah I'll follow it round.
Till peaceful, the world lays me down.

She came to stay ... ...

... by Simone de Beauvoir is fictional autobiography about the complicated, painful relationships between Jean-Paul Sartre, Olga Kosakievicz and her. Despite its ending, the first few pages when she described their love is just beautiful and ultimately what one aspires to ...

"Pierre was on the stage, she was in the audience, and yet, for both of them it was the same play being performed in the same theatre. Their life was the same. They did not always see it from the same angle, for through their individual desires, moods, or pleasures, each discovered a different aspect. But it was, for all that, the same life. Neither time nor distance could divide them. There were, of course, streets, ideas, faces, that came into existence first for Pierre, and others first for Francoise; but they faithfully pieced together these scattered experiences into a single whole, in which "yours" and "mine" became indistinguishable. Neither one nor the other ever withheld the slightest fragment. That would have been the worst, the only possible betrayal".

Have yourself a merry little Christmas ...

... really captures the hopes and uncertainties we face at the end of each year, when we try to embrace the world afresh, praying for the encourage to wear those rose-tinted glasses once again ... Yet, "a shining star" mentioned in the song was personified two thousands years ago, at "O little town of Bethlehem", in which "in thy dark streets shineth / The everlasting Light / The hopes and fears of all the years / Are met in thee tonight" ...

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light
From now on our troubles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the Yuletide gay
From now on our troubles will be miles away

Here we are as in olden days
Happy golden days of Yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more

Through the years we all will be together
If the Lord allows
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now"

Anna Karenin ...

... by Leo Tolstoy was one of my favourite books ten years ago, and its resonance still resounds today ... Karenin's letter to Anna may not be beautifully written, but the sentiment expressed is something which I aspire to, but can never attain ... To love someone who no longer loves you is at best difficult, and at times impossible ...

"I can see that my presence is disagreeable to you. Painful as it is for me to recognise this, I see that it is so and cannot be otherwise. I do not reproach you, and God is my witness that when I saw you at the time of your illness I resolved with my whole heart to forget all that had come between us and begin life anew. I do not regret, and shall never regret, what I did; my only desire was for your welfare, the welfare of your soul, and now I see I have not attained that. Tell me yourself what would give you true happiness and peace of mind. I put myself entirely in your hands, and trust to your feeling of what is right."

Bright star ...

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.

~ by John Keats ...

Leisure ...

... by W. H. Davies reminds me a little of what I have nearly lost in the past few months ... September and October have passed by in a blur, as I float from one mini-crisis to another ... People around me have been more than lovely, but somehow, the locus of control appears to remain in outer space, rather than internally, within my reach. Yet, this poem reminds me that life is very simple; one just needs to stop, pause, breath, "stand and stare" at God's creation upon our doorstep ...

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

The Good Soldier ...

... by Ford Madox Ford is an interesting book, and the following passage describes the hopelessness of our situation on this earth ...

"I have come to be very much of a cynic in these matters; I mean that it is impossible to believe in the permanence of man's or woman's love. Or, at any rate, it is impossible to believe in the permanence of any early passion. As I see it, at least, with regard to men, a love affair, a love for any definite woman - is something in the nature of a widening of the experience. With each new woman that a man is attracted to there appears to come a broadening of the outlook, or, if you like an acquiring of new territory. A turn of the eyebrow, a tone of the voice, a queer characteristic gesture - all these things, and it is these things that cause to arise the passion of love - all these things are like so many objects on the horizon of the landscape that tempt a man to walk beyond the horizon, to explore. He wants to get, as it were, behind those eyebrows with the peculiar turn, as if he desired to see the world with the eyes that they overshadow. He wants to hear that voice applying itself to every possible proposition, to every possible topic; he wants to see those characteristic gestures against every possible background. Of the question of the sex-instinct I know very little and I do not think that it counts for very much in a really great passion. It can be aroused by such nothings - by an untied shoelace, by a glance of the eye in passing - that I think it might be left out of the calculation. I don't mean to say that any great passion can exist without a desire for consummation. That seems to me to be a commonplace and to be therefore a matter needing no comment at all. It is a thing, with all its accidents, that must be taken for granted, as, in a novel, or a biography, you take it for granted that the characters have their meals with some regularity. But the real fierceness of desire, the real heat of a passion long continued and withering up the soul of a man is the craving for identity with the woman he loves. He desires to see with the same eyes, to lose his identity, to be enveloped, to be supported. For, whatever, maybe said of the relation of the sexes, there is no man who loves a woman that does not desire to come to her for the renewal of his courage, for the cutting asunder of his difficulties. And that will be the mainspring of his desire for her. We are all so afraid, we are all so alone, we all so need from the outside the assurance of our own worthiness to exist.

So, for a time, if such a passion come to fruition, the man will get what he wants. He will get the moral support, the encouragement, the relief from the sense of loneliness, the assurance of his own worth. But these things pass away; inevitably they pass away as the shadows pass across sundials. It is sad, but it is so. The pages of the book will become familiar; the beautiful corner of the road will have been turned too many times. Well, this is the saddest story.

And yet I do not believe that for every man there comes at last a woman - or no, that is the wrong way of formulating it. For every man there comes at last a time of life when the woman who then sets her seal upon his imagination has set her seal for good. He will travel over no more horizon; he will never again set the knapsack over his shoulders; he will retire from those scenes. He will have gone out of the business."

The Reader ...

... by Bernhard Schlink is a book about Holocaust, individual responsibility, justice, collective guilt, forgiveness, the irreversibility of time, the extent of reality in memory ... The last topic fascinates me, and is discussed in depth in "The Secret Scripture" by Sebastian Barry.

"At first I wanted to write our story in order to be free of it. But the memories wouldn't come back for that. Then I realized our story was slipping away from me and I wanted to recapture it by writing, but that didn't coax up the memories either. For the last few years I've left our story alone. I've made peace with it. And it came back, detail by detail and in such a fully rounded fashion, with its own direction and its own sense of completion, that it no longer makes me sad. What a sad story, I thought for so long. Not that I now think it was happy. But I think it is true, and thus, the question of whether it is sad or happy has no meaning whatever.

At any rate, that's what I think when I just happen to think about it. But if something hurts me, the hurts I suffered back then come back to me, and when I feel guilty, the feeling of guilt return; if I yearn for something today, or feel homesick, I feel the yearnings and homesickness from back then. The geological layers of our lives rest so tightly one on top of the other that we always come up against earlier events in later ones, not as matter that has been fully formed and pushed aside, but absolutely present and alive. I understand this. Nevertheless, I sometimes find it hard to bear. Maybe I did write our story to be free of it, even if I never can be."

The protagonist, Michael, wrote a poem in the book which reminds me of another poem ... the ambivalence, the uncertainity despite the togetherness ...

"When we open ourselves
you yourself to me and I myself to you,
when we submerge
you into me and I into you
when we vanish
you into me, and I into you

Then
am I me
and you are you"

This morning ...

... by Raymond Carver definitely sums up how I felt when I was swinging among the autumn leaves at Heinwehfluh ... the fleeting moment of tranquility ...

This morning was something. A little snow
lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear
blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green,
as far as the eye could see.
Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went
for a walk -- determined not to return
until I took in what Nature had to offer.
I passed close to some old, bent-over trees.
Crossed a field strewn with rocks
where snow had drifted. Kept going
until I reached the bluff.
Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and
the gulls wheeling over the white beach
far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure
cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts
began to wander. I had to will
myself to see what I was seeing
and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what
mattered, not the other. (And I did see it,
for a minute or two!) For a minute or two
it crowded out the usual musings on
what was right, and what was wrong -- duty,
tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat
with my former wife. All the things
I hoped would go away this morning.
The stuff I live with every day. What
I've trampled on in order to stay alive.
But for a minute or two I did forget
myself and everything else. I know I did.
For when I turned back i didn't know
where I was. Until some birds rose up
from the gnarled trees. And flew
in the direction I needed to be going.

A Lovely Song For Jackson ...

... by V.R. Lang for a lovely couple, whose wedding is by a magical lake ...

If I were a seaweed at the bottom of the sea,
I'd find you, you'd find me.
Fishes would see us and shake their heads
Approvingly from their submarine beds.
Crabs and sea horses would bid us glad cry,
And sea anemone smile us by.
Sea gulls alone would wing and make moan,
Wondering, wondering, where we had gone.

If I were an angel and lost in the sun,
You would be there, and you would be one.
Birds that flew high enough would find us and sing
Gladder to find us than for anything,
And clouds would be proud of us, light everywhere
Would clothe us gold gaily, for dear and for fair.
Trees stretching skyward would see us and smile,
And all over heaven we'd laugh for a while.
Only the fishes would search and make moan,
Wondering, wondering, where we had gone.

Late Fragment ...

... will be amazing lines on one's tombstone ...

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

~ Raymond Carver

Better not ...

by Erich Fried ... its ambivalence is just beautiful ...

Life
would perhaps
be easier
if I had
never met you

Less sadness
each time
when we must part
less fear
of the next parting
and the next after that

And not so much either
of the powerless longing
when you're not there
which wants only the
impossible
and that right away
next minute
and then
when that can't be
is hurt
and finds breathing difficult

Life
would perhaps be
simpler
if I hadn't met you
only it wouldn't be
my life

Elie Wiesel ...

... wrote about his conflicts with God, especially during and after the Holocaust, in the triology "Night", "Dawn" and "Day" ...

One day when we came back from work, we saw three gallows rearing up in the assembly place, three black crows. Roll call. SS all around us, machine guns trained: the traditional ceremony. Three victims in chains - one of them, the little servant, the sad-eyed angel ... All eyes were on the child. He was lividly pale, almost calm, biting his lips. The gallows threw its shadow over him ... The three victims mounted together onto the chains.
The three necks were placed at the same moment within the nooses.
"Long live liberty!" cried the two adults.
But the child was silent.
"Where is God? Where is He?" someone behind me asked.
At a sign from the head of the camp, the three chairs tipped over ...
Then the march past began. The two adults were no longer alive. Their tongues hung swollen, blue-tinged. But the third rope was still moving; being so light, the child was still alive ...
For more than half an hour he stayed there, struggling between life and death, dying in slow agony under our eyes. And we had to look him full in the face. He was still alive when I passed in front of him. His tongue was still red, his eyes were not yet glazed.
Behind me, I heard the same man asking:
"Where is God now?"
And I heard a voice within me answer him:
"Where is He? Here He is - He is hanging here on the gallows ..."

We all have moments of questioning, of doubting, of uncertainty, even if the pain we face paled in comparison to those described by Elie Wiesel ... yet, it is how darkness turns into light which is fascinating about humans and God ...

Maybe sometimes, we just need to believe ...
"I believe in the sun, even when it doesn't shine.
I believe in love, even when I don't feel it.
I believe in God, even when He is silent."
~ an inscription on the wall of a cellar in Cologne (where some Jews remained hidden for the entire duration of the war)

Aubade ...

... by Larkin is beautiful ... the forces described by Freud; Eros (life) and Thantos (death) exist in all of us, battling all day long, but the "uncaring intricate rented world" continues to evolve, marching forward, as the dawn of the morning draws ...

I work all day, and get half drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not used, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never:
But at the total emptiness forever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says no rational being
Can fear a thing it cannot feel, not seeing
that this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no-one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

If ...

If time can hold
all the soundless tears in my dark eyes
all the inaudible longing in my shattered heart
all the unspoken words in my callous hands,

Then maybe, one day,
the tears will fall
the longings will cease
and the words will grow

Into a distant echo,
no longer to be seen, felt, or heard
but allowed us, the mortals,
to reflect on the irreversibility of time.

You and I both ...

... is a song by Jason Mraz which I have been listening to a lot recently and I think I am nearly there ... running out of words ...

Was it you who spoke the words that things would happen but not to me?
All things are gonna happen naturally
Oh, taking your advice and I'm looking on the bright side
And balancing the whole thing.

Oh, but at often times those words get tangled up in a lines
And the bright light turns to night
Oh, until the dawn it brings
Another day to sing about the magic that was you and me

See I'm all about them words
Over numbers, unencumbered numbered words;
Hundreds of pages, pages, pages for words.
More words than I had ever heard, and I feel so alive.

And with this silence brings a moral story
More importantly evolving is the glory of a boy

And it's okay if you had to go away
Oh, just remember that telephones
Well, they work out of both ways
But if I never ever hear them ring
If nothing else I'll think the bells inside
Have finally found you someone else and that's okay
Cause I'll remember everything you sang

Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of (of,)
And others just read of
and if you could see me now
Well, then I'm almost finally out of
I'm finally out of
Finally deedeedeedeedeede
Well I'm almost finally, finally
Out of words

It's gonna be alright ...

... is a song by Priscilla Ahn ... the lyrics are so simple, yet beautiful ... It reminds me of the bubbles I saw at London Eye last night ... I hardly ever walked down that side of South Bank, as blue light is one of my favourite places in London, but we took a left turn at Waterloo and I saw this artist making the biggest bubbles ever ... maybe Changes need to happen for us to experience more beauty and to be singing "It's gonna be alright" ...

Just walk away.
I don't wanna be that girl again.
That says goodbye to another broken hearted boyfriend.
But I'll let this slide.
cause you're different from all of them.
Yeah...

I need to learn when I've had enough.
I know it's hard when the going gets tough.
But I don't want to stop this.
So promise me,
it's gonna be alright.

Someday you'll see, the hell is wrong with me.
Sometimes my mind is floating in another foreign galaxy.
I'll leave behind all the tarot cards of an unknown prophecy.

I need to learn when I've had enough.
I know it's hard when the going gets tough.
But I don't want to stop this.
So promise me,
it's gonna be alright.

So feel the waters and tell me,
what you wanna do to make it.
Cause i've got a piece of my mind,
saying its alright.
It's gonna be alright.

I'm going to try to stay as sane as i could possibly.
Big girls still cry so please be patient with me.
You and i were a match made at a birthday party

Dana Gioia ...

The world does not need words. It articulates itself
in sunlight, leaves, and shadows. The stones on the path
are no less real for lying uncatalogued and uncounted.
The fluent leaves speak only the dialect of pure being.
The kiss is still fully itself though no words were spoken.

And one word transforms it into something less or other--
illicit, chaste, perfunctory, conjugal, covert.
Even calling it a kiss betrays the fluster of hands
glancing the skin or gripping a shoulder, the slow
arching of neck or knee, the silent touching of tongues.

Yet the stones remain less real to those who cannot
name them, or read the mute syllables graven in silica.
To see a red stone is less than seeing it as jasper--
metamorphic quartz, cousin to the flint the Kiowa
carved as arrowheads. To name is to know and remember.

The sunlight needs no praise piercing the rainclouds,
painting the rocks and leaves with light, then dissolving
each lucent droplet back into the clouds that engendered it.
The daylight needs no praise, and so we praise it always--
greater than ourselves and all the airy words we summon.

--

So much of what we live goes on inside–
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.

I am ...

... by John Clare

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below--above the vaulted sky.

If you forget me ...

... by Pablo Neruda ...

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Do not expect ...

... by Dana Gioia is absolutely stunning ... there are always "impenetrable things" in this chaotic world, but to be able to touch its surface briefly is like having a glimpse of heaven, where your soul longs to be ...

Do not expect that if your book falls open
to a certain page, that any phrase
you read will make a difference today,
or that the voices you might overhear
when the wind moves through the yellow-green
and golden tent of autumn, speak to you.

Things ripen or go dry. Light plays on the
dark surface of the lake. Each afternoon
your shadow walks beside you on the wall,
and the days stay long and heavy underneath
the distant rumor of the harvest. One
more summer gone,
and one way or another you survive,
dull or regretful, never learning that
nothing is hidden in the obvious
changes of the world, that even the dim
reflection of the sun on tall, dry grass
is more than you will ever understand.

And only briefly then
you touch, you see, you press against
the surface of impenetrable things.

If you close your eyes ...

... and take a deep breath,
to pause
and listen,
the endearing silence
is the sounds of whites
in the midst of tears.

Song of Childhood

... by Peter Handke is the recurring poem in "Wings of Desire" ...

When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging,
wanted the brook to be a river,
the river to be a torrent,
and this puddle to be the sea.

When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one.

When the child was a child,
it had no opinion about anything,
had no habits,
it often sat cross-legged,
took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair,
and made no faces when photographed.

When the child was a child,
It was the time for these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Is life under the sun not just a dream?
Is what I see and hear and smell
not just an illusion of a world before the world?
Given the facts of evil and people.
does evil really exist?
How can it be that I, who I am,
didn’t exist before I came to be,
and that, someday, I, who I am,
will no longer be who I am?

When the child was a child,
It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
and on steamed cauliflower,
and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.

When the child was a child,
it awoke once in a strange bed,
and now does so again and again.
Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
and now only a few do, by sheer luck.

It had visualized a clear image of Paradise,
and now can at most guess,
could not conceive of nothingness,
and shudders today at the thought.

When the child was a child,
It played with enthusiasm,
and, now, has just as much excitement as then,
but only when it concerns its work.

When the child was a child,
It was enough for it to eat an apple, … bread,
And so it is even now.

When the child was a child,
Berries filled its hand as only berries do,
and do even now,
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw,
and do even now,
it had, on every mountaintop,
the longing for a higher mountain yet,
and in every city,
the longing for an even greater city,
and that is still so,
It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
with an elation it still has today,
has a shyness in front of strangers,
and has that even now.
It awaited the first snow,
And waits that way even now.

When the child was a child,
It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
And it quivers there still today.

What we need is here ...

... is a little poem by Wendell Berry ... it is very postmodernism, but it is pretty beautiful and may sum up a little of the idea behind Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin) ...

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

Dark August ...

So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all with not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.
~ By Derek Walcott

The Peace of Wild Things ...

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

~ Wendell Berry

Being Boring ...

... by Wendy Cope ... sums up how I felt when my piano arrived at my flat this morning ... the stage of "being boring" sounds so appealing ...

If you ask me 'What’s new? ', I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it’s better today.
I’m content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears and passion—I’ve used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last,
If nothing much happens, I’m thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.

I don’t go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don’t need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I’ve found a safe mooring,
I’ve just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.

After the lunch ...

On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,
the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove
And try not to notice I've fallen in love

On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:
This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?

On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair
I am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.
the head does its best but the heart is the boss-
I admit it before I am halfway across
~ Wendy Cope ...

Wouldn't it be a lovely date; a long long lunch/picnic at St. James Park, a walk across the river at Waterloo Bridge, and read this awfully sweet poem at the National Poetry Library at Royal Festival Hall?

A date in row E ...

by Wendy Cope ...

First Date: He

She said she liked classical music.
I implied I was keen on it too.
Though I don’t often go to a concert,
It wasn’t entirely untrue.
I looked for a suitable concert
And here we are, on our first date.
The traffic was dreadful this evening
And I arrived ten minutes late.
So we haven’t had much time for talking
And I’m a bit nervous. I see
She is totally lost in the music
And quite undistracted by me.
In that dress she is very attractive —
The neckline can’t fail to intrigue.
I mustn’t appear too besotted.
Perhaps she is out of my league.
Where are we? I glance at the programme
But I’ve put my glasses away.
I’d better start paying attention
Or else I’ll have nothing to say.

First Date: She

I said I liked classical music.
It wasn’t exactly a lie.
I hoped he would get the impression
That my brow was acceptably high.
I said I liked classical music.
I mentioned Vivaldi and Bach.
And he asked me along to this concert.
Here we are, sitting in the half-dark.
I was thrilled to be asked to the concert.
I couldn’t decide what to wear.
I hope I look tastefully sexy.
I’ve done what I can with my hair.
Yes, I’m thrilled to be here at this concert.
I couldn’t care less what they play
But I’m trying my hardest to listen
So I’ll have something clever to say.
When I glance at his face it’s a picture
Of rapt concentration. I see
He is totally into this music
And quite undistracted by me.

The sound of white ...

... by Missy Higgins

Like a freeze-dried rose, you will never be,
what you were, what you were to me in memory.
But if I listen to the dark,
you'll embrace me like a star,
envelop me, envelop me ...
If things get real for me down here,
promise to take me to before you went away -
if only for a day.
If things get real for me down here,
promise to take me back to the tune
we played before you went away.

And if I listen to, the sound of white,
sometimes I hear your smile, and breathe your light.
Yeah if I listen to, the sound of white ...
You're my mystery. One mystery. My mystery. One mystery.

My silence solidifies,
until that hollow void erases you,
erases you so I can't feel at all.
But if I never feel again, at least that nothingness
will end the painful dream, of you and me ...
If things get real for me down here, promise to take me to
before you went away, if only for a day.
If things get real for me down here, promise to take me back to
the tune we played before you went away.

I knelt before some strangers face,
I'd never have the courage or belief to trust this place,
But I dropped my head, 'cos it felt like lead,
And I'm sure I felt your fingers through my hair ...

Herman Wouk ...

... wrote this little chapter in Marjorie Morningstar ... there is something beautiful about this chapter, but also heartbreaking ... such lilacs are hard to come by ...

It was an avenue solidly arched and walled with blooming lilacs. The smell, sweet and poignant beyond imagining, saturated the air; it struck her senses with the thrill of music. Water dripped from the massed blooms on Marjorie's upturned face as she walked along the lane hand in hand with Wally. She was not sure what was rain and what was tears in her face. She wanted to look up at lilacs and rolling white clouds and patchy blue sky forever, breathing this sweet air. It seems to her that, whatever ugly illusions existed outside this lane of lilacs, there must be a God, after all, and that He must be good.

She hear Wally say, " I kind of thought you would like it." The voice bought her out of a near-trance. She stopped, turned, and looked at him. He was ugly, and young, and pathetic. He was looking at her with shining eyes.

"Wally, thank you." She put her arms around his neck - he was taller than she, but not much - and kissed him on the mouth. The pleasure of the kiss lay all in expressing her gratitude, and that it did fully and satisfying. It meant nothing else. He held her close while she kissed him, and loosed her the moment she stepped away. He peered at her, his mouth slightly open. He seemed about to say something, but no words came. They were holding each other's hands, and raindrops were dripping on them from the lilacs.

After a moment she uttered a low laugh. "Well, why do you look at me like that? Do I seem so wicked? You've been kissed by a girl before."

Wally said, putting the back of his hand to his forehand, "It doesn't seem so now." He shook his head and laughed. "I'm going to plant lilac lanes all over town." His voice was very hoarse.

"It won't help," she said firmly, putting her arm through his, and starting to walk again, "that was the first one and the last, my lad."

He said nothing. When they reached the end of the lane they turned back, and paced the length of it slowly. Rain dripped on the path with a whispering sound. "It's no use," she said after a while.

"What?"

"It's fading. I guess your nerves can't go on vibrating that way. It's becoming just a lane full of lilacs."

"Then let's leave." Wally quickened his steps, and they were out of the lane and in the bright open air again.

They drove downtown in sunlight along a drying roadway, with the windows open and warm fragrant air eddying into the Buick. "Come up and have lunch," she said when he stopped at her house.

"I have to go straight to the library, Marge. Term paper due Monday. Thanks anyway."

"Thanks for the lilacs, Wally. It was pure heaven."

She opened the door. Suddenly his hand was on her arm. "Maybe not," he said.

"She looked at him. "Maybe not what?"

"Maybe it wasn't the last. The kiss."

With a light laugh, she said, "Wally, darling, don't lose sleep over it. I don't know. Maybe when we find such lilacs again."

He nodded and drove off.

Tulips ...

~ by Sheenagh Pugh is not only beautiful, but pretty much sums up how I feel and what I hope for most of the times ...

The tulips name for your home town
bloomed well for me this May.

The weather was kind to them:
no wind bowed them down,

and though for a long while they lay
under snow, they came through;

they were winners. They did their name
honour; they had shape and class.

They were not unlike you,
without the pain and the weakness

that makes us care so much more
for a man than for a flower.

touching your face ...

with that
silence

it creates
allowing

and
trusting

the allowed;
all that's

been said
and is saying

this time
breath

held
between us

each time
familiar

each time
new

~ by Tom Leonard ... is so fragile ... like the breath being held in mid-air ...

To a stranger ...

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

~ by Walt Whitman

I had a big discussion about "The One" at a dinner the other night and despite what everyone said, I think this poem has lovingly summarised it in an indisputable way ...

The world is a box ...

My heart is a box of affection.
My head is a box of ideas.
My room is a box of protection.
My past is a box full of years.

The future's a box full of after.
An egg is a box full of yolk.
My life is a box full of laughter.
And the world is a box full of folk.
~ Sophie Hannah

Daniel Gilbert ...

"Our ability to love beyond all measure those who try our patience and weary our bones is at once our most noble and most human quality" is definitely an ideal to aspire to but whether it is possible on earth is something debatable ...

Erich Fried ....

"But" can be such a negative word, but not in this poem ...

At first I fell in love
with the brightness of your eyes
with your laugh
with your joy in life

Now I love your weeping too
and your fear of life
and the helplessness
in your eyes

But I will help you
with your fear
for my joy in life
is still the brightness of your eyes


"Without You" is a quite common title, but this poem captures the ambiguity we feel about someone so beautifully ...

Not nothing
without you
but not the same

Not nothing
without you
but perhaps less

Not nothing
but less
and less

Perhaps not nothing
without you
but not much more


"Cancellation" is what I encourage my patients to do ...

Being able to breathe out
one's unhappiness

breathe out deeply
so that one can
breathe in again

And perhaps also being able to speak
one's unhappiness
in words
in real words
which are coherent
and make sense
and which one can
understand oneself
and which perhaps
someone else can understand
or could understand

And being able to try

That again would
almost be
happiness

But "Perhaps" is their way to cope ...

Remembering
that is
perhaps
the most painful way
of forgetting
and perhaps
the kindest way
of easing
this pain

I have often been asked why I love poetry so much, and "One Hour" does explain it all ...

I have spent one hour
correcting
a poem that I have written

One hour
That means: In this time
1400 small children died of starvation
because every 2½ seconds
one child under five starves to death
in our world

Also for one hour
the arms race continued
and 62 million eight hundred thousand dollars
were spent in this one hour
for the protection of various powers
from each other
for the military spendings of the world
at the moment amount to
550 billion dollars per year
Our country also
contributes its mite

The question arises
if it still makes sense
to write poems
with the way things are
It maybe true
that some poems are about
military spendings and war
and starving children
But others are about
love and aging and
meadows and trees and mountains
and also about poems and pictures

If it wasn't also for
all these other things
then nobody really cares
about children and peace either anymore.

What it is

It is nonsense
says Reason
It is what it is
says Love

It is unhappiness
says Caution
It is nothing but pain
says Fear
It is hopeless
says Insight
It is what it is
says Love

It is ridiculous
says Pride
It is careless
says Caution
It is impossible
says Experience
It is what it is
says Love
~ by Erich Fried

I love the reply from Love "It is what it is", as it pretty much sums up everything in life ...

The night is fine and dry ...

The night is fine and dry. It falls and spreads
the cold sky with a million opposites
that, for a moment, seem like a million souls
and soon, none, and then, for what seems a long time,
one. Then of course it spins. What is better to do
than string out over the infinite dead spaces
the ancient beasts and spearmen of the human
mind, and, if not the real ones, new ones?

But, try making them clear to one you love —
whoever is standing by you is one you love
when pinioned by the stars — you will find it quite
impossible, but like her more for thinking
she sees that constellation.

After the wave of pain, you will turn to her
and, in an instant, change the universe
to a sky you were glad you came outside to see.

This is the act of all the descended gods
of every age and creed: to weary of all
that never ends, to take a human hand,
and go back into the house.

~ "Stargazing" by Glyn Maxwell reminds of the sky in Morocco desert ...

Easter Wings ...

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store.
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poore:
With thee
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously
And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne:
And still with sickness and shame
Thou didst so punish sinne,
That I became
Most thinne.
With thee
Let me combine
And feel this day thy victorie:
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

~ George Herbert
An utterly incomprehensibly beautiful poem, which encapsulates the meaning of the Cross ...

Robert Frost ...

... said "Happiness makes up in Height for what it lacks in Length" ...

An interesting quote, but I suppose your definition of happiness depends on how readily you go from "what ifs" to "this is it", as acceptance is part of life. Yet, does accepting the knocks in life allow you to be happy or is it contentment?

Sophie Hannah ...

is definitely one of my favourite poets at the moment ... I love the simplicity of her language in linking our emotions to everyday life ...

Something Coming

The pavement shone with news of something coming,
or just with rain. She took it as a warning,
identical to last time - first the humming,
then thunder, then his letter in the morning.

She did her best to see some sort of sense
in all these things, to make them fit together.
At the same time, she laughed at the pretence
that love could be connected to the weather,

which can’t be true, or life would be too frightening
to live. Next time, she swore she’d go to bed
and not stay up to study trends of lightning,
and wonder what, if anything, they said.

Limited

Blank spaces count as characters. It's true.

I wasn't sure. And then I thought of you.

~ is commissioned by the O2, and it is about texting ... Just because a text is not being written, it does not mean that you are not being thought of constantly ...

Missy Higgins ...

... is a singer who I have been listening to a lot recently ...

"The special two" made me hope ...
I've hardly been outside my room in days,
'cause I don't feel that I deserve the sunshine's rays.
The darkness helped until the whiskey wore away,
And it was then I realize the conscience never fades.
When you're young you have this image of your life:
That you'll be scrupulous and one day even make a wife.
And you make boundaries you'd never dream to cross,
And if you happen to you wake completely lost.
But I will fight for you, be sure that
I will fight until we're the special two once again.

And we will only need each other, we'll bleed together,
Our hands will not be taught to hold another's,
When we're the special two.
And we could only see each other, we'll bleed together,
These arms will not be taught to need another,
'Cause we were the special two.

I remember someone old once said to me:
"That lies will lock you up with truth the only key."
But I was comfortable and warm inside my shell,
And couldn't see this place would soon become my hell.
So is it better to tell and hurt or lie to save their face?
Well I guess the answer is don't do it in the first place.
I know I'm not deserving of your trust from you right now,
But if by chance you change your mind you know I will not let you down
'cause we were the special two, and we'll be again.

And we will only need each other, we'll bleed together,
Our hands will not be taught to hold another's,
When we're the special two.
And we can only see each other we'll breathe together,
These arms will not be taught to need another...
'cause we're the special two.

I step outside my mind's eye's for a minute.
And I look over me like a doctor looking for disease,
Or something that could ease the pain.
But nothing cures the hurt you, you bring on by yourself,
Just remembering, just remembering how we were...

When we would only need each other, we'd bleed together,
Our hands would not be taught to hold another's,
We were the special two.
And we could only see each other, we'd bleed together,
These arms would not be taught to need another,
'Cause we're the special two.

... whereas "Where I stood" made me understand ...
I don't know what I've done
Or if I like what I've begun
But something told me to run
And honey you know me it's all or none

There were sounds in my head
Little voices whispering
That I should go and this should end
Oh and I found myself listening

'Cos I dont know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cos she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood

See I thought love was black and white
That it was wrong or it was right
But you ain't leaving without a fight
And I think I am just as torn inside

'Cos I dont know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cos she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood

And I won't be far from where you are if ever you should call
You meant more to me than anyone I ever loved at all
But you taught me how to trust myself and so I say to you
This is what I have to do

'Cos I dont know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cos she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood
Oh, she who dares to stand where I stood

The Reassurance ...

... by Thom Gunn ...

About ten days or so
After we saw you dead
You came back in a dream.
I'm all right now you said.

And it was you, although
You were fleshed out again:
You hugged us all round then,
And gave your welcoming beam.

How like you to be kind,
Seeking to reassure.
And, yes, how like my mind
To make itself secure.

Prayer ...

... by Carol Ann Duffy ...

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside the radio's prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre

~ Rockall, Malin, Dogger, Finisterre refer to shipping forecast ... I absolutely adore this poem ~ the idea of something more divine being at work, when you are at a loss, not knowing where to turn, when to think, what to pray, how to dream ...

Miracles ...

... do indeed happen, if we would only believe in them and maybe, just allow our eyes to gaze into the world with a sense of wonder ... This morning, one of my patients who hasn't smiled for days and days gave me a smile on her way to ECT ... she still has a long long way to go, and lots of issues to resolve, but she is a step closer ...

Miracles

Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships, with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

Asking you ...

Asking you ...
to pause,
to turn back,
to remember the touch,
to hold me once again.

Is that ...
too much,
too demanding,
too uncertain,
too catastrophic?

Leaving me ...
in pain,
in falling rain,
in an unstoppable train,
in a trance of longing.

Leaving and Leaving You ...

by Sophie Hannah

When I leave you postcode and your commuting station,
When I left undone all the things we planned to do
You may feel you have been left by association
But there is leaving and leaving you.

When I leave your town and the club that you belong to,
When I leave without much warning or much regret,
Remember, there's doing wrong and there's doing wrong to
You, which I'll never do and I haven't yet,

And when I have gone, remember that in weighing
Everything up, from love to a cheaper rent,
You were all the reasons I thought of staying,
And none of the reasons why I went

And although I leave your sight and I leave your setting,
And our separation is soon to be a fact,
Though you stand beside what I'm leaving and forgetting,
I'm not leaving you, not if motive makes the act.

~ this poem is just unbearablely ambivalent and beautiful ...

Glow ...

... by Thomas Baines

I remember it by the way your look touches me.
So clear.
No words are needed in the silences that hush the world away from here.
Hold on to this memory,
keep it locked inside.

I'll wait for you if you want me to.
I want your grow in me.
Cause I need you like I used to
and I bleed inside just for you.

I will not forget as the sun rises to the red.
I've been wrong.
Cause you exude the right whitest light that shimmers over me,
come switch it on.
Come and refresh this memory,
Light me up inside.

Wait for you ... wait for you ...

Tides ...

The evening advances, then withdraws again
Leaving our cups and books like islands on the floor.
We are drifting, you and I,
As far from another as the young heroes
Of these two novels we have just laid down.
For that is happiness: to wander alone
Surrounded by the same moon, whose tides remind us of ourselves,
Our distances, and what we leave behind.
The lamp left on, the curtains letting in the light.
These things were promises. No doubt we will come back to them.

~ Hugo Williams

I am not sure about the last line ... but I do love the picture it creates ...

Lemn Sissy ...

... is a poet I came across at the National Portrait Gallery the other day, and he wrote the following poem beside his portrait ...

"You remind me,
Define me,
Incline me,
If you died
I'd."

An intensively beautiful poem for a grey-sky-but-the-sun-may-still-come-out day ...

Ludwig Wittgenstein once said ...

... The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.

I am not sure if that is true, as there is often so much in this world which cannot be described by words or sounds, but maybe if something is to be shared, then language will be the limit of that experience ...

At Night ...

...

We are apart; the city grows quiet between us,
She hushes herself, for midnight makes heavy her eyes,
The tangle of traffic is ended, the cars are empty,
Five streets divide us, and on them the moonlight lies.

Oh are you asleep, or lying awake, my lover?
Open your dreams to my love and your heart to my words.
I send you my thoughts--the air between us is laden,
My thoughts fly in at your window, a flock of wild birds.

~ by Sara Teasdale

This poem captures the sense of closeness, even when one is apart ... and "My thoughts fly in at your window, a flock of wild birds" is something which cannot be replaced by modern technology ...

Sara Teasdale ...

...does express all types of emotions in such a simple way ...

I shall bury my weary Love
Beneath a tree,
In the forest tall and black
Where none can see.

I shall put no flowers at his head,
Nor stone at his feet,
For the mouth I loved so much
Was bittersweet.

I shall go no more to his grave,
For the woods are cold.
I shall gather as much of joy
As my hands can hold.

I shall stay all day in the sun
Where the wide winds blow,
But oh, I shall weep at night
When none will know.

I'll take you there ...

Chapter 21

The way out. To show the fly the way out of the bottle was the life's hope of Ludwig Wittgenstein but the truth is that human begins don't want a way out of the bottle; we are captivated, enthralled by the interior of the bottle; its glassy sides caress and console us; its glassy sides are the perimeters of our experience and our aspiration; the bottle is our skin, our soul; we're accustomed to the visual distortions of the glass; we would not wish to see clearly, without the barrier of the glass; we could not breathe a fresher air; we could not survive outside the bottle.

Or tell ourselves, in the glassy-echoing language of the bottle, that this is so.
~ by Joyce Carol Oates

I do wonder if we all have such bottles in our lives and if it is so devastating if one does not wish to have a way out ... It all depends on what we place our Hope in ...

Sonnet XLIV

You must know that I do not love and that I love you,
because everything alive has its two sides;
a word is one wing of the silence,
fire has its cold half.

I love you in order to begin to love you,
to start infinity again
and never to stop loving you:
that's why I do not love you yet.

I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held
keys in my hand: to a future of joy -
a wretched, muddled fate -

My love has two lives, in order to love you:
that's why I love you when I do not love you,
and also why I love you when I do.

- Pablo Neruda

... a poem I read last year, and I could not understand it until this weekend ... I think part of the anguish of this weekend can be explained by this poem - the conflicts of loving someone, the joys one experiences, the pains one encounters ... and one can become so so lost ...

But I also learnt something even more amazing this weekend ... the idea of to surrender, to trust ... all that you have to God ... so that He can comprehend, ponder, plan for you ...

The prayer ...

... by Celine Dion (she may not be my favourite singer, but I do like the first few lines from this song) ...

I pray you'll be our eyes,
and watch us where we go
And help us to be wise,
in times when we don't know
Let this be our prayer,
when we lose our way
Lead us to a place,
guide us with your grace
To a place where we'll be safe.

I pray we'll find your light
And hold it in our hearts
When stars go out each night
Let this be our prayer
When shadows fill our day
Lead us to a place
Guide us with your grace
Give us faith so we'll be safe

We ask that life be kind
And watch us from above
We hope each soul will find
Another soul to love
Let this be our prayer
Let this be our prayer
Just like every child
Just like every child

When we two are parted ..

...

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

~ Lord Byron

Good enough ...

... by Sarah McLachlan ...

Hey your glass is empty
it's a hell of a long way home
why don't you let me take you
it's no good to go alone
I never would have opened up
but you seemed so real to me
after all the bullshit I've heard
it's refreshing not to see
I don't have to pretend
she doesn't expect it from me

Don't tell me I haven't been good to you
don't tell me I have never been there for you
don't tell me why
nothing is good enough

Hey little girl would you like some candy
your momma said that it's OK
The door is open come on outside
no I can't come out today
it's not the wind that cracked your shoulder
and threw you to the ground
who's there that makes you so afraid
you're shaken to the bone
and I don't understand
you deserve so much more than this

So don't tell me why
he's never been good to you
don't tell me why
he's never been there for you
don't you know that why
is simply not good enough
so just let me try
and I will be good to you
just let me try
and I will be there for you
I'll show you why
you're so much more than good enough...

Tennessee Williams ...

... pretty much sums up how I feel at the moment ... "There is a time for departure even when there's no certain place to go."

Longing ...

... by Matthew Arnold

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth;
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say: My love! why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day

When I am dead, my dearest ...

... by Christina Rossetti

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget

I love the line - "Be the green grass above me with showers and dewdrops wet" ....

A Little fall of rain ...

... from Les Miserables ...

EPONINE
Don't you fret, M'sieur Marius
I don't feel any pain
A little fall of rain
Can hardly hurt me now
You're here, that's all I need to know
And you will keep me safe
And you will keep me close
And rain will make the flowers grow.

MARIUS
But you will live, 'Ponine - dear God above,
If I could heal your wounds with words of love.

EPONINE
Just hold me now, and let it be.
Shelter me, comfort me

MARIUS
You would live a hundred years
If I could show you how
I won't desert you now...

EPONINE
The rain can't hurt me now
This rain will wash away what's past
And you will keep me safe
And you will keep me close
I'll sleep in your embrace at last.

The rain that brings you here
Is Heaven-blessed!
The skies begin to clear
And I'm at rest
A breath away from where you are
I've come home from so far

So don't you fret, M'sieur Marius
I don't feel any pain
A little fall of rain
Can hardly hurt me now
That's all I need to know
And you will keep me safe
And you will keep me close

MARIUS (in counterpoint)
Hush-a-bye, dear Eponine,
You won't feel any pain
A little fall of rain
Can hardly hurt you now
I'm here
I will stay with you
Till you are sleeping

EPONINE
And rain...

MARIUS
And rain...

EPONINE
Will make the flowers...

MARIUS
Will make the flowers... grow...

... was my favourite song from the musical when I was 15, and still is now ...

A moment to remember ...

... by Alexander Pushkin may just answer the question asked ...

A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.

I pray to mute despair and anguish,
To vain the pursuits world esteems,
Long did I near your soothing accents,
Long did I your features haunt my dreams.

Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine.

In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me
No one to cry for, live for, love.

Then came a moment of reinessance,
I looked up - you again are there
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.

A question ...

... by Robert Frost

A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.

... does ask an interesting question, but I sincerely do think (or maybe wish to believe) that the scars we do have, the burdens we do carry, somehow make us appreciate the stars in the sky more ...

Keeping Christmas ...

"A Short Christmas Sermon" ... by Henry Van Dyke ...

ROMANS, xiv, 6: ~ He that regardeth the day, regardeth it unto the Lord.

It is a good thing to observe Christmas day. The mere marking of times and seasons, when men agree to stop work and make merry together, is a wise and wholesome custom. It helps one to feel the supremacy of the common life over the individual life. It reminds a man to set his own little watch, now and then, by the great clock of humanity which runs on sun time.

But there is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and that is, keeping Christmas.

Are you willing to forget what you have done for other people, and to remember what other people have done for you; to ignore what the world owes you, and to think what you owe the world; to put your rights in the background, and your duties in the middle distance, and your chances to do a little more than your duty in the foreground; to see that your fellow-men are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their faces to their hearts, hungry for joy; to own that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life, but what you are going to give to life; to close your book of complaints against the management of the universe,and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of little children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear on their hearts; to try to understand what those who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world--stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death--and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.

And if you keep it for a day, why not always?

But you can never keep it alone.

(I love this sermon when I read it back in August, but I will like to add a verse to its ending ~ “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible" (Matthew 19: 16) ... Have a lovely Christmas as we reflect on God's amazing gift to all mankind on this Christmas Day ...)

Come here ...

... a lovely song from Kath Bloom, played in an even more amazing film ~ "Before sunrise" ...

There's wind that blows in from the north.
And it says that loving takes this course.
Come here. Come here.
No I'm not impossible to touch I have never wanted you so much.
Come here. Come here.
Have I never laid down by your side.
Baby, let's forget about this pride.
Come here. Come here.
Well I'm in no hurry. Don't have to run away this time.
I know you're timid.
But it's gonna be all right this time.

camomile tea ...

... is the tea of choice for one of my favourite people on the earth ... and Katherine Mansfield has written a poem on it ... I love the picture this poem draws and it reminds me so much of him ...

Outside the sky is light with stars;
There's a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers,
The wind is shaking the almond tree.

How little I thought, a year ago,
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee
That he and I should be sitting so
And sipping a cup of camomile tea.

Light as feathers the witches fly,
The horn of the moon is plain to see;
By a firefly under a jonquil flower
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.

We might be fifty, we might be five,
So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
Under the kitchen-table leg
My knee is pressing against his knee.

Our shutters are shut, the fire is low,
The tap is dripping peacefully;
The saucepan shadows on the wall
Are black and round and plain to see.