I Find No Peace

I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not--yet can I scape no wise--
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.



 

(Sir Thomas Wyatt,October 11, 1542)

 

Autumn Musings . . .

In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan
Is fragrant in the wake of summer hence,
'Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereon
In melancholy and godlike indolence:
When the proud spirit, lull'd by mortal prime
To fond pretence of immortality,
Vieweth all moments from the birth of time,
All things whate'er have been or yet shall be.
And like the garden, where the year is spent,
The ruin of old life is full of yearning,
Mingling poetic rapture of lament
With flowers and sunshine of spring's sure returning;
Only in visions of the white air wan
By godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.

(Robert Bridges, 1844-1930)

Forgetfulness . . .

I would I might forget that I am I,
And break the heavy chain that binds me fast,
Whose links about myself my deeds have cast.
What in the body's tomb doth buried lie
Is boundless; 'tis the spirit of the sky,
Lord of the future, guardian of the past,
And soon must forth, to know his own at last.
In his large life to live, I fain would die.
Happy the dumb beast, hungering for food,
But calling not his suffering his own;
Blessèd the angel, gazing on all good,
But knowing not he sits upon a throne;
Wretched the mortal, pondering his mood,
And doomed to know his aching heart alone,

(George Santayana)

Nursery Rhymes

The Owl & The Pussycat

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

(Edward Lear)

The funny thing about nursery rhymes is that they have core collective wisdom that almost sneaks up on you at times.  They seem non-sensical at first but then a slow understanding begins to creep through . . . that pretty things are delighful; that our differences are nothing compared to our capacities for love and friendship; that sacrificing for our friends benefit is noble, that sensual treats like food and song and dancing by the light of the moon are really what life is about . . .

Words have Power

“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around" (Leo Buscaglia)

Our existence is literally defined by the words we choose to use . . . the restriction of language,by poor education, or by cultural and/or political negation steals the experience of life from us, because it cannot be verbalized and thus shared.

Think about George Orwell's book 1984 where "Newspeak" seeks to eliminate language in the deliberate effort to end "thought crime" i.e., resistance to authority, by destroying any way of conceptualizing anything other than rigid orthodoxy.

The English language is the most expressive language on the planet, by far nearly a quarter of a million words, although 20,000 to 40,000 is the upper usage range (Shakespeare, who invented quite a few words himself, used around 25,000 in his works) Other modern languages have at best a quarter of that.  So we have variety and near endless options to illustrate our world with.

Now consider the words you use to describe your life, your day to day experiences . . . when someone asks you how your day has been,was it "fine" or "okay?"  Even if it wasn't a great day, mightn't it still be interesting or mundane or insiped, or pehaps it was better than that; exhilirating, exceptional, rewarding?

The power of our words can transform; how we see ourselves, our world, and how we can effect, or even infect, that world, hopefully for the better.

Vocabulary then isn't just some little mind teaser; it is our fundamental expression and our self-definition, it is thus life itself and how you choose to create it . . .

 

New Mornings . . .

Still quiet climb the burning vermilion rays,

Hailing anew; as wonder of ancient time
Earnest with uprais'd hands, priests chanted praise
Rich with awe, poured out in sacred mime
Red oblations of holy wine to greet
Yon ascending god, Phoebus glorified;
Myself, obeisant, here pay homage meet,
Ere the pallid moon set, and starry skied
Night betake herself to triumphant dreams

Such light discovered in thy brilliant eyes;

Aurora's passion now so sallow seems
To their lavish spirit; contented sighs
That fill me quite; bid my heart wake the day;
In thy thought, dawns delight, and here I pray.

Old Wounds . . .

Ay as from dreams of some old glorious fight,

Flags flying, and shaken steel, and mounds of slain,
A soldier starts, and feels his old wound pain
His tossing side: anon he sits upright
And rubs his lonely eyes in the dim night,
The glorious vision fading from his brain:
Only the sullen-throbbing pangs remain,
The unforgetful wound, the tear-dimmed sight.
So oft times having wandered in my sleep
By those loved lanes and hedgerows to our tryst,
I press the lids of thy great eyes, and weep
To feel against my heart thy wild heart leap
Once more--Night yawns--Where are the eyes I kissed?
The heart-aches and the tears are all I keep.
(John Barlas)