The Song of the Idiot By Ranier Maria Rilke They do not hinder me. They let me go.They say, nothing could happen even so. How good.Nothing can happen. Everything revolves engrossedalways around the Holy Ghost,around a certain ghost (you know)— how good.No, one should really not supposethat there is any danger in those.There’s of…
A friend pointed me to this poem by Wm. Blake. How important is friendship, a few associations that are mutually cultivated for years, over an arc of time. I owe my growth as an adult to the recommendations received from friends, the books, poems, film, – all of that, the deposits in the bank…
Saturday morning is overcast. A storm moved through last night. We needed the rain. I feel gratitude for timely rain, because circumstances could be otherwise. I’ll not dwell upon that! Here is a poem that speaks to many things. The female poetess describes a birth, which is a primal and spiritual matter, a dying…
I understand this poem was found in T. S. Eliot’s papers. It appears to have been written in the last years of his writing career. The poem is a composition of poems which were previously written and published. Near to the end of a journey one sometimes is able to understand how once seeming…
We Are In Charge Dance on this verge, do not let the ruling fools of this dying world consummate their curses. Rise up, defy, resist! Uncork the sacred rage! Be and become the new culture of euphoric duty, and insurrectionary beauty. Join the new alliance! Needed: radical curiosity, reverent pranks, voracious listening….
In my beginning is my end. In succession Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended, Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass. Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth Which is…
Spring by Alan L. Strang Spring time is here with its sunshine and showers, All nature is waking from its long winter sleep. The gardens are blooming with beautiful flowers, The song-birds are carolling melodies sweet. Alan L. Strang (1908 – 1919) was born in Spokane, Washington. His family moved to Redwood City, California…
Late again to Starbucks today. Restless night, waking at 2AM and lying still, waiting for sleep to return. Another session, looking at this screen wondering what to write. Sometimes there is a theme that bears more words, thought and development. But is anything possibly a start over? According to Parmenides everything is apriori inscribed,…
The Habit of Perfection by Gerard Manley Hopkins Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear. Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: It is the shut, the curfew sent From there where all surrenders come Which only make…
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter,…
