The warrior of the light believes. Just like children believe.
Because he believes in miracles, miracles begin to happen. Because he is sure that his thought can change his life, his life begins to change. Because he is sure that he will find love, this love appears.
From time to time he is disappointed. Sometimes he gets hurt.
And then he hears comments like: “that fellow’s so naive!”
But the warrior knows that it is all worthwhile. For each defeat he counts two victories in his favor.
All those who believe know this.
When someone wants something, they must know why they are fighting. This is the only reason to seek a reward.
(The Pilgrimage)
- You mustn’t ever forget this scene - said the lecturer. - No matter what I do with this money, it’ll still be a 20 dollar bill. Many times in our lives, we are crushed, stamped on, kicked, maltreated, offended; however, in spite of this, we are still worth the same.
It is necessary to run risks, follow certain paths and abandon others.
No one can make a choice without feeling fear.
(Brida)
The warrior of light
knows that intuition is God’s alphabet
and so he continues listening to the wind
and talking to the stars.
(Manual of the Warrior of Light)
For a poet: Love possesses nothing and does not want to be possessed, because it is enough in itself. It will make you grow, and then throw you on the ground. It will whip you so that you feel your impotence, it will shake you to rid you of all your impurities. It will crush you to leave you flexible.
And then it will toss you in the fire so that you can become the blessed bread to be served at God’s sacred feast (The Prophet, by Khalil Gibran [1883-1931])
Nobody is courageous all the time. The unknown is a constant challenge, and being afraid is part of the journey.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Quotes II
1. The unexamined life is not worth living. (Socrates)
2. True wisdom comes to each of us when we realize how little we understand about life, ourselves, and the world around us. (Socrates)
3. Hope is a waking dream. (Aristotle)
4. Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work. (Aristotle)
5. The soul never thinks without a picture. (Aristotle)
6. Well begun is half done. (Aristotle)
7. Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things. (T.S.Eliot)
8. The most important thing for poets to do is to write as less as possible. (T.S.Eliot)
9. Whatever satisfies the soul is truth. (Walt Whitman)
10. A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom. (Robert Frost)
11. A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair. (Robert Frost)
12. Writing a poem is discovering. (Robert Frost)
13. Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired. (Robert Frost)
14. The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office. (Robert Frost)
15. Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable. (Voltaire)
2. True wisdom comes to each of us when we realize how little we understand about life, ourselves, and the world around us. (Socrates)
3. Hope is a waking dream. (Aristotle)
4. Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work. (Aristotle)
5. The soul never thinks without a picture. (Aristotle)
6. Well begun is half done. (Aristotle)
7. Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things. (T.S.Eliot)
8. The most important thing for poets to do is to write as less as possible. (T.S.Eliot)
9. Whatever satisfies the soul is truth. (Walt Whitman)
10. A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom. (Robert Frost)
11. A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair. (Robert Frost)
12. Writing a poem is discovering. (Robert Frost)
13. Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired. (Robert Frost)
14. The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office. (Robert Frost)
15. Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable. (Voltaire)
Tonight I can write the saddest lines ... by Pablo Neruda
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
Variations on the word Sleep ... by Margaret Atwood
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head.
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head.
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
The Moment ... by Margaret Atwood
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
This is a photograph of Me ... by Margaret Atwood
It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.
(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.
I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.
It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion
but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.
(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.
I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.
It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion
but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)
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