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  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    the rat! hahaha, probably curious why are the locals
    making such a big fuss :D

    anyway, i noticed in your passage that there´s something we
    might share and that is the sensitivity to the detail, discovering
    the unusual in a certain thing; or even the ordinary, forced
    to such extent that because of it´s quality it becomes
    perceptible to the individual.

    Berlin... you either hate it, or love it. Apart from your personal
    perceptions and impressions of it, it can easily become your
    home, or if it doesn´t like you, it will show you the evil side of it´s
    face.
    I´m probably one of the rare people who have seen the whole
    face.

    it´s sunday today. my mind should be resting. :)
    Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
    and in its contradiction of response,
    Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
    That might suggest true movement. If you sense
    a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
    Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
    The willows nod and rustle, and you will
    hear the rushing babble of the free
    gush of water, brimming, charged with light
    That is your reader's understanding heart.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    Enjoy your Sunday. Back to the poetry on Monday though! ;)
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    Desperate for words,
    To read them, to write them,
    To reshape them
    As a soft lump of gold
    Make them shine,
    Put them in few lines
    And then observe your reader´s face.
    Predicting a twitch or two,
    One positive and perhaps a negative sign too,
    But left empty
    When drawing clear conclusions.
    Need for more material,
    More input, more stimuli to wake up nerves,
    Make my fingers fidget
    Push them to the limit
    My eye absolutely restless, it observes
    How wrinkles constrict and relax again -
    It is an indicator for a busy mind,
    Estimating sound by sound…
    Disappointment about one´s own creation,
    Feeling that there is far more to say
    But the thoughts, when thinking, somehow they just fade.
    Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
    and in its contradiction of response,
    Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
    That might suggest true movement. If you sense
    a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
    Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
    The willows nod and rustle, and you will
    hear the rushing babble of the free
    gush of water, brimming, charged with light
    That is your reader's understanding heart.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    This reminds me a little, in some ways, of some of the themes of WB Yeats's poem "The Fascination of What's Difficult". Do you know it?

    :)
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    I must admit that i posses only the essential knowledge about Yeats and his work.
    However, I will never stop studying literature and so I´m curious about this too and to what extent is my last poem related to his work.

    and thank you for reading it.

    talking to Whitney at the moment :)
    Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
    and in its contradiction of response,
    Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
    That might suggest true movement. If you sense
    a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
    Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
    The willows nod and rustle, and you will
    hear the rushing babble of the free
    gush of water, brimming, charged with light
    That is your reader's understanding heart.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    The fascination of what's difficult
    Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
    Spontaneous joy and natural content
    Out of my heart. There's something ails our colt
    That must, as if it had not holy blood
    Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,
    Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt
    As though it dragged road-metal. My curse on plays
    That have to be set up in fifty ways,
    On the day's war with every knave and dolt,
    Theatre business, management of men.
    I swear before the dawn comes round again
    I'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    I still travel back in time sometimes,
    Although I know I shouldn´t do so;
    Reopening my wounds from time to time
    Questioning myself about how low can I still go.
    Nurturing the minds, I did, and still do at times,
    Forgetting all about my own, just writing lines
    That is the medicine my brain needs, and always will desire,
    Brings me back to life, extinguishes the burning fire.
    Only the past time knows the true story of this creature,
    Laying hands on my heart as it goes,
    It could be something for amusement,
    Perhaps an exercise to make me even stronger.
    If you follow me when travelling in Past,
    You will see how things developed, minding signs,
    But somewhere in the middle you might change your minds,
    Yes, this route is troublesome; you better try some other path.
    Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
    and in its contradiction of response,
    Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
    That might suggest true movement. If you sense
    a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
    Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
    The willows nod and rustle, and you will
    hear the rushing babble of the free
    gush of water, brimming, charged with light
    That is your reader's understanding heart.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    This is a powerfully effective poem, which provokes the horrific imagination of a subtext of a past that seethes. The nature of the past trauma referred to in the poem is never explicated, but the reference to a creature laying hands on the speaker's heart is hardly a euphemism either. The poem also emphasises the speaker's belief in writing as catharsis, while questioning the role of the reader in this act of writing to purge demons.

    Thanks, exhale. You're good.
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    So much is there still for me to find,
    Crying, because I cannot reach the shelf
    Where all the books could tell so much about myself,
    Hidden in the corner, alas, I won´t be there on time.

    Ambivalence of thoughts is balancing my head,
    I am a character playing in his tragic play
    And in The Globe he puts me on the stage,
    To reveal my pattern of the chaos and foresee…

    My habits every day the same with roots so deep
    But what can change the change of life,
    If you´re the master of your rhyme all of such kind
    That causes nightmares, takes away your sleep.

    This rhyme, you say, I´ve never met, I may not ever see,
    Am I therefore incapable of loving?
    But I am sick of all that mourning,
    Please, leave the platform and continue this walk with me.
    Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
    and in its contradiction of response,
    Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
    That might suggest true movement. If you sense
    a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
    Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
    The willows nod and rustle, and you will
    hear the rushing babble of the free
    gush of water, brimming, charged with light
    That is your reader's understanding heart.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    You are the fund of words to which we come.
    The words you write say all about your heart
    Before you might consult each hallowed tome
    of poetry by others. You'll learn art
    From reading others' works, but who you are
    is in the words you speak, so frank, so true.
    Of course we'll leave the platform, walk with you.

    :)
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    thank you, Prof. Fins!

    if no other, I know you´ll always find the core.
    (thanks for the hint on the word phrase)

    beautiful poetry of yours in your thread, created by the
    pen of love that reaches across the Atlantic...
    it is shaped the way that people cannot envy you;
    even the hearts of most desperate souls have to cheer up
    after following the flow of your verse.
    Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
    and in its contradiction of response,
    Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
    That might suggest true movement. If you sense
    a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
    Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
    The willows nod and rustle, and you will
    hear the rushing babble of the free
    gush of water, brimming, charged with light
    That is your reader's understanding heart.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    There are some who proclaim they are great poets and produce something mundane, but there are also others who take the substance of their everyday life of experience and imagination, and make art of it. You are of the latter group.

    :)
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started…

    If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
    (Hemingway)
    Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
    and in its contradiction of response,
    Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
    That might suggest true movement. If you sense
    a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
    Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
    The willows nod and rustle, and you will
    hear the rushing babble of the free
    gush of water, brimming, charged with light
    That is your reader's understanding heart.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    "I am an atheist, when it's daylight."

    (Brendan Behan)

    That quotation always appealed to me.

    :)
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    Many times I catch my mind in meditation,
    When it should be, loosely, working on a new creation.
    Having trouble waking up the poet,
    Feeling like my soul was given out for rent.

    Look at him! His words so simply flow,
    Singing every moment, mapping his ideas as he goes.
    He would never, even for a blink
    Put his pen down, overthink;
    No, a writer of this kind I could never be,
    I better find my chair again, sit down and study.

    Turning to you, poets, with this question:
    Have you ever felt your power dwindling,
    Your glory fading, losing it´s perfection?
    Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
    and in its contradiction of response,
    Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
    That might suggest true movement. If you sense
    a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
    Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
    The willows nod and rustle, and you will
    hear the rushing babble of the free
    gush of water, brimming, charged with light
    That is your reader's understanding heart.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    I shall greet the voles in Hobson's Brook,
    all scrunchy-nosing reeds, heads out from burrows.
    I shall salute the starling and the rook,
    on my allotment's broad potato furrows.
    I shall halloo the colleges and spires
    and sing when Hill's Road Churchbells sound in chime.
    I shall greet warmly smells of rustic fires
    Blowing in the wind this havest time.

    I shall shout your name for you, and hear
    its echoes on the fenlands far and near.
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    So loud, so lively still the voices calling,
    Inviting me to join their party
    On the surface of the summer sun
    Dancing till the day is gone.

    It feels like making love with views
    Of this land, so much is there to choose,
    From the grounds and up to peoples eyes
    So honest, so pure, free of all dark lies.

    If even flying through it´s fields,
    Above, the sky covered with different-blue sheets,
    You cannot fail to see the nature´s art
    Playing with the colours-engraving on your heart.
    Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
    and in its contradiction of response,
    Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
    That might suggest true movement. If you sense
    a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
    Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
    The willows nod and rustle, and you will
    hear the rushing babble of the free
    gush of water, brimming, charged with light
    That is your reader's understanding heart.
  • ISN
    ISN Posts: 1,700
    I like it....hehehehehhehe :)
    ....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    wow,

    thank you

    :)
    Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
    and in its contradiction of response,
    Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
    That might suggest true movement. If you sense
    a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
    Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
    The willows nod and rustle, and you will
    hear the rushing babble of the free
    gush of water, brimming, charged with light
    That is your reader's understanding heart.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    Originally posted by exhale
    So loud, so lively still the voices calling,
    Inviting me to join their party
    On the surface of the summer sun
    Dancing till the day is gone.

    It feels like making love with views
    Of this land, so much is there to choose,
    From the grounds and up to peoples eyes
    So honest, so pure, free of all dark lies.

    If even flying through it´s fields,
    Above the sky covered with different-blue sheets,
    You cannot fail to see the nature´s art
    Playing with the colours-engraving on your heart.

    This is a beautiful example of an elegiac construction of Englishness, and it reminds me very much of the work of "Georgian Poets" (poets alive during the reign of George V, 1910-1935, but mainly writing between 1910 and 1918, from England rather than from the trenches of WW1). The Georgian Poets often wrote melancholically, wistfully and reflectively of an essentially rural England that they perceived to be becoming supplanted by metropolitanism.

    Here is a poem by the poet Edward Thomas, called "Adlestrop", which is similar in tone to your poem:

    Yes, I remember Adlestrop--
    The name, because one afternoon
    Of heat the express-train drew up there
    Unwontedly. It was late June.

    The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
    No one left and no one came
    On the bare platform. What I saw
    Was Adlestrop - only the name

    And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
    And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
    No whit less still and lonely fair
    Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

    And for that minute a blackbird sang
    Close by, and round him, mistier,
    Farther and farther, all the birds
    Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

    :)

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