Tinkers quarrel I went down
With my horse, my soul.
I cried, ‘Who will bid me half a crown?’
From their rowdy bargaining
Not one turned. ‘Soul,’ I prayed,
‘I have hawked you through the world
Of Church and State and meanest trade.
But this evening, halter off,
Never again will it go on.
On the south side of ditches
There is grazing of the sun.
No more haggling with the world….’
As I said these words he grew
Wings upon his back. Now I may ride him
Every land my imagination knew.
From Pegasus , by Patrick Kavanaugh
THE World is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 5
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
"As I contemplate the blue sky I am not set over against it as an acosmic subject: I do not possess it in thought, or spread out toward it some idea of blue... I abandon myself to it and plunge into this mystery, it thinks itself within me,"I am the sky itself... drawn together and unified... my consciousness is saturated with the limitless blue."
from Alchemical Psychology, James Hillman
Let’s not shut the door to living speech of destiny which we hear from behind the hedges of sound
Let’s remove the curtains
Let’s allow our feeling to drink fresh air...
Let’s allow instinct to play
Let’s allow all it to take off its shoes and leap over the flowers following seasons
Let’s allow solitude to sing a song
To write something
To go to the street
Let’s be plain
Let’s be plain whether in front of the teller’s window or under a tree
Excerpt The Waters Footsteps, by Sohrab Sepehri
Plain and simple... hmmm what do you say?
"Go on flutter ye mystic ballad - ah haunting & Tokay jittery ye be like the mad pulse - the mad pulse of a child - the children of ring around the rosy & wandering poets over India - the jugglers who call you by the wrong name & title you wounded kitten - it is that easy for they know no fairy tales..."
Excerpt Tarantula, Bob Dylan
When it comes to speaking to others, the poet hesitates, he doesn't read well his poem. Or he reads it as if it were another's. He reads it without comprehending it. Thus Claudel when he puts on his glasses and acts just like a notary when he reads his great works... Some other makes of his poems, by his hesitations, something shredding. Must we distrust the poets who read their works too well? No; I know of some who can restore about their work the Atmosphere from which it was born... But owing to certain realist tendencies I feel in me, or to a certain incapacity, I would hesitate to define poetry as a "creation of the world". of course the idea of the world is the effect of an illusion, at once retrospective and totalizing. Poetry is rather the creation of a language or a music, of a language which is a music.
Excerpt from translation 'La Poesie comme Exercise Spirituel, from Poesie, Pensee, and Perception, by Jean Wahl