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Patrick started the topic in Thursday, 18 Mar 2021 at 11:21pm

I like Mary Oliver's writings.
'A Thousand Mornings', a little book of collected works, is a good place to start.

And this poem by John Donne:

No man is an island,
entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent,
a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,
as well as if a promontory were.
as well as if a manor of thy friend’s
or of thine own were.
Any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind;
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.

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mickseq Saturday, 16 Apr 2022 at 6:13pm
jwithay wrote:

Brilliant blackers! JCC's reaction says it all

mickseq, is that from a video game? was strange seeing a mindfulness meditation with what looked to be playstation overlays! It put me in the mood for some zen buddhism...

Hammering a dent out of a bucket
a woodpecker
answers from the woods

Gary Snyder - A Dent in a Bucket

yeah its from Ghost of Tsushima, lots of opportunities to write different haiku, really great!

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tubeshooter Monday, 16 May 2022 at 9:26pm

Inspired by blackers' recent photo. One from Alexander S Pushkin.

You saw perched on a cliff a maid,
Her raiment white above the breakers,
When the mad sea reared up and played
Its whips of spray on coastal acres
And now and then the lightnings flush,
And purple gleams upon her hover,
And fluttering up in swirling rush,
The wind rides in her airy cover?
Fair is the sea in gales arrayed,
The heavens drained of blue and flashing,
But fairer on her cliff the maid
Than storms and skies and breakers crashing.

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mickseq Tuesday, 27 Sep 2022 at 12:56am

"One day you will ask me
which is more important?
My life or yours?
I will say mine and
you will walk away

Not knowing that
You are my life."

Khalil Gibran (1883-1931)

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mickseq Friday, 7 Oct 2022 at 6:26pm

"I didn’t like having to explain to
them, so I just shut up, smoked a
cigarette, and looked at the sea."

Albert Camus, The Stranger

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zenagain Friday, 7 Oct 2022 at 8:57pm

Hey Mick, just sitting here and there's a raging storm outside. Listening quietly to Erik Satie Gnossiennes No.1 (Lent) while I'm between things and it's kinda put me in a melancholy mood. That Gibran poem you posted above is lovely. Very thought provoking. Cheers.

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blackers Friday, 7 Oct 2022 at 9:21pm

It’s beautiful no doubt, meant to say so when I first read it.

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mickseq Monday, 17 Oct 2022 at 7:42pm
zenagain wrote:

Hey Mick, just sitting here and there's a raging storm outside. Listening quietly to Erik Satie Gnossiennes No.1 (Lent) while I'm between things and it's kinda put me in a melancholy mood. That Gibran poem you posted above is lovely. Very thought provoking. Cheers.

Nice one mate, sounds like bliss! was it Allan Watts that said "The sound of rain needs no translation?"

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mickseq Wednesday, 26 Oct 2022 at 9:16pm

Such a great thread,

"The desire to know your own
soul will end all other desires."

Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rumi

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Westofthelake Friday, 11 Nov 2022 at 9:18am

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Lest We Forget
We will remember them.

The poem was written by a Canadian Medical Corps doctor, Major John McCrae, who was serving with a Field Artillery Brigade in Ypres. The death of one of his friends in May 1915, buried in the cemetery outside his dressing station, affected him severely and he wrote his poem as a way of expressing his anguish at the loss.

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seeds Friday, 11 Nov 2022 at 1:21pm

I liked that earlier today Westof. It’s now just dawned on me what day it is.
Nice one!

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Wilhelm Scream Thursday, 24 Nov 2022 at 1:29pm

Tortoise Shout

I thought he was dumb,
I said he was dumb,
Yet I've heard him cry.

First faint scream,
Out of life's unfathomable dawn,
Far off, so far, like a madness, under the horizon's dawning rim,
Far, far off, far scream.

Tortoise in extremis.

Why were we crucified into sex?
Why were we not left rounded off, and finished in ourselves,
As we began,
As he certainly began, so perfectly alone?

A far, was-it-audible scream,
Or did it sound on the plasm direct?

Worse than the cry of the new-born,
A scream,
A yell,
A shout,
A pæan,
A death-agony,
A birth-cry,
A submission,
All tiny, tiny, far away, reptile under the first dawn.

War-cry, triumph, acute-delight, death-scream reptilian,
Why was the veil torn?
The silken shriek of the soul's torn membrane?
The male soul's membrane
Torn with a shriek half music, half horror.

Male tortoise, cleaving behind the hovel-wall of that dense female,
Mounted and tense, spread-eagle, out-reaching out of the shell
In tortoise-nakedness,
Long neck, and long vulnerable limbs extruded, spread-eagle over her house-roof,
And the deep, secret, all-penetrating tail curved beneath her walls,
Reaching and gripping tense, more reaching anguish in uttermost tension
Till suddenly, in the spasm of coition, tupping like a jerking leap, and oh!
Opening its clenched face from his outstretched neck
And giving that fragile yell, that scream,
From his pink, cleft, old-man's mouth,
Giving up the ghost,
Or screaming in Pentecost, receiving the ghost.

His scream, and his moment's subsidence,
The moment of eternal silence,
Yet unreleased, and after the moment, the sudden, startling jerk of coition, and at once
The inexpressible faint yell —
And so on, till the last plasm of my body was melted back
To the primeval rudiments of life, and the secret.

So he tups, and screams
Time after time that frail, torn scream
After each jerk, the longish interval,
The tortoise eternity,
Agelong, reptilian persistence,
Heart-throb, slow heart-throb, persistent for the next spasm.

I remember, when I was a boy,
I heard the scream of a frog, which was caught with his foot in the mouth of an up-starting snake;
I remember when I first heard bull-frogs break into sound in the spring;
I remember hearing a wild goose out of the throat of night
Cry loudly, beyond the lake of waters;
I remember the first time, out of a bush in the darkness, a nightingale's piercing cries and gurgles startled the depths of my soul;
I remember the scream of a rabbit as I went through a wood at midnight;
I remember the heifer in her heat, blorting and blorting through the hours, persistent and irrepressible;
I remember my first terror hearing the howl of weird, amorous cats;
I remember the scream of a terrified, injured horse, the sheet-lightning
And running away from the sound of a woman in labor, something like an owl whooing,
And listening inwardly to the first bleat of a lamb,
The first wail of an infant,
And my mother singing to herself,
And the first tenor singing of the passionate throat of a young collier, who has long since drunk himself to death,
The first elements of foreign speech
On wild dark lips.

And more than all these,
And less than all these,
This last,
Strange, faint coition yell
Of the male tortoise at extremity,
Tiny from under the very edge of the farthest far-off horizon of life.

The cross,
The wheel on which our silence first is broken,
Sex, which breaks up our integrity, our single inviolability, our deep silence
Tearing a cry from us.

Sex, which breaks us into voice, sets us calling across the deeps, calling, calling for the complement,
Singing, and calling, and singing again, being answered, having found.

Torn, to become whole again, after long seeking for what is lost,
The same cry from the tortoise as from Christ, the Osiris-cry of abandonment,
That which is whole, torn asunder,
That which is in part, finding its whole again throughout the universe.

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velocityjohnno Thursday, 24 Nov 2022 at 1:51pm

When the season comes
Rooting if you are turtle
Must be very tough.

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Wilhelm Scream Thursday, 24 Nov 2022 at 6:22pm

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

S. Sassoon