Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Friday, 3 February 2012
Play
Play re-found amongst the ash
Dora was a writer of plays at the prestigous New York Rep Company. She had a light office, painted calico white, with a mirror, which she could decorate as she wished A hamper was delivered every week with fresh fruit and delightful delicacies. Often the smell of shampoo wafted in through the window from the next door hair salon which she relished. These days she could sit and stare out of the skylight and the watch the clouds-it was all part of her work! But some days her work seemed to lack potency. She liked that word, potency, she felt it inside: reminiscent of strength, clarity, movement, self defined timing. Different form the wet rag feeling.
And she felt it was an ingredient to put into more of her plays. She wanted clearer, brighter pieces to be performed. She wanted words spoken to the heart, she wanted cheers and clapping. It hurt a bit to think of past failures, her scripts that found their way into the rubbish pile. But they were delicate and rounded in their own way. And she would consult with her actors of course in the company.
Dora felt suddenly bright at the prospect and in the silence things began gathering. One drop of potency from the aquamarine glass bottle. The dropper glubbed out a tear of strength.
...The army ready for battle, the bee swarm purposefully ready to meet their flowers, ballet dancers beginning their piece with vision and bounce. Someone knocked on the door and Dora answered gently.
CED, April '08
This is something I wrote nearly 4 years ago. I just dug it out again.
Dora was a writer of plays at the prestigous New York Rep Company. She had a light office, painted calico white, with a mirror, which she could decorate as she wished A hamper was delivered every week with fresh fruit and delightful delicacies. Often the smell of shampoo wafted in through the window from the next door hair salon which she relished. These days she could sit and stare out of the skylight and the watch the clouds-it was all part of her work! But some days her work seemed to lack potency. She liked that word, potency, she felt it inside: reminiscent of strength, clarity, movement, self defined timing. Different form the wet rag feeling.
And she felt it was an ingredient to put into more of her plays. She wanted clearer, brighter pieces to be performed. She wanted words spoken to the heart, she wanted cheers and clapping. It hurt a bit to think of past failures, her scripts that found their way into the rubbish pile. But they were delicate and rounded in their own way. And she would consult with her actors of course in the company.
Dora felt suddenly bright at the prospect and in the silence things began gathering. One drop of potency from the aquamarine glass bottle. The dropper glubbed out a tear of strength.
...The army ready for battle, the bee swarm purposefully ready to meet their flowers, ballet dancers beginning their piece with vision and bounce. Someone knocked on the door and Dora answered gently.
CED, April '08
This is something I wrote nearly 4 years ago. I just dug it out again.
The honour of hope
To all hopeful things, there is still something shouting 'this is what you really wanted!'
Morning Poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
from Dream Work (1986) by Mary Oliver
© Mary Oliver
Morning Poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
from Dream Work (1986) by Mary Oliver
© Mary Oliver
Wordsworth
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
1804.
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
1804.
Sunday, 1 January 2012
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Are you in or are you out?
I have this bad habit of hesitation. I write things and then I take them away,as if I am trying to work something out. Is this my place? I am yet to decide.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Kisses
From a letter of Lewis Carroll's to a young admirer
I am so sorry, and so ashamed! Do you know, I didn't even know of your existence! And it was such a surprise to hear that you had sent me your love! I felt just as if Nobody had suddenly run into the room, and given me a kiss! (That's the thing which happens to me, most days, just now.) If I only I had known you were existing, I would have sent you heaps of love, long ago. And, now I come to think about it, I ought to have sent you the love without being so particular about whether you existed or not. In some ways, you know, people that don't exist, are much nicer than people who do. For instance, people that don't exist are never cross: and they never contradict you: and they never tread on your toes! Oh, they're so much nicer than people who do exist! However, never mind; you can't help existing, you know....
I am so sorry, and so ashamed! Do you know, I didn't even know of your existence! And it was such a surprise to hear that you had sent me your love! I felt just as if Nobody had suddenly run into the room, and given me a kiss! (That's the thing which happens to me, most days, just now.) If I only I had known you were existing, I would have sent you heaps of love, long ago. And, now I come to think about it, I ought to have sent you the love without being so particular about whether you existed or not. In some ways, you know, people that don't exist, are much nicer than people who do. For instance, people that don't exist are never cross: and they never contradict you: and they never tread on your toes! Oh, they're so much nicer than people who do exist! However, never mind; you can't help existing, you know....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)