Saturday, November 14, 2009

Joy

I'm not a poetry type guy, as my good friend Nitewrite can attest.  But I happen to come across this bit of poetry this morning and it seemed to express just how I feel most days:

Joy is everywhere;
it is in the earth's
green covering of grass:


in the blue
serenity of the sky:


in the reckless exuberance of spring:


in the severe abstinence of grey winter:


in the living flesh
that animates our bodily frame:


in the perfect poise
of the human figure,
noble and upright:


in living, in the exercise
of all our powers:



in the acquisition of knowledge




...Joy is there everywhere



Rabindranath Tagore

3 comments:

  1. Ron,

    He did write some beautiful poetry. Maybe you can see how this form can communicate deep with in.

    I want to give you something, my child,
    for we are drifting in the stream of the world.
    Our lives will be carried apart,
    and our love forgotten.
    But I am not so foolish as to hope that
    I could buy your heart with my gifts.

    Young is your life, your path long, and
    you drink the love we bring you at one draught
    and turn and run away from us.
    You have your play and your playmates.
    What harm is there if you have no time
    or thought for us.

    We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age
    to count the days that are past,
    to cherish in our hearts what our
    hands have lost for ever.
    The river runs swift with a song,
    breaking through all barriers.
    But the mountain stays and remembers,
    and follows her with his love.

    "The Gift" by Tagore

    I'm not so sure there is a leisure of old age. It seems that river runs swifter by now, but I do search and cling to those songs that break all barriers. My body may have turned to a ash heap of pains, but I poke at the smothered ambers and sometimes stoke a fire again. My mind is ever warmed by its glow, this strange simmering of words called poetry. Lar

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  2. "My body has turned to an ash heap of pains, butIpoke at the smothered ambers and sometimes stoke a fire again".....oh would it be so. "My mind is ever warmed by its glow, this strange simmering of wrods called poetry." Is this yours Lar? I like it.

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