Monthly Archives: April 2012

Desiderata: a poem for all times

Desiderata: a poem for all times

Desiderata was written about 80 years ago by Max Ehrmann.
Desiderata: Latin for “Things to be Desired.”

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

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Poem by Natalia Gorbanevskaya

 

 

Natalia Gorbanevskaya

 

Here, as in a painting, yellow noon burns,

like grief, the air itself is incorporeal,

and in the utter silence, a winged army,

the crows in Crow Park hover.

But the mouldering leaves of years past

cling to my elbows, to the palms

of my hands that reek of cigarettes,

and the bare shrubbery claws my tangled curls.

I have wandered so far from home,

like a plane from its aerodrome,

which in dense fog strays into the dark…

Am I living, dead,  leaves  or grass?

1966

Moments Of Vision by Thomas Hardy

 

Moments Of Vision

That mirror
Which makes of men a transparency,
Who holds that mirror
And bids us such a breast-bare spectacle see
Of you and me?

That mirror
Whose magic penetrates like a dart,
Who lifts that mirror
And throws our mind back on us, and our heart,
until we start?

That mirror
Works well in these night hours of ache;
Why in that mirror
Are tincts we never see ourselves once take
When the world is awake?

That mirror
Can test each mortal when unaware;
Yea, that strange mirror
May catch his last thoughts, whole life foul or fair,
Glassing it — where?

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

Two poems by Ernő Szép

 

Raindrop

It began to rain, for the rain I lay in wait
Beneath my eye sprung a tiny drop of rain

Hardly could I feel vexed at such a tiny drop
Indeed I offer thanks to this tiny drop of rain

It rolled down my face, and then closed my eyes
Oh my dear lord for so long I have not cried

 

No Other Joy is Mine

No other joy is mine
Than the clouds in the sky,
No other fortune mine
Than the clouds in the sky,
No other dispatch mine
Than the clouds in the sky,
No other sowing mine
Than the clouds in the sky,
No other theatre mine
Than the clouds in the sky,
No other serenity mine
Than the clouds in the sky,
No other resolve mine
Than the clouds in the sky,
No other redress mine
Than the clouds in the sky,
No other truth is mine
Than the clouds in the sky,
No other solace mine
Than the clouds in the sky,
No other hope is mine,
Than the clouds in the sky.

Eckhart Tolle on our current state of the arts and culture in general

 

 

Because we live in such a mind-dominated culture, most modern art, architecture, music, and literature are devoid of beauty, of inner essence, with very few exceptions. The reason is that the people who create those things cannot — even for a moment – free themselves from their mind. So they are never in touch with that place within where true creativity and beauty arise. The mind left to itself creates monstrosities, and not only in art galleries. Look at our urban landscapes and industrial wastelands. No civilization has ever produced so much ugliness.