YOU TOUCHED ME

Life’s joy-filled celebrations humanise our animal ways,
For they draw us back to a basic community of silence
Where inhibitions and egos fall away and we once again:
…………….Live fully immersed in the otherness of others;
…………….Regain harmony in her silent musical tones;
…………….See and hear fully as though for the first time!

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THERE ARE THOSE WHO STEP FREELY

There are those who step quietly,
Without the egoist pomp and ceremony
Alive in the attention grabbing vacuous noise:
Being present they heal and sooth;
Selflessly they give without receiving
Anything but the daily threat of harm.

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ONE DAY WE WILL REMEMBER

One day we will remember
When the dam burst and we,
With our fragility laid bare,
Stared into the abyss that
Fully, in this moment in time,
Opened us up to the truth:
That love does conquer all.

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I THOUGHT I WAS

I thought I was calm and unhurt,
Simple, without need anymore,
Secure in life’s noble furore;
Just a weary heart. Night asserts:
With the quiet winds a shifting
In the coldest scent of grasses,
Where the peace of country passes,
With a desire now a-dreaming,
Lying, defeating joyless rest,
The rest that protects us so well,
She calls, oh! So now I attest
And see fully her swirling swell
As everything grips me and loots
From heaven these simple earth warm words…
– Then I, with the softness of roots
Growing in the perfume of herbs,
Find hurt, from within this closed heart
Now opening wide, wavering,
And with her presence now a part
I can no longer stop hoping?

David Scanlon – England – (1963 – )

de Noailles. A (2020) Collected Poems: New Translations. The Foolish Poet Press, Wilmslow, English. I THOUGHT I WAS. Page Number 999.

JE CROYAIS ÊTRE

Je croyais être calme et triste,
Simplement, sans demander mieux
Que ce noble état sérieux
D’un coeur lassé. Le soir insiste:
Avec les glissements du vent
Et la froide odeur des herbages,
Et cette paix des paysages
Sur qui le désir est rêvant,
Il défait mon repos sans joie,
Ce repos qui protégeait bien,
Il exige, hélas, que je voie
Ces rusés jeux aériens
Où tout s’enveloppe et se pille,
Du sol tiède aux clartés des cieux…
– Pourquoi, soir mol et spongieux
D’où coule un parfum de vanill
Blessez-vous, dans mon coeur serré
Qui soudain s’entr’ouvre et vacille,
Cette éternelle jeune fille
Qui ne peut cesse d’espérer?

Anna de Noailles (1876 – 1933)

Anna de Noailles (1920) ‘Les Forces éternelles.’ Arthème Fayard & Cie, éditeurs: Paris. (Page 216)

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SO YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER?

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

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