Or so it seems
Unaware that everything is connected
By the space in between
black and white glacier Ice Iceland Jökulsárlón landscape landscape photography photography poetry scenery
I hope your intuition will realize soon. You MUST make a book 🙂
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If a book wants to come through, I think it will. Usually those things are to be trusted, they just have their own peculiar time-waves I’m doing my best to surf…
I like your insisting way a lot! 🙂
Wonderful Hanne! The title was a trigger for a memory of this poem by Yeats:
“The Circus Animals’ Desertion”
by William Butler Yeats
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
What can I but enumerate old themes,
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride.
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
‘The Countess Cathleen’ was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
Players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.
Cyan, thank you much for sharing this poem by Yeats. What a read! He really gets it out there, doesn’t he just!
Heart-mystery, such a great word, it is just that, isn’t it, a mystery?!
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