Beyond the Beyond: Poems to my Beloved Self
We are built to want and to follow our wants to their end, sometimes to our satisfaction but also, many times, to our destruction. Little wonder then, that our effect on this planet through the accumulated wants of over six billion individual lives are providing a reflection not only of humanity as a whole but on the very nature of human wants and necessities.
Almost all of us have an intuition that we live at a break point in history; that those understandings we may have nurtured about the human condition will not survive the coming years; and that we are on the edge of some kind of proving ground. We intuit a threshold, a line beyond which we will reveal ourselves to ourselves, and there is an unspoken fear that we might not like what we find, but there is also a sense that we may be forced to unearth inner resources previously neglected. We find it hard to look in either direction, perhaps because we are justly afraid of discovering how individually selfish we may be.
But it is not just the sense of helplessness before the real possibility of runaway climate change, the rise of powerful but democratically unaccountable states such as China or Russia, the unbelievable Humpty Dumpty incompetence of a sitting, scientifically ignorant United States president, or the disappearance of old certainties.embroidrian.com/images/icloud-orten-mit-android.php
No, the sense of helplessness is far closer to home and has to do with the way we are vulnerable to being captured and then imprisoned by our own wants and further, by the technologies that manipulate those wants to grant us illusory narrow freedoms, while robbing us of a larger home in the world. We live in a time when many of the direct human sensibilities that developed over our long evolution have become snares and prisons through the omnipresence of these new technologies and the interests and forces that lie behind them. Firstly, we find that our eyes, which for millennia saved our lives by tracking swift-moving predators, make us vulnerable to every flickering screen; no matter the blandness of the images they contain.
Secondly, we see, in the ancient human need to be wanted, how helpless we are before the mobile phone or tablet, and that with our head down in the non-events on the screen, we forgo many of those chance public encounters that have transformed human destiny since the beginning of time. Thirdly, in the very old human wish to be confirmed in our beliefs, we find ourselves only at those on-line forums where those who agree with us naturally gather. Lastly, the need for a larger, mythological context has an enormous percentage of young men sinking their ambitions and hopes into virtual games which feed them endless false triumphs and a sense of almost otherworldly accomplishment that bears no relation to the world they actually inhabit.
Without discipline and artfulness, it is hard to break out of the increasingly narrow contexts that these technologies so conveniently provide. What is astonishing about our contemporary world is how few people are present to what is physically occurring around them. Distracted thumbs on phone keys are a brilliant, iconic image Shakespeare would use today, were he alive, to illustrate the desperate need to be busy and remain undisturbed by a larger horizon of human endeavor for which we might feel inadequate.
There is an unconscious sense that if we refuse to be present to the physical world around us, if we disappear into our screens, we will be held harmless from any of the greater physical patterns that might disturb and destroy the protected, often virtual worlds we have taken so much effort to construct around us. One of the many artful disciplines needed at this time is the art of poetry. Good poetry is speech fully in the physical body and fully in the body of the society into which it is spoken.
Poetry is the spoken edge between what I think is me and what I think is not me. Poetry takes us beyond ourselves and into ourselves at exactly the same time. It is the place where the distance between us and others, between us and the world, comes to be healed and made more beautiful by intimacy.
Poetry is the human imagination tempered by the details and necessities of the physical world we inhabit. It cannot exist without that relationship being cemented and made real.
The frontier between speech and physical reality is not a fixed possession but a constantly moving conversation between self and other. It makes real our speech, our relationships, our communities and our ability to live with others in the only home we have for the moment: When you see the two sides of it closing together at that far horizon and deep in the foundations of your own heart at exactly the same time,. Four talks currently available:. This special edition of the new poetry book is leather with gold leaf and a ribbon bookmark, quarter-bound, signed and numbered.
The sound of a bell still reverberating,. Asking you to wake into this life or inviting you deeper to one that waits. Either way takes courage, either way wants you to be nothing but that self that is no self at all, wants you to walk to the place where you find you already know how to give every last thing away. The approach that is also the meeting itself, without any meeting at all. Love Is a high mountain Stark in a windy sky. If you Would never lose your breath Do not climb too high. I love you for what you are, but I love you yet more for what you are going to be.
I love you not so much for your realities as for your ideals. I pray for your desires that they may be great, rather than for your satisfactions, which may be so hazardously little. A satisfied flower is one whose petals are about to fall. The most beautiful rose is one hardly more than a bud wherein the pangs and ecstasies of desire are working for a larger and finer growth.
You are going forward toward something great. I am on the way with you and therefore I love you. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. Do you remember still the falling stars that like swift horses through the heavens raced and suddenly leaped across the hurdles of our wishes—do you recall? And we did make so many! For there were countless numbers of stars: Speak earth and bless me with what is richest make sky flow honey out of my hips rigis mountains spread over a valley carved out by the mouth of rain.
And I knew when I entered her I was high wind in her forests hollow fingers whispering sound honey flowed from the split cup impaled on a lance of tongues on the tips of her breasts on her navel and my breath howling into her entrances through lungs of pain. Greedy as herring-gulls or a child I swing out over the earth over and over again.
I am ready to forsake this worldly life and surrender to the magnificence of your Being. My desire is always the same; wherever Life deposits me: I want to grow something. It seems impossible that desire can sometimes transform into devotion; but this has happened.
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I think I made you up inside my head. The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. This was the first ever poem I posted on instagram. I captioned it "I am no longer allowing my poems to collect dust" and I was so, so terrified to post.
I get tagged in reposts. People thank me for sharing my work. One step has led to another and I'm pursuing poetry full time! I say this to show y'all that success is always on the other side of fear. Make the first move, and keep going. I've progressed a lot as a writer, and seeing my growth is one of the most fulfilling feelings ever. I'm moving in the direction I set. There's so much power in that.
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A post shared by Aman K. Batra amankbatra on May 3, at 2: When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower.
But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me. Edit of an older poem. Bluebird Typewriter Poetry 7 poetry seanbates typewriter writersofinstagram.
You and I Have so much love, That it Burns like a fire, In which we bake a lump of clay Molded into a figure of you And a figure of me. Then we take both of them, And break them into pieces, And mix the pieces with water, And mold again a figure of you, And a figure of me. I am in your clay. You are in my clay.
In life we share a single quilt. In death we will share one bed.
58 Beautiful Love Poems to Read Right Now
O never give the heart outright, For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost. How little I thought, a year ago, In the horrible cottage upon the Lee That he and I should be sitting so And sipping a cup of camomile tea.
Light as feathers the witches fly, The horn of the moon is plain to see; By a firefly under a jonquil flower A goblin toasts a bumble-bee. We might be fifty, we might be five, So snug, so compact, so wise are we! Under the kitchen-table leg My knee is pressing against his knee. Our shutters are shut, the fire is low, The tap is dripping peacefully; The saucepan shadows on the wall Are black and round and plain to see.
What are your favorite love poems? Want even more love like lots of it? View this post on Instagram. I think I was searching for treasures or stones in the clearest of pools when your face… when your face, like the moon in a well where I might wish… might well wish for the iced fire of your kiss; only on water my lips, where your face… where your face was reflected, lovely, not really there when I turned to look behind at the emptying air… the emptying air.
Because the ravine is lowly, it receives an abundance. This sounds wonderful to everyone who suffers from lacking, but consider, too, that a ravine keeps nothing out: Analyze the risks of becoming a ravine.