Quotation from Jeanette Winterson
Thanks to brainpickings for showing me Jeanette’s great response to being asked to write for young people on big topics.
http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/12/07/best-childrens-books-2012/
Poem by Anais Nin. Illustration from historical text.
Lots of things are whizzing around my brain at the moment, all trying to interconnect and make some fabulous pattern, as you might see on a snowflake up close and personal, but instead it feels more like one of those bumper ride cars at the fair, where the idea is to miss rather than to collide, but everyone bumps each other and much mayhem proceeds. So where to start the unravelling tonight?
Microbes. Microbes make up so much of us, that without them we just wouldn’t be. For every human cell , there are about ten times as many microbial cells, mainly bacteria. Spooky. This was revealed to me on a brilliant radio programme
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01rvpkb
Within the programme there were fascinating details about the parallel worlds of colonies of bacteria, fungi,eukaryotes, viruses etc that make up the human microbiome. Our human cells and the microbial cells are symbiotic, they rely on each other to exist. We are playing host to their worlds, in a similar way that the Earth is playing host to us. It is thus scientifically expressed how interdependent the living organism of the universe is. We are beginning to shed yet more light on explaining the connections that tie us to the air, to the earth, to the fabric of existence.
Since man started to use language , we have tried to explain life, it’s abundance, it’s range, it’s mechanisms. We have used our senses to feel the interconnectedness, and our intellectual capacities to express it through art, music , language, dance. The sense of ‘individual self’ has been questioned by religions, philosophies and poets since the dawn of language; now science is illuminating how erroneous a rigid sense of individual ‘self’ is. O f course we live our individual lives within a sense of a body separate to other physical entities, but separate is different from being in isolation from. John Donne’s poem ‘ No man is an island’ comes to mind, as does the Buddhist understanding that we are all One.
Perhaps this exciting development in studying the human microbiome will lead us to develop further understanding into our place in the universe, no longer the pinnacle of evolution, master of all we survey. Perhaps we can start acting more like guests at the party, remembering our manners.
Walt Whitman says it here, in the spirit of others before and after him.
Flee from the press, and dwell in truthfulness,
Let your fortunes suffice, though they be small;
For hoarding breeds hate, and status ambiguousness.
The mob’s filled with envy and blinded by wealth overall.
Desire only things which meet needs most crucial.
Control yourself well, if you’d be others’ gauge;
And the Truth shall you deliver, of that be not afraid.
Haste not to redress all crookedness
Placing trust in her who turns like a ball.
Great good comes from spurning busy-ness;
Beware then, not to kick against an awl;
Don’t strive like a crock against a wall.
To subdue others’ deeds, you must yourself first tame,
And the Truth shall you deliver, of that be not afraid.
That which you’re sent, receive in humbleness;
Wrestling after this World is just begging for a fall.
This is no Home. It’s naught but Wilderness.
Forth, Pilgrim, forth! Forth, beast, out of your stall!
Know your true country! Look up! Thank God for all!
Let your spirit lead, and hold to the High Way,
And the Truth shall you deliver, of that be not afraid.
Modern version of Chaucer’s ‘Truth’
Truth
Fle fro the pres, and dwelle with sothefastnesse,
Suffise thin owen thing, thei it be smal;
For hord hath hate, and clymbyng tykelnesse,
Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal.
Savour no more thanne the byhove schal;
Reule weel thiself, that other folk canst reede;
And trouthe schal delyvere, it is no drede.
Tempest the nought al croked to redresse,
In trust of hire that tourneth as a bal.
Myche wele stant in litel besynesse;
Bywar therfore to spurne ayeyns an al;
Stryve not as doth the crokke with the wal.
Daunte thiself, that dauntest otheres dede;
And trouthe shal delyvere, it is no drede.
That the is sent, receyve in buxumnesse;
The wrestlyng for the worlde axeth a fal.
Here is non home, here nys but wyldernesse.
Forth, pylgryme, forth! forth, beste, out of thi stal!
Know thi contré! loke up! thonk God of al!
Hold the heye weye, and lat thi gost the lede;
And trouthe shal delyvere, it is no drede.
[L'envoy.]
Therfore, thou Vache, leve thine olde wrechednesse;
Unto the world leve now to be thral.
Crie hym mercy, that of hys hie godnesse
Made the of nought, and in espec{.i}al
Draw unto hym, and pray in general
For the, and eke for other, hevenelyche mede;
And trouthe schal delyvere, it is no drede.
Philipp Sutton RA
Be Drunk
You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it–it’s the
only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks
your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually
drunk.
But on what?Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be
drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of
a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again,
drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave,
the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything
that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is
singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and
wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you:”It is time to be
drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be
continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”
Charles Baudelaire
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
From John Keats ‘Ode to a Nightingale’
How real is this young woman? I immediately liked her, as she communicated with me across centuries and space. The original painting that I have based this portrait on was by Bernadino Luini in about 1520. She has classic features and would not look out of place in a modern setting. I like her repose. I want to tell the world to have more reflection in their lives, less bustle, more breathe time. Let her tell that story
~Wooded walk
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books
that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be
able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it,
live along some distant day into the answer.”
This is an excerpt from the enormously popular poet Rainer Maria Wilke, from ‘Letters to a young poet’, published after his death. He wrote a correspondence to a young man in the Austro Hungrian army between 1902 and 1908; Franz Kappus was a young man struggling with his own poetry and turned to Rilke for advice. He certainly got it. He advised Franz to look inward and not rely on the capriciousness of the market place. Rilke didn’t critique the young man’s poetry, but instead wrote with greater impact, about soul and shared profound insights about creativity, soul, reflection, relationships, sexuality, love, and life. The letters were published by Franz after Rilkes death, and have been admired as literary masterpieces. They can be read here in translation.;
http://www.carrothers.com/rilke2.htm
Like Rumi, Rilke is a mystical wordsmith, and his words have gone on to inspire and solace in equal measure. In the words of an English poet, Lord Byron,
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.
Lord Byron, Don Juan (written between 1818 to 1824), Canto III, Stanza 88.
Original map of Kneesall 1635 with illustration of butterfly by alexander marsal 1600′s
Breathe, breathe in the air
Don’t be afraid to care
Leave but don’t leave me
Look around and chose your own ground
For long you live and high you fly
And smiles you’ll give and tears you’ll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be
From Pink Floyd ‘ Breathe’
Alexander Marshalls watercolours 17th century
I have just finished another miniature book, and one that has given me immense pleasure researching and adapting into a further sample for my collection of collectables.
It is based on the engaging watercolour illustrations that Alexander Marshal created over thirty years during the 1600′s. I am always drawn to the endeavours of creative people from the past, connecting me to a shared experience , a common humanity. This was a man of private means, and fortunate enough to occupy himself fully in his chosen preoccupation. Fortunate for him and for us, since the consequent 159 plates were eventually passed from his descendants to the Royal Collection, and rightly so. A modest man, he refused to sell them to anyone during his lifetime, preferring to share them only with friends. That highlights for me how the passion he held was for the joy it gave him, and for no other reason, like making a living. He didn’t produce these exquisite drawings to catalogue , some he barely referred to , he just wanted to see the treasures of nature and record them in his own masterly way. A keen gardener he collected new species of horticulture and was instrumental in helping to import some from the newly discovered Americas and supplying them to the great gardens across Britain.
I like gardeners in general, they seem to me to have the virtues of patience and consideration, often combined with a poetic sensibility. One of my favourite poets was a gardener, Stanley Kunitz. I think he would have approved on Marshals lifetime endeavour. In tribute to both Marshal and Kunitz , here is one of his poems about an insect!
If I can gather strength enough
I’ll try to burrow under a stone
and spin myself a purse
in which to sleep away the cold;
though when the sun kisses the earth
again, I know I won’t be there.
Instead, out of my chrysalis
will break, like robbers from a tomb,
a swarm of parasitic flies,
leaving my wasted husk behind.
Sir, you with the red snippers
in your hand, hovering over me,
casting your shadow, I greet you,
whether you come as an angel of death
or of mercy. But tell me,
before you choose to slice me in two:
Who can understand the ways
of the Great Worm in the Sky?
If you are curious to see the resultant book that I have compiled, then you can see it from my Etsy page. You can even buy it.
Landscape holds dominion here;
rock and light; half-light,
cloud and shadow. Moving,
sweeping , ever-changing,
ever time-less.
I came here broken;
heart grieving life losses
(disconsolate, bereft).
Time locked down, moved on
Had gone elsewhere. Here
I was still; silenced, petrified.
Rock, stone, light became as
near to enchantment as life.
The breath of the wind, and
flight of the mist kissed me,
mired in sadness, mourning for
what is not; fantasies
of a mortal mind.
All that has gone before;
here, remains. In heart of stone,
in the spirit of trees; blazoned
over sides of mountains,
gushing and rushing in waterfalls
fierce as thunder.
I am rock, and stone; grass ,water,
sand and mist. Timeless, changed.
Here, and here, alone.
All creative endeavour here is by me, please do not copy or use it without prior consent. Of course I mean the photos and the poem, not the landscape itself which is its own creation and spectacularly amazing.
And if Dr Quack is reading the photo below is for you; it proves the existence of giant mallards before they were all petrified – literally. this one is just keeping its head above water.
