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. 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. 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.
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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. Strive to be happy.
25 Poems About Life And Resilience, When Life Is Just Too Hard
Davies This short poem could not be more pertinent to the world of today if it tried. Make space in your life for this simplest act of leisure. You may ask yourself what the point of life is if all you do is repeat what others have done before you. This poem serves to remind us that the world never tires of creation and that you are a creator. It talks of great acts and great deeds, but also of love and romance and laughter and loyalty — things that every man or woman is capable of. Fleming Stepping away from the famous and classic works, we find this gem of a poem by an amateur writer just goes to show that anyone can create pieces of great meaning.
Much like those more well-known poems above, it talks us through how we ought to try to live our lives. To learn while still a child What this life is meant to be. To overcome the tragedies, To survive the hardest times. To face those moments filled with pain, And still manage to be kind. With those who wander in the dark, To love with all my might.
To still stand up with courage, Though standing on my own. To still get up and face each day, Even when I feel alone. To try to understand the ones That no one cares to know.
And make them feel some value When the world has let them go. To be an anchor, strong and true, That person loyal to the end. To be a constant source of hope To my family and my friends. As research science would be derived, if the energies we now begin to know reduced us to a few people, rubbing into life a little fire. The images of personal love and freedom, controlled as water is controlled, as the flight of planes is controlled.
The images of relationship, in which the ancestor carried out of Jerusalem and the unborn son may meet; the music of the images of relationship. Experiences taken into the body, breathed-in, so that reality is the completion of experience, and poetry is what is produced. And life is what is produced. To stand against the idea of the fallen world, a powerful and destructive idea overshadowing Western poetry.
In that sense, there is no lost Eden, and God is the future. The child walled-up in our life can be given his growth. In this growth is our security. Belief has its structures, and its symbols change. All the relationships within these forms are inter-dependent. We look at the symbols, we hope to read them, we hope for sharing and communication. Sometimes it is there at once, we find it before the words arrive, as in the gesture of John Brown, or the communication of a great actor-dancer, whose gesture and attitude will tell us before his speech adds meaning from another source.
Sometimes it rises in us sleeping, evoked by the images of dream, recognized in the blood. The buried voices carry a ground music; they have indeed lived the life of our people. In times of perversity and stress and sundering, it may be a life inverted, the poet who leaps from the ship into the sea; on the level of open belief, it will be the life of the tribe. In subjugated peoples, the poet emerges as prophet. The meanings of poetry take their growth through the interaction of the images and the music of the poem.
The music is not the rhythm, which is a representation of life, alone. The music involves the interplay of the sounds of words, the length of the sequences, the keeping and breaking of rhythms, and the repetition and variation of syllables unrhymed and rhymed.
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It also involves the play of ideas and images. The statement of ideas in a poem may have to do with logic. More profoundly, it may be identified with the emotional progression of the poem, in terms of the music and images, so that the poem is alive throughout. Another, more fundamental statement in poetry, is made through the images themselves -- those declarations, evocative, exact, and musical, which move through time and are the actions of a poem.
The poetic image is not a static thing. It lives in time, as does the poem. Unless it is the first image of the poem, it has already been prepared for by other images; and it prepares us for further images and rhythms to come. Even if it is the first image of the poem, the establishment of the rhythm prepares us -- musically -- for the music of the image.
And if its first word begins the poem, it has the role of putting into motion all the course of images and music of the entire work, with nothing to refer to, except perhaps a title. There are ways in which poetry reaches the people who, for one reason or another, are walled off from it. Arriving in diluted forms, serving to point up an episode, to give to a climax an intensity that will carry it without adding heaviness, to travel toward the meaning of a work of graphic art, nevertheless poetry does arrive. And in the socially accepted forms, we may see the response and the fear, expressed without reserve, since they are expressed during enjoyment which has all the sanctions of society.
Close to song, poetry reaches us in the music we admit: The continuity of film, in which the writer deals with a track of images moving at a given rate of speed, and a separate sound-track which is joined arbitrarily to the image-track, is closer to the continuity of poetry than anything else in art.
But the heaviness of the collective work on a commercial film, the repressive codes and sanctions, unspoken and spoken, the company-town feeling raised to its highest, richest, most obsessive-compulsive level in Hollywood, puts the process at the end of any creative spectrum farthest from the making of a poem. At the same time, almost anything that can be said to make the difficulties of poetry dissolve for the reader, or even to make the reader want to deal with those "difficulties," can be said in terms of film.
These images are like the action sequences of a well-made movie -- a good thriller will use the excitement of timing, of action let in from several approaches, of crisis prepared for emotionally and intellectually, so that you can look back and recognize the way of its arrival; or, better, feel it coming until the moment of proof arrives, meeting your memory and your recognition.
The cutting of films is a parable in the motion of any art that lives in time, as well as a parable in the ethics of communication. The creation of a poem, or mathematical creation, involves so much sense of arrival, so much selection, so much of the desire that makes choice -- even though one or more of these may operate in the unconscious or partly conscious work-periods before the actual work is achieved -- that the questions raised are very pertinent. The poet chooses and selects and has that sense of arrival as the poem ends; he is expressing what it feels like to arrive at his meanings.
If he has expressed that well, his reader will arrive at his meanings. The degree of appropriateness of expression depends on the preparing. By preparing I mean allowing the reader to feel the interdependences, the relations, within the poem. These inter-dependences may be proved, if you will allow the term, in one or more ways: A poem is an imaginary work, living in time, indicatd in language.
It is and it expresses; it allows us to express. In this moment when we face horizons and conflicts wider than ever before, we want our resources, the ways of strength. We look again to the human wish, its faiths, the means by which the imagination leads us to surpass ourselves. If there is a feeling that something has been lost, it may be because much has not yet been used, much is still to be found and begun.
Everywhere we are told that our human resources are all to be used , that our civilization itself means the uses of everything it has the inventions, the histories, every scrap of fact. And that is poetry. It seems to me that we cut ourselves off that we impoverish ourselves, just here. I think that we are ruling out one source of power, one that is precisely what we need. Now, when it is hard to hold for a moment the giant clusters of event and meaning that every day appear, it is time to remember this other kind of knowledge and love, which has forever been a way of reaching complexes of emotion and relationship, the attitude that: What help is there here!
Poetry is, above all, an approach to the truth of feeling, and what is the use of truth! How do we use feeling?
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How do we use truth! However confused the scene of our life appears, however torn we may be who now do face that scene, it can be faced, and we can go on to be whole. If we use the resources we now have, we and the world itself may move in one fullness. Moment to moment, we can grow, if we can bring ourselves to meet the moment with our lives. In a time of suffering, long war, and the opening of the horizon, there is no resource which we can afford to overlook or to misunderstand.
Coming to this moment, at which the great religious ideas become in a new way available to everyone, one enters a climate of possibility. And in that air, ill time of struggle, and in time of the idea of the world, all people think about love. Then they turn to their own ways of sharing. In speaking about poetry, I must say at the beginning that the subject has no acknowledged place in American life today.
No matter how deeply one is concerned with poetry, the feeling against it is likely to be an earlier one to most of us. In approaching the subject, it may have more realities to us if we look first, not at poetry itself, but at the resistances to poetry. Each of us will recognize this resistance in his own life. The barriers that have been set up are strong; this is nothing that enters our lives, in social life as it is now organized. Certain of our resources are good indexes to all the rest. There are relationships which include so much that we can bring to them our own wishes and hostilities, our value judgments and our moralities; they will serve to illuminate all our other relationships.
Among them are such key targets for our attitudes as conflict in the individual, the atom bomb, the Negroes, the Reds, the Jews, the "place" of science, the "place" of labor, the "place" of women, and poetry. These points are crucial; our age and our nature find that questions are asked of them. Now poetry, at this moment, stands in curious relationship to our acceptance of life and our way of living. The resistance to poetry is all active force in American life during these wars. Poetry is not; or seems not to be.
But it appears that among the great conflicts of this culture, the conflict in our attitude toward poetry stands clearly lit. There are no guards built up to hide it. We call see its expression, and we can see its effects upon us. We can see our own conflict and our own resource if we look, now, at this art, which has been made of all the arts the one least acceptable. Anyone dealing with poetry and the love of poetry must deal, then, with the hatred of poetry, and perhaps even Ignore with the indifference which is driven toward the center.
It comes through as boredom, as name-calling, as the traditional attitude ofthe last hundred years which has chalked in the portrait ofthe poet as he is known to this society, which, as Herbert Read says, "does not challenge poetry in principle it merely treats it with ignorance, indifference and unconscious cruelty. Do you remember the poems of your early childhood the far rhymes and games of the begining to which you called the rhythms, the little songs to which you woke and went to sleep?
But since childhood, to many of us poetry has become a matter of distaste. The speaking of poetry is one thing: Melville said to her mother "Herman has taken to writing poetry.
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You need not tell anyone, for you know how such things get around. If you ask your friends about it, you will find that there are a few answers, repeated by everyone. One is that the friend has not the time for poetry. This is a curious choice, since poetry, of all the arts that live in time music, theater, film, writing is the briefest, the most compact.
Certain of our resources are good indexes to all the rest. There are relationships which include so much that we can bring to them our own wishes and hostilities, our value judgments and our moralities; they will serve to illuminate all our other relationships. Among them are such key targets for our attitudes as conflict in the individual, the atom bomb, the Negroes, the Reds, the Jews, the "place" of science, the "place" of labor, the "place" of women, and poetry.
These points are crucial; our age and our nature find that questions are asked of them. Now poetry, at this moment, stands in curious relationship to our acceptance of life and our way of living. The resistance to poetry is an active force in American life during these wars. Poetry is not; or seems not to be. But it appears that among the great conflicts of this culture, the conflict in our attitude toward poetry stands clearly lit. There are no guards built up to hide it. We can see its expression, and we can see its effects upon us.
We can see our own conflict and our own resource if we look, now, at this art, which has been made—of all the arts— the one least acceptable. Anyone dealing with poetry and the love of poetry must deal, then, with the hatred of poetry, and perhaps even more with the indifference which is driven toward the center. It comes through as boredom, as name-calling, as the traditional attitude of the last hundred years which has chalked in the portrait of the poet as he is known to this society, which, as Herbert Read says, "does not challenge poetry in principle—it merely treats it with ignorance, indifference and unconscious cruelty.
Do you remember the poems of your early childhood—the far rhymes and games of the beginning to which you called the rhythms, the little songs to which you woke and went to sleep? But since childhood, to many of us poetry has become a matter of distaste. The speaking of poetry is one thing: Melville said to her mother—"Herman has taken to writing poetry. You need not tell anyone, for you know how such things get around. If you ask your friends about it, you will find that there are a few answers, repeated by everyone. One is that the friend has not the time for poetry.
This is a curious choice, since poetry, of all the arts that live in time—music, theater, film, writing—is the briefest, the most compact. Or your friends may speak of their boredom with poetry. If you hear this, ask further. You will find that "boredom" is a masking answer, concealing different meanings. One person will confess that he has been frightened off forever by the dry dissection of lines in school, and that now he thinks with disappointment of a poem as simply a set of constructions.
He expects much more. One will confess that, try as he will, he cannot understand poetry, and more particularly, modern writing. It is intellectual, confused, unmusical. One will say it is willfully obscure. One that it is inapplicable to the situation in which he finds himself. And almost any man will say that it is effeminate: In all of these answers, we meet a slipping-away which is the clue to the responses, and which is strong enough to be called more than direct resistance.
I have found in working with people and with poems, that this fear presents the symptoms of a psychic problem. A poem does invite, it does require. What does it invite? A poem invites you to feel. And better than that: This response is total, but it is reached through the emotions. A fine poem will seize your imagination intellectually—that is, when you reach it, you will reach it intellectually too—but the way is through emotion, through what we call feeling.
The angry things that have been said about our poetry have also been said about our time. They are both "confused," "chaotic," "violent," "obscure. There is a clue here, and it is more than a reflection. It is not that an art "reflects," as the schoolbooks say, an age.
The Life of Poetry, Chapter 1
But in the relationship may be a possible answer, a possible direction. One way to look at scientific material, or the data of human life, is fact by fact, deriving the connections. Another way, more fruitful I believe, is to look at the relationship themselves, learning the facts as they feed or destroy each other. When we see that, we will see whether they tend toward an equilibrium, or strain spent on war away, or be poised at the rare moment of balance. Or of Karen Horney in psychoanalysis, here: And I think of a scene at the Rockefeller Institute I saw: A research doctor had come up from Johns Hopkins to talk to a biophysicist working in ways resembling his own.
And in the basement labs, with its tubes, it beakers, its electrophoresis setup, he told how the work he was doing in cancer had changed in its nature, in its meaning. His colleagues and himself were no longer looking at cancer as a fact, an isolated fact. They were taking another approach: One could not exist in this state without the other in that state. It was the relationship which was the illness. And he felt that these terms led to the right questions. When we talk about relationships in art, we can see at once how all kinds of activity have taken this direction.
The work of Freud and Picasso and Einstein are familiar to us as the masterwork in relative values, in the search for individual maturity, in visual imagination, in physical science; Joyce we recognize as working in the relationships of language, Marx in social relationship from which the fact could be derived—and these are the key names alone, in a few fields. In our own time, we have become used to an idea of history in which process and relationship are stressed.
The science of ecology is only one example of an elaboration of the idea, so that the life of land may be seen in terms of its tides of growth, the feeding of one group on another, the equilibrium reached, broken, and the drive toward another balance and renewal. We think of the weather now as a dance of airs, predictable in relationship, with its parades of clouds, the appetites of pressure areas, and aftermath of foreseen storms. But in the areas dealing with emotion and belief, there is hesitation.
The terms have not been invented; and although that does not impede expressive writing—a poem, a novel, or a play act emotions out in terms of words, they do not describe—the lack does impede analytical work. We have no terms, for example, for "emotional meaning" or "emotional information. For the question is asked in a thousand ways each day: Is there a place for poetry? What is the place? In our schools, we are told that our education is pragmatic, that the body of knowledge is divided into various "subjects," that all of these subjects on which we pour our youth are valuable and useful to us in later life.
We are told that our civilization depends on further and new uses for everything it has, the development and exploitation of these.
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We may go ahead and specialize in any of these usable fields. There is one kind of knowledge that will be given to us all through school and high school, which we are told is precious, it defies time, it strikes deep into memory, it must go on being taught.
No matter what cities fall, what languages are mis-heard and "corrupted" and reborn. This is here, to be passed on. But not to be used. Among all this pragmatic training, never to come into the real and active life. I remember a psychologist with whom I talked in New Haven. That is a good town to produce an image of the split life: On the New Haven Green, itself a hub of tradition, there is a church which is old, respected, well-proportioned and serene.