This week I have been going back again and again to these two poems. The first one, To My Diary (on a dull day), is by Scottish poet William Soutar, who is considered one of the finest Scot poets ever. This poem is from his collection of poems recorded in his journal, The Diary of a Dying Man, which was published after his death. Here's the poem:
‘TO MY DIARY (on a dull day)
Since verse has power to give a grace
Even to the commonplace
I shall, within a rhyme, declare
The cupboard of my mind is bare
Not only of an underdone
Cutlet of thought; the very bone
Of prosy platitude is gone.
And since for you, my hungry hound,
No meaty morsel can be found;
And since I would not have you own
A master who could proffer none,
I bleed myself to be your drink:
Is not the blood of poets - ink?’
-- William Soutar (The Diary of a Dying Man)
The second one is one I found on Facebook. It is by Oriah. It just caught hold of me and drew me in, and before I knew it, I was drowned and mesmerized.
Usually, I am not very easily drawn into a poem. I am very careful, and I keep stepping around the edges and resist the emotions that the poem is trying to lure me into, all because I want my own feelings to be the first ones that I experience, and then in the second reading, I am ready to dive in with what was intended.
Sounds contrived? What can say? Writers are the most discerning readers :)
Here is the most fluid poetry I have read in a long, long time:
‘TO MY DIARY (on a dull day)
Since verse has power to give a grace
Even to the commonplace
I shall, within a rhyme, declare
The cupboard of my mind is bare
Not only of an underdone
Cutlet of thought; the very bone
Of prosy platitude is gone.
And since for you, my hungry hound,
No meaty morsel can be found;
And since I would not have you own
A master who could proffer none,
I bleed myself to be your drink:
Is not the blood of poets - ink?’
-- William Soutar (The Diary of a Dying Man)
The second one is one I found on Facebook. It is by Oriah. It just caught hold of me and drew me in, and before I knew it, I was drowned and mesmerized.
Usually, I am not very easily drawn into a poem. I am very careful, and I keep stepping around the edges and resist the emotions that the poem is trying to lure me into, all because I want my own feelings to be the first ones that I experience, and then in the second reading, I am ready to dive in with what was intended.
Sounds contrived? What can say? Writers are the most discerning readers :)
Here is the most fluid poetry I have read in a long, long time:
'The Invitation
It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.
It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.'
-- Oriah © Mountain Dreaming (from the book The Invitation)
Images from the internet. No copyright infringement intended.
