A good poem I think!

I think you'll enjoy this poem by Brazilian, Mario de Andrade (Sao Paulo 1893-1945), poet, novelist, essayist and musicologist.

I’m not sure if de Andrade wrote the original in English or if in Portuguese, who translated it.

And I certainly know that I have many more years behind me than are ahead!! So I can relate to this poem. Not quite sure about the title though.  

                                                            …///…

MY SOUL HAS A HAT

I counted my years
& realized that I have
Less time to live by,
Than I have lived so far.

I feel like a child who won a pack of candies: at first he ate them with pleasure
But when he realized that there was little left, he began to taste them intensely.

I have no time for endless meetings
where the statutes, rules, procedures & internal regulations are discussed,
knowing that nothing will be done.

I no longer have the patience
To stand absurd people who,
despite their chronological age,
have not grown up.

My time is too short:
I want the essence,
my spirit is in a hurry.
I do not have much candy
In the package anymore.

I want to live next to humans,
very realistic people who know
How to laugh at their mistakes,
Who are not inflated by their own triumphs
& who take responsibility for their actions.
In this way, human dignity is defended
and we live in truth and honesty.

It is the essentials that make life useful.
I want to surround myself with people
who know how to touch the hearts of those whom hard strokes of life
have learned to grow with sweet touches of the soul.

Yes, I'm in a hurry.
I'm in a hurry to live with the intensity that only maturity can give.
I do not intend to waste any of the remaining desserts.

I am sure they will be exquisite,
much more than those eaten so far.
My goal is to reach the end satisfied
and at peace with my loved ones and my conscience.

We have two lives
& the second begins when you realize you only have one.

                                                                        Mario de Andrade

Life

It is strange how the human condition is perceived and recorded. Not necessarily the dry APA (American Psychiatric Association) style required for “research papers” presented by neuroscientists or psychiatrists in their appropriate “Journals” but the more human kind - nearer the “heart” of humanity. The best of these are good novelists and especially, in my estimation, poets.

The human conditions or emotions most recorded in poetry, song and novels are, I believe, love, birth, life and death – those important milestones in anyone’s life.

As I have stated many times before, poetry affects me in more ways than I can possibly say. Poetry seems to touch some hidden part of my soul. There have always been poets – often, in olden times, troubadours bringing news and songs to far flung villages. And it was discovered very early on that the best way to remember long stories was to render them into verse. The rhyme and rhythm was easier to recall.

The rhythm is often associated with the beating of the human heart and a good reciter of poetry seems to capture that as he or she reads from the volume or recites from memory. This resonates with the listener.

I can only read in English so everything I read is either originally written in that language or translated. Whether it is the flexibility and the vast vocabulary of that language I’m not sure but there is a massive treasure trove of English poetry.  

I usually include a verse or two from a poem that has made an impression on me but now I attach below, the whole of what I think is my favourite poem written by a man I greatly admire and who suffered greatly – the American, Henry Longfellow. He married twice but both wives died – the first after a miscarriage in 1831 and his beloved second wife died an awful death, burned in a tragic accident in their home in 1861, a death from which he never really recovered. He died in Cambridge, Massachusetts, at the age of 75 in 1882. A great poet and a great man.

The Day is Done

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

                        Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Pilgrim Soul.

Pilgrim Soul – those words seem to have a special meaning for me. And I am not sure why. Possibly because the memory of my wife and best friend Magucha, who died three years ago is ever present. As far as I’m concerned she most certainly had a soul! And I like to think her soul is out there somewhere, helping and nurturing – always busy. Just like when she was “alive”.

I suppose it is also the fact that no one knows what “Life” is, why “Life” exists or where it was first evidenced. Furthermore the question remains to be answered - what is that essence, that vivifying force we call “Life” that is present when a living organism is “alive” but is absent or withdrawn when something that was “alive” is now “dead”? 

Science has no answer. This is the ultimate question that I think all philosophers seek to answer and is the basis (so I understand) of all what are termed “scriptures”, and is the basis (again, so I understand) of all religions. 

The mental image of a soul – that Life essence (however it is named) searching for a home – somewhere to express itself, it’s Life, resonates with me. Where was it’s original home? Where did it come from? It is certainly present in “seeds”; seeds from all biological organisms. These geminate and grow. The Earth we inhabit and share with millions of different life forms is testament to their variety and their beauty. 

But why? And will we ever know? Maybe Shakespeare was correct when he has Hamlet saying, 

“The undiscovered country from whose bourn

            No traveller returns, puzzles the will.”

I believe that there a continuum – there is “Life” and there is “Death” – that one leads on to the other. Just the way it is. Not to be feared. Rather this chain of events, this grand progression, is to be welcomed (so I like to imagine it) as a manifestation of something wonderful, of a grandeur that is always just beyond my reach and comprehension. 

It is, after all where we will all end up! But I would really like to know.

So will my "pilgrim soul" keep on it's journey, meeting other wayfarers and dear companions on the way? Until .....?

It is still there.

I suppose it will still be there until I too die – one day! My grief that is. I know I have written about this before but we will all, all, at some stage of our life experience the searing knife cut of the parting, of the death of someone close, be it child, partner, sibling or parent. It is just part of life. If there is a beginning there needs also to be an ending. 

But this physical ending of someone close – as anyone who has experienced it will testify, lasts and lasts, and lasts. Of a certainty no one will experience my grief, just as I cannot experience theirs. It’s so personal. 

My way of coping with grief varies from day to day, even hour to hour. Sometimes I go for a longish bicycle ride; sometimes I read, either a book or poetry; other times I write; sometimes I listen to music – I like both classical and country and western. I do, however, with one or two exceptions, find it difficult to talk to others about my grief. They might not understand my way of expressing my grief, and I don’t want to belabor or otherwise impose on their emotions with my, possibly uninvited, feelings.  

I find that poetry, music, of any kind and books, fiction and some non-fiction, all contain sentiments of love and parting, either through death or in other ways. Always love, a meeting and a parting. This is not so strange as love is the most powerful emotion there is, and I don’t just mean the eruption of hormones that all experience at some stage of their life. I mean that unquestioning love, that deep knowledge, that trust, that comfortable companionship that develops with time together.

Of course the passage of this love, this knowledge, this trust, to arrive at the place of comfortable companionship is never smooth! That is not the way it works. We will all stumble on our life’s journey and we will all have misunderstandings. But that just makes the arrival point more worthwhile.

I can testify, with some feeling, that life with my wife, Magucha, was often tempestuous. But it was never dull, never boring. Her quick fire Portuguese temperament and my (relatively) slower and less emotional temperament meant that we both had to work hard at our relationship. I know she found me very frustrating at times and would spare no criticisism. She could do that but no one else was allowed to! She would fire up, almost vibrate with anger in my defense if anyone dared criticise me in her presence! I found that very touching and, in a strange way, deeply moving.

But it was all worth it.  I for one had thirty-six wonderful years with a dear friend; with a loyal companion on our journey through life; with a staunch ally; and with someone who I know loved me, deeply. Just as I loved her, just as she was, deeply loved her. 

I of course, cannot now speak for her, but I believe there was nothing, short of some criminal intent, that we would not have done for each other. I know that I would have defended her to my last breath.

This is why I, for one, have found her death so hard to bear; the apparent severing of the physical bonds, so difficult to come to terms with. I will never believe that her soul – she most definitely had a soul – died with her physical body. It is there somewhere. And I know, just know, that sometime, somewhere, we will reach out and hold hands again. 

Saudades!

Intimations of Immortality

Ever since I first read William Wordsworth's poem "Ode: Intimations of Immortality" I have felt especially drawn to the deep understanding of "Life" expressed in this extract from what is quite a long poem. The words seem to "fit" with some hidden wish (or hope) that this is true. I sometimes think that we (I?) need to "reconnect" with our true selves, rather than being sidetracked by the Siren song of the easy pleasures that abound around us.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,	60
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come	65
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,	70
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;	75
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

                                                                                               William Wordsworth.

All in all, to me, this is a splendid poem.

Desiderata - a prose poem to touch the soul.

In today’s chaotic world there is (to me at least) a calming influence in words that touch the soul.

In 1927 the American poet, writer and attorney, Max Ehrmann (September 26, 1872 – September 9, 1945) from Terre Haute, Indiana, wrote the well known prose poem “Desiderata” (Latin for “things desired”). 

I here offer it to my one reader. Even if known, it is well worth another read:-

  

Desiderata.

“Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

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.

Be yourself. 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.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

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.

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 with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.”

                                                                                    Max Ehrmann (1927)

The Eyes Have it.

It is always the eyes – blue, brown, hazel or green. Generally the first thing anyone does when meeting another is to make contact with their eyes. A great deal can be gleaned from eye contact. Anger; coldness or indifference; surprise; longing; stubbornness; pleading; sadness; fear; hatred; love – the whole gambit of human emotions are expressed in and through the eyes.

Eyes are a window into the soul.

The one that always affects me is eyes that express hurt. Eyes that ask “what did you do that for – that hurt me”? Not just with fellow humans but with our fellow beings. Such an expression always cuts me to the quick and stays with me for a very long time.

I can remember the expression in the eyes of a cat that, for reasons I need not explain, I had to put down even though it was healthy and quite young. It looked over its shoulder with an expression of “why is this happening – why are you doing this to me?” I took the cowards way out and did not stay to witness the end – I just couldn’t!

Likewise when I have hurt someone close to me, particularly family members – it always affects me deeply. Particularly if there are tears. Their look of disbelief and hurt, telling me that I have (possibly and hopefully just temporarily) weakened the bond of trust between us always pulls me up short. It makes me reflect on aspects of myself that are sometimes quite unpleasant – matters relating to my ego and who I think I am or who I believe myself to be. And make me ask myself the question – “Why did I do or say that?”

Generally such moments are brought about by my thoughtlessness and not with “malice aforethought”. I really do try never to hurt anyone – obviously I don’t always succeed! 

What is it all for?

What is it all for? Life I mean. What makes us happy? What brings contentment or joy? Money? – I don’t think so. Possessions? – again I don’t think so. Position of eminence in the world? – not necessarily. You may have all those and good on you. You have worked hard and saved hard. But without good personal relationships and at least some vague idea that there is more to Life than is presented to us on a daily basis, then I believe that happiness will prove to be elusive.

My personal belief is that there is a great deal more to life than I currently understand, or perhaps more accurately, than I am prepared to admit in my heart of hearts. The other day I heard from a man who, to take advantage of the worlds demands for ‘bio-fuels’ has a large recently cleared area, now a palm oil plantation, on the island of Sarawak. What appalled me was his blasé comment that he, and his family, has employed hunters to ‘cull’ elephants that used to graze in the area, now his plantation.

This gave me pause for thought. At the end of the day, of our allotted span of life, can any of us look back with pride at our achievements? Can I? If there is more to life than making money how do I find it – what should I do? I need to rely on my own resources. This must be my own journey of discovery.

If relationships are so important to our well being is it just relationships with other humans or does nature feature as well? “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy” (Shakespeare – Hamlet).

In this secular age I am reluctant to deviate from the ‘norm’ and introduce anything other than secular topics. But I feel sure there is more to Life than secularism.

All the ancient devotional writings, known to us as scriptures, and all the philosophical writings from ancient India, Persia, Egypt, Greece, Palestine and China, all great literature and poetry, and all great art, all start with the premise that the basis of life is spiritual. They all attempt to inspire the reader or viewer to look beyond the immediate, apparent existence, to something more. That man has a soul; that love is the driving force. This was never questioned.

Plato, in his dialogue ‘Phaedo’ (Jowett translation), expresses this very eloquently when, discussing the soul and its continued existence, Socrates said, “If death had only been the end of all, the wicked would have had a good bargain in dying, for they would have been happily quit not only of their body, but of their evil together with their souls.”

I have my beliefs and they influence what I write. I know it cannot be just love for another human – it must be love for all sentient beings. This is a hard lesson to learn.