Friday, July 28, 2006

On beauty; how deep?

As i sit slumped in the tube, a 'poem of hte underground' catches my attention. i perk up, and;

Beauty is impelled to find a face to dwell in:
there, delight is such
that I seek nothing more;
I would scour the sky to share with the elect this living grace.
The works of their Creator bear his sign
So if my soul burns fiercely with love of all fair shapes,
then judgement from above Must hold me guiltless:
because beauty is divine.

La Forza d'un bel viso a che mi sprona.

My heart sighs so deeply it almost breaks. But the beauty i see, or wish seen in me, would more realistically be;

A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction:
An erring lace, which here and there Enthralls the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby ribbands to flow confusedly:
A winning wave (deserving note)In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

Robert Herrick
Delight in Disorder.

If anything i did get however; it was this;

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Yeats.
He wishes for the cloths of Heaven.

And in elegant cursive it read;

To Alia; My favorite Student. Who trod softly and most delightfully.

On skies and 'why's

The skies cry alot in london...
in the winter's it's understandable. it's cold. everything is bear. everything wilts and falls. even the wind fails to find the leaves to whisper to. to snicker to giggle with.
It races back to the skies in anger. Sharp rays of cold anger fed by dissappointment, fueled by hurt and disillusionment. Sending jabs of more pain, deep and cold , into the heart of the sky. and it pours.

In the sprng it stops for a while. It sits back whimpering at first as the world unravels below it, and then stops for a while as its breath catches in its throat.

the world blooms.

the leaves flourish and spread, embracing life in every form and color.
The flowers rise trumphantly, swaying back and forth to an invisble rythem; quiet to the naked eye, transparent to the ear alert.
visible only to the heart.

they sprinkle scents as they sway, so even the air is bright beautiful and sweet.

Sometimes the skies cry softly, perhaps touched by all that is beautiful below it. perhaps lonely for it.

Still however, its sadness returns and it cries, once again. often in loud burts, complete with sobs, hiccups and thunder too.

however, nature seems patient this time of year. it takes cover on the sadder days, and blooms and sways in the skies happy lapses.

People? They huff, they puff, and with a flick open their umbrellas to keep the sky's tears away. sometimes they just race through and pretend not to notice. it cries so often , anyway. they dont like sad tears. or maybe everyone can take only so much of their own sadness.

Only children seem to have the heart to look up and smile at the sky. even on its saddest days, they look up and they celebrate it. Children, and all those strong enough to have preserved their child-like hearts.

If only more people looked up at the sky , and asked: ' but why so sad....why?'

and even on ur bluest days, you are a deep beautiful blue, and ur rain pours through me refreshes me, cleanses me through and through.