Neither body or soul. I belong to the beloved, have seen the two worlds as one and that one call to and know, first, last, outer, inner, only that breath breathing human being.
50 Poems About Life, Love, And Everything Else
This is a reality. But what if, there is more to our fears than we know? What if we start to understand our fears? Can it help us rethink the decisions we make? A donkey turning a millstone is not trying To press oil from sesame seed. He is fleeing the blow that was just struck and hoping to avoid the next. We look to ease our pain, and this keeps civilization Moving along. Fear is the architect here.
Fear keeps us working near the ark. Sometimes though, it is fear, a contracting, That brings you into the presence. The most human experience of all is the experience of love and loss. Notice how each particle moves, Notice how everyone has just arrived here from a journey, Notice how each wants a different food, Notice how the stars vanish as the sun comes up, and how all streams stream toward the ocean. Pain and strife are parts of life. Accepting our weakness , darkness and demons, balances our compassion and love for ourselves and others. But that shadow has been serving you!
What hurts you, blesses you.
Darkness is your candle. Your boundaries are your quest. You must have shadow and light source both. Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe. How we understand fear is how we have been taught to understand it. Many leaders are misled by their own emotions. They project this onto you, and so you begin to shape the world a little bit differently from your neighbor. Most of the time, their fears are baseless.
They seem to protect, But they imprison. They are your worst enemies. They make you afraid Of living in emptiness. I am so small I can barely be seen. How can this great love be inside me?
Look at your eyes. They are small, But they see enormous things. Being human, we share a universal power to love.
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Rumi eloquently speaks of how much we are capable of, when we are truly connected to our body, mind, spirit and soul. Our human race is dependent on our capability to love another. What is the body? What is love? What is hidden in our chests? What else? Believe that you have what it takes to make your world better.
Start over. Whatever customs humanity had Becomes waves of compassion. Nothing with shape and dimensions can keep still when passions move. Start your lives over. Everyone is totally forgiven, no matter what. Instead of living vicariously, how can you live a life that is truly yours? Because there is no day in a calendar that is not there for the taking — for you to proclaim carpe diem. You can live your dreams instead of dreaming to live. You need only to align your purpose with yourself. This is not a day for asking questions, Not a day on any calendar.
This day is conscious of itself. This day is a lover, bread, and gentleness, More manifest than saying can say. Thoughts take form with words, But this daylight is beyond and before Thinking and imagining. Unfortunately, there are more lost souls coming and going from this path because it was actually never meant for them.
Everyone has a unique voice, but not everyone can sing. Unfold your own myth, Without complicated explanation, So everyone will understand the passage, We have opened you. For me, it's a perfect metaphor for feeling stuck in life, and learning how to push past that feeling. Everyone, at some point in their life, has felt this sort of sourceless sense of existential dread that comes along with routine.
This poem captures that feeling, and reminds the reader to find joy and redemption in small moments. We'd read it in class but I didn't really understand it fully until I heard it read out loud, and it was just so morbidly strange and sad. It was the first time I took genuine interest in a poem — I'd always thought they were dry and difficult to relate to before that. I used it to audition for my first play in high school.
Maya Angelou made me feel like who I was becoming — a woman — was something very special, ancient, and wonderful. I physically remember breathing out and sitting up just a little bit taller because of her words. It is called 'Out, Out' and it is about a farm boy who accidentally cuts his hand off with a buzz saw and dies. It reminds us of the extraordinarily short duration of life and the related denial we must impose upon ourselves to avoid all-consuming despair.
This particular poem I read when I was going through a rough, dark, teenage time and it felt like someone got how I was feeling. It was , and the context of the moment is this: How the hell do I write about hair, my hair? I was a MFA student, working in the jazz library on campus, and at the time I wanted the first section of my thesis to be about hair, symbolism for so much especially personal power. It was a powerful encounter on levels beyond language.
I was blessed and bothered by this poem.
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Blessed by its beauty and bothered by the same as with any saving grace. Every time I read it it reminds me that the decisions that change my life the most were not always the ones that looked the most significant to anyone else.
I was black as hell in the middle of the whitest winter in the whitest state I know, Wisconsin. I was feeling so othered, like being a black man was the strangest thing on the planet, but it was the only truth I knew. This poem made me feel normal in its everydayness. In this poem, I was reminded that I am not an oddity, that life is as complicated as it is lovely, and just because the world around me may not know what I am, that doesn't mean that I am not whole.
Shel Silverstein does this amazing thing where he takes everyday objects and makes them seemingly magical. I loved this poem because it gave me a new perspective about the simple sidewalks outside my house and made me want to write my own stories. He perfectly captures the way I felt at the time, lying outside in the grass in a small Midwestern town 2, miles from home under an impossibly blue sky, drinking in all the beauty and the new ideas around me as fast as possible. Alfred Prufrock" by T. Alfred Prufrock' by T. Eliot even more than I felt Smith songs. The end always breaks my heart.
She gave my friend and I this poem and I hated it. I was irritated that it was seemingly twice as long as the poems given to others and annoyed that it was wasn't modern in the slightest it's about a sheep shearer for God's sake. Needless to say, my negative attitude didn't help the exercise and it took my friend and I quite a bit longer than everyone else to memorize.
50 Poems About Life, Love, And Everything Else | Thought Catalog
Credit to my English teacher — she stuck with us and forced us and the whole class at this point to recite what we could recall every morning. I hated her for it. Time passed and we eventually pulled it off, albeit with a dirty taste toward Banjo Paterson in our mouths.
I left the school at the end of that year. A few years ago, the very same English teacher that forced 'Clancy of the Overflow' onto me died of breast cancer. I never knew she had it, or that she was dealing with it whilst she taught. I can't think of the poem or any of its themes without thinking of her and her persistence with us.
Even though she didn't really have a big role in my life, she and the poem changed my life in so many ways.