RonPrice
November 13th 2006, 01:44 AM
DOWN HERE WE ONLY START
The sense of inner security by no means proves that the product will be stable enough to withstand the disturbing or hostile influence of the environment...More than once everything one has built will fall to pieces under the impact of reality. -C.G. Jung, in The Survival Papers: Applied Jungian Psychology, Daryl Sharp, Quantum, London, 1989, p.145.
The heart does not break-aortic-
right through the ventricle.
It slowly hardens here and there
with holes for fatigue and fear.
This magic place gets encrusted
by a thousand lashes, whip keeps
coming down, while singing.
The stone and the heart it slowly dies;
I’ve seen more than I can count.
Shame coats the heart in glory.
The universe stands still
to hear the little story
of my heart but noone hears
and lead and gold threads sing.
But redemption does come slowly.
All things are found in part.
Unity within the heart is joy
and here-down here-we only start.
Ron Price
10 September 1995
THE WORLD WAITS FOR ITS POET
For the experience of each new age requires a new confession and the world seems always waiting for its poet.
-Emerson in What Can I Say?, p.119.
There are more of us these days, Ralph Waldo,
more of everything, yes, a new confession
and about time, as you could see over
a hundred years ago.
The world still waits for its Poet,
with a capital ‘P’, Whose myriad mystic tongues
find utterance in every line and
the world, ripe to overflowing, waits
until the Poet’s words, clad with wings, are
carried fast and far irrecoverably into
the hearts of humankind. Perhaps,
the lesser poet, scarce deserving a mention,
should set himself a key so low
that even the most common things should
delight and the fragrance in the air
that some men breath, should
come through rich and perfumed.
Ron Price
10 September 1995
VAPOROUS ILLUSION
...The full dimensions of his being were not to be found even in private...dreams were too unreliable, too sporadic and uncontrolled. -Thoreau, Journal, Vol.1 in Dark Thoreau, Richard Bridgman, U. Of Nebraska, Lincohn, 1982, p.3.
I saw him run away so clear,
way off across a field.
The field was white; he had a gun.
He did not like what I had said.
He disagreed most violently,
but in a dream, ‘twas done.
I wondered long what it had meant,
but could come up with no answer.
So much of life is like this dream,
like some mirage in a desert.
You wish it water fresh and pure
but all it is is vapour.
There is no need to chase it far
across the white snow down there.
No need to worry about that gun;
it has no power to hurt you.
‘Tis only a fleeting shadow in your mind,
more like some illusion.
So I put the dream down on the sheet
and wonder if one day it shall tell me
something deep and meaningful:
right now it seems like not.
The memory is there; I won’t forget.
Perhaps one day it will reveal
some sweet insight on this desert;
and perhaps it will remain as is
some vaporous illusion.
Ron Price
11 June 1995
The sense of inner security by no means proves that the product will be stable enough to withstand the disturbing or hostile influence of the environment...More than once everything one has built will fall to pieces under the impact of reality. -C.G. Jung, in The Survival Papers: Applied Jungian Psychology, Daryl Sharp, Quantum, London, 1989, p.145.
The heart does not break-aortic-
right through the ventricle.
It slowly hardens here and there
with holes for fatigue and fear.
This magic place gets encrusted
by a thousand lashes, whip keeps
coming down, while singing.
The stone and the heart it slowly dies;
I’ve seen more than I can count.
Shame coats the heart in glory.
The universe stands still
to hear the little story
of my heart but noone hears
and lead and gold threads sing.
But redemption does come slowly.
All things are found in part.
Unity within the heart is joy
and here-down here-we only start.
Ron Price
10 September 1995
THE WORLD WAITS FOR ITS POET
For the experience of each new age requires a new confession and the world seems always waiting for its poet.
-Emerson in What Can I Say?, p.119.
There are more of us these days, Ralph Waldo,
more of everything, yes, a new confession
and about time, as you could see over
a hundred years ago.
The world still waits for its Poet,
with a capital ‘P’, Whose myriad mystic tongues
find utterance in every line and
the world, ripe to overflowing, waits
until the Poet’s words, clad with wings, are
carried fast and far irrecoverably into
the hearts of humankind. Perhaps,
the lesser poet, scarce deserving a mention,
should set himself a key so low
that even the most common things should
delight and the fragrance in the air
that some men breath, should
come through rich and perfumed.
Ron Price
10 September 1995
VAPOROUS ILLUSION
...The full dimensions of his being were not to be found even in private...dreams were too unreliable, too sporadic and uncontrolled. -Thoreau, Journal, Vol.1 in Dark Thoreau, Richard Bridgman, U. Of Nebraska, Lincohn, 1982, p.3.
I saw him run away so clear,
way off across a field.
The field was white; he had a gun.
He did not like what I had said.
He disagreed most violently,
but in a dream, ‘twas done.
I wondered long what it had meant,
but could come up with no answer.
So much of life is like this dream,
like some mirage in a desert.
You wish it water fresh and pure
but all it is is vapour.
There is no need to chase it far
across the white snow down there.
No need to worry about that gun;
it has no power to hurt you.
‘Tis only a fleeting shadow in your mind,
more like some illusion.
So I put the dream down on the sheet
and wonder if one day it shall tell me
something deep and meaningful:
right now it seems like not.
The memory is there; I won’t forget.
Perhaps one day it will reveal
some sweet insight on this desert;
and perhaps it will remain as is
some vaporous illusion.
Ron Price
11 June 1995