Seagull

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The Seagull

 

High from the Earth I Heard by Emily Dickinson

 

High from the earth I heard a bird;
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous-going fellow
I gathered from his talk,
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook,
Without apparent burden,
I learned, in leafy wood
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood;
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care,—
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!

Snail-story – the Story of Love and Happiness

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She was afraid, because they harmed her. She said: Never again! She’d rather be lonely! She built a shell-house above everyone else’s. She was perching in it, sometimes sniffing the outside, her horns hitching a good friend or a nasty hedgehog. After every meeting she crawled right bac ink and kept on being afraid. She was looking down on life from afar as it was spinning on time. The good and bad were coming and going, but she just peeped through a tiny split in the door.

Only the White Wanderer was singing with her. She trusted Him a long time ago and invited Him in. He pressed her, edged her on to live well already, enjoy the beauty already, and as soon as He became the Lord inside the shell, not just a Guest, the little snail listened to His voice. „I have a plan with you!” – said the White Wanderer, her Best Friend. „You have to get out and make as many friends as you can! Talk to them about Me, their eyes might be opened and they might see me as well!”

She dared to get out a little. It’s not so bad being outside after all, she thought. She made one or two friends, but didn’t invite in anyone. That would’ve been too risky! The place is too small, and anyway, nobody invites her in either, and anyway, everyone hurts her, and anyway… In other words, she didn’t want to suffer. And she didn’t like embarrassing things. What can be more embarrassing that loving someone who doesn’t want to love you? On the contrary, pricks you! Nudges you! Cuts you! It hurts a lot and is too embarrassing!

But she became braver and braver by and by. Then one day, whether it was a day of warm summer shower or silver snowfall, I do not know, but on a lovely day she opened all the windows and doors wide, and even though she was trembling, she invited every soul in. Let them come in! The good and bad all came. They treaded down her carpet and drank all her raspberry drink. The good and bad all sang together with her inside and outside her shell, and by and by walked away. Many of them saw the White Wanderer, and she shared a special smile with them, and although she gave and received many wounds, there was Happiness next to Sadness. She conquered her fears, she changed.

She had a room deep in the shell, and in that room she had a wardrobe sealed with seven locks. In that wardrobe she had a suitcase sealed with seven locks. In this suitcase was slumbering the creature called Falling-In-Love.  She never let anyone go near it. Once she showed the dusky room to the Wanderer, only for a second on tiptoes, but she was clutching the keys very hard. The Wanderer smiled. „The time will come, little snail,” – said the Wanderer, – „when you will let me in here too!”

The snail was terrified! She knew that when the Wanderer will step into the room nothing will ever be the way she wants it. Can’t she keep for herself at least this tiny room, this tiny wardrobe, this tiny suitcase, at least Falling-In-Love in its slumber? Can’t she be the Boss at least in this little corner? He will rummage through everything, the Wanderer will confuse her! As He usually does! She sqeezed the keys in her hand, but the fourteen locks did not let her rest. So be it! – she sighed.

„Let Your will be done!” – cried the snail to her Friend, but even her horns were trembling as she spoke. „Wake up Fallin-In-Love, if you wish, or let it sleep on forever! I had enough of living in fear! Here are the keys, do, what you have to!”

There were many things in that room, not to mention the wardrobe! Bric-a-brac, lumber, bad memories, revenge, envy, ill desires, the nest of maggots and slimes that she held on to and smuggled in the room so that the Wanderer wouldn’t see it. She hid Pride in there, her most precious treasure, in a golden case. The Wanderer shot a glance at it and whoosh! – with a sway threw it out the open window. Oh, anything but that! – the little snail wanted to shriek, but she was so relieved that she laughed out loud instead. Out with it, whoosh, out with it!

While the Wanderer was opening the locks somebody else stepped into the room. a boy-snail. „Am I in the right place?” asked he shyly. „I smelled a friend-smell in here. A Friend of mine told me to come here.” The little snail was so shocked that she was left speechless for a while. What will happen now? A stranger in her innermost room? Oh, anything but that! But then she smiled and said: „That is just the smell of raspberry drink. Feel yourself at home! What’s your name?” The other snail answered with a misgiving glance: „Derek. And who are you?” The snail answered: „Johanna”.

At frist they were both very frightened, but the Wanderer was the best Friend of both of them, so they often exchanged special smiles, and heard His voice pressing them: „Open your doors, let the air in through the windows, leave your keys with me!” Suddenly the boy-snail was startled. „Something stirred inside there!” – said he. It was Falling-In-Love that stretched and shaked its disheveld head, it was awake. It was good, very good! But the Wanderer warned them: „Falling-In-Love is always sleepy. As quick as it burns now, it will just as quickly go out. You can keep it awake with unconditional Love. There is no other way!” That hurts, man, because when there are no conditions, there is nothing to protect you. But it’s really good too. Without conditions there are no limits either!

This is my story. Or rather our story: the White Wanderer’s, Derek’s and mine.

Everybody is afraid more or less. And everybody wants to be happy. But Happiness isn’t just the good friend of Sadness, it’s his sibling by blood. This is why one needs courage for Happiness. One cannot be happy if one is a coward. Happiness isn’t an object that one can put on a shelf or twirl around in one’s hand to use it as they see fit. Happiness isn’t a guest, a long seen acquaintance, isn’t a neighbour or relative. Isn’t a family member who stays in you for a while, let’s say, until they find a job or until the storm ends. Happiness isn’t Falling In Love. Either Happiness is a complete stranger to you, or He is the Lord of your Heart. Happiness is the Son of the Blessed One, He is Love.

A Good Old Ode to Autumn

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I had to learn this by heart in school, and I loved every minute of memorizing it! — Nostalgia! 😛

Ode to Autumn by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Inspiration – Two Poems In the Spirit of Autumn

A couple of years ago I have written a poem but I didn’t know it was a replika to a poem I have read when I was a child. So this year I have found this poem and it made me remember the other one, thus I have translated the Hungarian poem to English and it resonates really well with my poem. It’s as if my mind had a secret dialog with the long deceased poet. 😀

It’s raining outside and I have this cozy feeling… It’s a good time to post these two poems. Here they are:



Dedication by Lajos Áprily



Forgive me. The meadow was frosty,

very purple the mountain,

the forest was a giant red stain,

fogive me: I found no flower.


But I couldn’t come empty handed:

where death its mighty tunes chanted,

I made a petal-less bouquet,

red berries, red sway.


But now give me your soul: slender vase,

which still keeps summer’s wine –

and the charm of withering away

wraps it in a ruddy shine.



Headless Stem (by me :P)



I couldn’t find winter-hardy flowers

Even Santa Claus was hibernating

Winter barley was off limits

on the winter market no petals at all

I had to slide to you in my pelisse

when my snow-tyres were deflated by

razor-sharp icicles Excuse me

but I couldn’t bring you blossoms

So please take this poem instead

as a clumsy dedication –

a headless stem

Silent Courage

If the nightfall spills into the air its darkish powder,

the trees are wavering and wimpering under the weight.

The root-sinews claw into the dirt down under,

with ever prouder tenacity they creech, cling, stand up straight.

Upstairs the stooped leaves proffer the night to the space:

the squinting stars wink at them with easy grace,

and till dawn they gobble up the whole without a trace.

With Atlas-courage supports the forest the blanket of blackness,

so that on the slumbering flowers may not subside the darkness.

The trees stretch out in the morning light,

as soldiers who have slept through the whole night.

Autumn Is Coming!

And I am ready to embrace the mild weather when I don’t have to gobble down tons of ice cream to survive… 🙂 Not to mention that I don’t have to throw out my brain in the scorching hot but still ear-cutting current – I just cannot think in this heat! So here is my favorite funny poem about autumn – just to show my enthusiasm!

THE SAPPY HEASONS
by Eve Merriam

In the skue-bly sprays of ding
when yaffodils are dellow,
and tragnolia mees are mellow
then I feel a fively lellow,
fively lellow.

In the good old tummer-sime,
when lovers spike to loon,
and molden is the goon;
then I hum a tappy hune,
tappy hune.

When the autumn teaves are lurning,
and there’s lost upon the frand,
still Thanksgiving’s hose at cland;
so I’m feeling grimply sand,
grimply sand.

When the winter blorms are stowing,
and the snow is hiling pigh,
and nothing dreems to sy;
then I’m glad that ug am snI,
ug am snI.

Keep This World

My beloved niece, Emma

Keep this world,

my dear Emma!

Noble nests shivering in sunshine-tears,

beauty-barks swimming in willowflares,

woozy worms crawling on bare buds,

wintercoats blown by zephyr studs,

snaildrops clambering on the chalice of silence,

silky siskins hiding on green grass islands,

hallowed heron sleeping on the arms of reed,

quaint qails resting in the embrace of weed.

Protect this world,

my dear Emma!