med_cat: (Hourglass)

Ничего никогда не вернуть,
Как на солнце не вытравить пятна.
И в обратный отправившись путь,
Всё равно не вернёшься обратно.

Эта истина очень проста
И она, словно смерть, непреложна.
Можно в те же вернуться места,
Но вернуться назад невозможно.

[translation here--and yes, the original is rhymed]

Nothing can ever be brought back,
Just as the sunspots cannot be removed from the sun.
And setting out on the road back,
One still cannot come back to the same place.

This truth is a very simple one
And, like death, it is inexorable.
One can come back to the same location,
But one cannot ever go back.

(Nikolai Novikov)
med_cat: (Hourglass)
Ballad of Another Ophelia

Oh, the green glimmer of apples in the orchard,
Lamps in a wash of rain,
Oh, the wet walk of my brown hen through the stackyard,
O, tears on the window pane!

Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples,
Full of disappointment and of rain,
Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples
Of Autumn tell the withered tale again.

All round the yard it is cluck, my brown hen,
Cluck, and the rain-wet wings,
Cluck, my marigold bird, and again
Cluck for your yellow darlings.

For the grey rat found the gold thirteen
Huddled away in the dark,
Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen,
Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark.

. . . . . . . . .

Once I had a lover bright like running water,
Once his face was laughing like the sky;
Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter
On the buttercups -- and buttercups was I.

What then is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom,
What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen?
'Tis the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom --
What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men?

Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom,
And her shift is lying white upon the floor,
That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rainstorm
Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store.

Oh, the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples,
Oh, the golden sparkles laid extinct -- !
And oh, behind the cloud sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples,
Did you see the wicked sun that winked?

by D.H. Lawrence

Originally posted by [ profile] duathir at D.H. Lawrence, 'Ballad of Another Ophelia'

med_cat: (Hourglass)
If recollecting were forgetting,
Then I remember not.
And if forgetting, recollecting,
How near I had forgot.
And if to miss--were merry,
And to mourn--were gay,
How very blithe the fingers
That gathered this, Today!

(Emily Dickinson)

med_cat: (Hourglass)
Black Marigolds

"And sometimes we look to the end of the tale that there should be marriage-feasts, and find only, as it were, black marigolds and a silence."
—Azeddin el Mocadecci

Even now
My thought is all of this gold-tinted king's daughter
With garlands tissue and golden buds,
Smoke tangles of her hair, and sleeping or waking
Feet trembling in love, full of pale languor;
My thought is clinging as to a lost learning
Slipped down out of the minds of men,
Labouring to bring her back into my soul.

Even now
If I see in my soul the citron-breasted fair one
Still gold-tinted, her face like our night stars,
Drawing unto her; her body beaten about with flame,
Wounded by the flaring spear of love,
My first of all by reason of her fresh years,
Then is my heart buried alive in snow.

Even now
If my girl with lotus eyes came to me again
Weary with the dear weight of young love,
Again I would give her to these starved twins of arms
And from her mouth drink down the heavy wine,
As a reeling pirate bee in fluttered ease
Steals up the honey from the nenuphar.

Even now
I bring her back, ah, wearied out with love
So that her slim feet could not bear her up;
Curved falls of her hair down on her white cheeks;
In the confusion of her coloured vests
Speaking that guarded giving up, and her scented arms
Lay like cool bindweed over against my neck.

Even now... )

From the Sanskrit of Chauras
(Chaura-panchasika, 1st Century)
English translation by E. Powys Mathers

Originally posted by [ profile] duathir at Chaura-panchasika, 'Black Marigolds'
med_cat: (Hourglass)
Rachel Barenblat

If I had any pull with God, everything you need
would appear right now in front of you.
A door would open and inside it
a rose-strewn path, the yearned-for embrace.
I’d take the broken pieces of the afikomen
and restore them as if by magic.
But that isn’t how it works. God isn’t
a diner waitress saying what can I get you, hon?
That’s why our sages taught: a clay vessel
is purified when it breaks and is glued.
A human heart, charged with a lifetime’s losses
becomes real when lovingly mended.
All I can do: ask God to cradle your heart
in Her own hands and make you whole.

Originally posted by [ profile] exceptindreams at Find | Rachel Barenblat
med_cat: (cat in dress)

Image via Instagram.

Mari Andrew illustrates comics for more than 300k followers

Mourning the loss of a loved one is a painful part of life we’re all forced to endure. It’s easy to feel abandoned and lost while working our way through the stages of grief. That’s why one artist started creating art about it – to help others feel less alone.

“My dad died two years ago today,” writer and illustrator Mari Andrew wrote on Instagram. “It’s different for everyone, but my personal experience is that grief doesn’t ever go away, but it does change shape and it becomes something you can hold rather than something that overwhelms you—a part of you, rather than a burden.”
Read the rest of the article and see the illustrations here:

med_cat: (woman reading)
Something for everyone, I hope! Most of these are entirely unrelated to each other. Here goes:
Mark Gatiss Responds to “Sherlock Bond” Critic in Rhyming Verse

"No Middle Ground?" by Jim Wright, regarding politics, acting civilized, and whether the end justifies the means.

Media, morality and the neighbor’s cow: When did Ayn Rand become the Republican Party’s bible?: "The value-neutral media "ideal" has left us with a society drained of kindness and mutual responsibility", by Neal Gabler

Arnold Schwarzenegger: I am not a self-made man

compare with this one:

American Huckster: The Untold Story of Napoleon Hill, the Greatest Self-Help Scammer of All Time, by Matt Hovak

6 Reasons Why Intelligent People Fail to Be Happy

Sane Thinking About Mental Problems--another perspective

"On Mourning", a thoughtful article by the writer Ann Leckie

(many thanks to [ profile] supergee for all these)

What are some of the most mind-blowing facts about the United Kingdom?--originally from Quora, posted by [ profile] notabler

The Taste of Medieval Food

"When speaking of medieval foods, most people think of one or two things: drab, tasteless foods, or the historically inaccurate meals served at medieval reenactments where patrons eat sans utensils while watching some sort of entertaining reenactment. Both conceptions couldn’t be further from the truth."
med_cat: (Hourglass)
When I am dead, my dearest
Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts than once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [ profile] elenbarathi at 'The Lost Children' by Randall Jarrell
The Lost Children

Two little girls, one fair, one dark,
One alive, one dead, are running hand in hand
Through a sunny house. The two are dressed
In red and white gingham, with puffed sleeves and sashes.
They run away from me . . .But I am happy;
When I wake I feel no sadness, only delight.
I've seen them again, and am comforted
That, somewhere, they still are.

It is strange
To carry inside you someone else's body;
To know it before it's born;
To see at last that it's a boy or girl, and perfect;
To bathe it and dress it; to watch it
Nurse at your breast, till you almost know it
Better than you know yourself–better than it knows itself.
You own it as you made it.
You are the authority upon it.

But as the child learns
To take care of herself, you know her less.
Her accidents, adventures are her own,
You lose track of them. Still, you know more
About her than anyone except her.

Little by little the child in her dies.
You say, "I have lost a child, but gained a friend."
You feel yourself gradually discarded.
She argues with you or ignores you
Or is kind to you. She who begged to follow you
Anywhere, just so long as it was you,
Finds follow the leader no more fun.
She makes few demands; you are grateful for the few.

The young person who writes once a week )

med_cat: (Hourglass)


In light of the awful events yesterday in Paris, I am sharing once more this essay which I wrote (all too recently) about a school shooting in America. Unfortunately, it is still relevant. Some of you have asked me to re-print it, so here it is. My heart is so sore today. To everyone suffering in Paris, please know that we love you and we are standing with you...

Dear Ones -

I woke up yesterday in joy, and went to bed in sorrow.

I woke up yesterday to the delightful news that my book was a #1 bestseller, and went to bed heartbroken and shaken by the awful news of yet another mass-shooting in America.

I won't be writing a political message here today. The internet is filled with outraged people arguing with each other this morning, and I can't bring myself to contribute more argument to the world right now.

This morning, I'm just writing to say: I don't know.

My heart is broken, and I don't know what to do about it — in the same way that I don't know what to do about the plight of the Syrian refugees, or the rise of ISIS, or the deterioration of the Sudan, or the stubborn endurance of racism, or the onslaught of climate change.

I don't know. I don't know how to fix any of it.

I do know this, though: I know that great joy and great sorrow have something in common, which is: they both cause us to overflow. Joy and sorrow are emotions that make us SPILL — because they are too big for us to contain.

I always know what to do with my overflow of joy — that's easy: You dance it out, you laugh it out, you celebrate, you cheer, you pop the champagne.

I don't always know what to do with my overflow of sorrow. Last night, alone in a hotel room, I lay awake for hours, overflowing in too much sadness to handle. I found myself saying again and again to God, "I don't know what any of this is for, but please help us."

I also found myself thinking about a beautiful young woman at one of my speaking events recently, who asked me how — after a recent devastating personal loss — she is meant to go on. She asked me what God intends, by making her suffer so much? I don't know what her loss was, but I could see by her face, it was very bad.

What was that loss FOR?

The answer is: I don't know.

Read more... )

med_cat: (Hourglass)

“I was tired of well-meaning folks, telling me it was time I got over being heartbroke. When somebody tells you that, a little bell ought to ding in your mind. Some people don’t know grief from garlic grits. There’s some things a body ain’t meant to get over. No I’m not suggesting you wallow in sorrow, or let it drag on; no I am just saying it never really goes away. (A death in the family) is like having a pile of rocks dumped in your front yard. Every day you walk out and see them rocks. They’re sharp and ugly and heavy. You just learn to live around them the best way you can. Some people plant moss or ivy; some leave it be. Some folks take the rocks one by one, and build a wall.”

Michael Lee West

I'm not sure if the wall is to protect yourself, or to isolate yourself from the rest of the world, or to build something useful?...Comments, anyone?

med_cat: (Hourglass)
Picked up from  [ profile] elenbarathi --many thanks, as always!

Ganked with thanks from [ profile] margaret_yakoda; full text here for reference; so much more at his awesome original site:

Everything Doesn't Happen For A Reason

By Tim Lawrence

I emerge from this conversation dumbfounded. I've seen this a million times before, but it still gets me every time.

I’m listening to a man tell a story. A woman he knows was in a devastating car accident; her life shattered in an instant. She now lives in a state of near-permanent pain; a paraplegic; many of her hopes stolen.

He tells of how she had been a mess before the accident, but that the tragedy had engendered positive changes in her life. That she was, as a result of this devastation, living a wonderful life.

And then he utters the words. The words that are responsible for nothing less than emotional, spiritual and psychological violence:

Everything happens for a reason. That this was something that had to happen in order for her to grow.

Read more... )
med_cat: (Hourglass)
When all is done

When all is done, and my last word is said,
And ye who loved me murmur, "He is dead,"
Let no one weep, for fear that I should know,
And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so.

When all is done and in the oozing clay,
Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away,
Pray not for me, for, after long despair,
The quiet of the grave will be a prayer.

For I have suffered loss and grievous pain,
The hurts of hatred and the world's disdain,
And wounds so deep that love, well-tried and pure,
Had not the pow'r to ease them or to cure.

When all is done, say not my day is o'er,
And that thro' night I seek a dimmer shore:
Say rather that my morn has just begun,--
I greet the dawn and not a setting sun,
When all is done.

(Paul Laurence Dunbar)
med_cat: (Hourglass)

Until thy feet have trod the Road
     Advise not wayside folk,
   Nor till thy back has borne the Load
     Break in upon the broke.

   Chase not with undesired largesse
     Of sympathy the heart
   Which, knowing her own bitterness,
     Presumes to dwell apart.

   Employ not that glad hand to raise
      The God-forgotten head
   To Heaven and all the neighbours' gaze --
     Cover thy mouth instead.

Read more... )

med_cat: (Hourglass)
I had heard of these things before--of chariots rumbling
Through desolate streets, of the battle cries and the danger,
And the flames rising up, and the walls of the houses crumbling.
It was told to me by a stranger.

But it was for love of the fair and long-robed Helen,
The stranger said (his name still troubles my sleep),
That they came to the windy town he used to dwell in,
Over the wine-dark deep.

In the hollow ships they came, though the cost was dear.
And the towers toppled, the heroes were slain without pity.
But whose white arms have beckoned these armies here
To trample my wasted city?

Ah, this, Aeneas, you did not tell me of:
That men might struggle and fall, and not for love.

(Phyllis McGinley)
med_cat: (Hourglass)
“How foolish we are to rejoice over birth and weep over death. When a child is born, we should weep over the perilous voyage ahead of him.
What dangers lurk out there? Will he ever reach safe shores?

But when a person dies after a life of righteousness, it is cause for joy.  He has ventured down to the depths and escaped with precious spoils.”
med_cat: (Winter London)
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it - it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less -
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
WIth no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars - on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

(Robert Frost)

A Dream

Sep. 27th, 2014 03:43 pm
med_cat: (Hourglass)
A Dream

My dead love came to me, and said:
'God gives me one hour's rest,
To spend with thee on earth again:
How shall we spend it best?'

'Why, as of old,' I said; and so
We quarrelled, as of old:
But, when I turned to make my peace,
That one short hour was told.

By Stephen Phillips

Originally posted by [ profile] duathir at Stephen Phillips, 'A Dream'
med_cat: (Hourglass)
The Iron Gate

Where is this patriarch you are kindly greeting?
Not unfamiliar to my ear his name,
Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting
In days long vanished,-- is he still the same,

Or changed by years, forgotten and forgetting,
Dull-eared, dim-sighted, slow of speech and thought,
Still o'er the sad, degenerate present fretting,
Where all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought?
Old age, the greybeard! Well, indeed, I know him-- )


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