My Mind

Personal website of M.G. Daniel. Sharing poetry, my writings, snippets from my life and whatever's on my mind.


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Hello sir

I think the ongoing courtroom saga of another (once?) elder statesman actor made My Mind drift – comparatively – to Sir Sidney Poitier and of course, with that came flashbacks to “To Sir With Love.”

If you wanted the moon
I would try to make a start
But I would rather you let me give my heart
To Sir, with love

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The fool’s creed?

I didn’t know of Padraic (Patrick) Pearse as a poet until a couple of days ago. I am fool-140229_640.jpgguessing that name is not popular in the UK at a time like this – given recent events –  and his poetry may not be presented for public celebration.  Regardless, I read and was touched by his poem, The Fool. Perhaps it speaks to an interior conversation I have, about when to accept the fall as something that goes with the territory, brush the dust off and keep going in the same determined direction, or decide it’s time to pack it in, give it up, drop it down, let it go…and so on. Gwaaad, I have been foolish, as in this chunk of Pearse’s poem:

Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;
Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;


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You have a right to be here

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Whatever happened to the Desiderata – ever so popular in a time back then.  I saw the title line of this post in another context and it reminded me of the days when there were Desiderata posters prominently displayed for sale in just about every bookstore you went into and, it seemed, on the walls of every friend’s home or apartment you visited.

desiderata1


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Steal, the Twilight says

Pinching is sound poetry-writing practice, Derek Walcott says, in his What the Twilight Says..or what I say he says regarding a poet’s knowledge of the history of the poetic tradition.

It proves that the truest writers are those who see language not as linguistic process but as a living element; it more closely demonstrates the laziness of poets who confuse language with linguistics and with archaeology. It also annihilates provincial concepts of imitation and originality. Fear of imitation obsesses minor poets. But in any age a common genius almost indistinguishably will show itself, and the perpetuity of this genius is the only valid tradition, not the tradition which categorizes poetry by epochs and by schools. We know that the great poets have no wish to be different, no time to be original, that their originality emerges only when they have absorbed all the poetry which they have read, entire, that their first work appears to be the accumulation of other people’s trash, but that they become bonfires, that it is only academics and frightened poets who talk of Beckett’s debt to Joyce.

(From “The Muse of History,” collected in What the Twilight Says)