Hello Clovers! I hope your weekend was not as boring as mine.
Throughout the previous month, I was emphasising on doing things for yourself and making yourself the best version you can be. I honestly hope you have done at least one thing for yourself that has made you feel excited or really great, if not this is another great chance to do so.
Stop procrastinating, write the list of things you want to do, places you want to go, new things you want to learn. If you have no idea what to do, you could always check out a bucket list online, or list of places (perhaps I’d share my own list soon). Always keep this in mind.
Live as if you were to die tomorrow, learn as if you were to live forever
My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water’d shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.
Hello Clovers, I came across this poem way back in high school for my IGCSE literature. It was definitely one of my favourites in the whole poetry list we had to study. I didn’t post it just because it’s my birthday month (definitely not) . I found it as such a poem that represents a new beginning or perhaps reaching a new chapter in life. I hope you enjoy the poem as much as I did.
Happy new month Clovers!! I am pretty excited and kinda looking forward to this new month (maybe because it’s my birth month).
Anyway, this new month, prioritize one thing you want to do and go for it (yeah, stop procrastinating). It could be your reading list, or places you want to go. Whatever it is, pick one (just one should be pretty easy) Don’t stop halfway, don’t get tired. It’ll all be worth it someday.
First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone.
There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment.
I go down. Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down. My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me when the ocean will begin.
First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element.
And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here.
I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed
the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters.
This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrels half-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-eaten log the fouled compass
We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear.
I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in it after all, a place for the genuine. Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful; when they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us—that we do not admire what we cannot understand. The bat, holding on upside down or in quest of something to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base— ball fan, the statistician—case after case could be cited did one wish it; nor is it valid to discriminate against “business documents and
school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the autocrats among us can be “literalists of the imagination”—above insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, in defiance of their opinion— the raw material of poetry in all its rawness, and that which is on the other hand, genuine, then you are interested in poetry.
The moments passed as at a play, I had the wisdom love can bring, I had my share of mother wit; And yet for all that I could say, And though I had her praise for it,
And she seemed happy as a king, Love’s moon was withering away. Believing every word I said I praised her body and her mind, Till pride had made her eyes grow bright,
And pleasure made her cheeks grow red, And vanity her footfall light; Yet we, for all that praise, could find Nothing but darkness overhead. I sat as silent as a stone
And knew, though she’d not said a word, That even the best of love must die, And had been savagely undone Were it not that love, upon the cry Of a most ridiculous little bird, Threw up in the air his marvellous moon.
Hello Clovers! It’s been another long week. If you’re reading this I’m glad you made it through the previous week. Last week was quite a rough one for me (I had back to back exams everyday all through the week) Glad we all made it out alive
So the quote of this week has to do with prosperity and adversity. What thoughts do these words bring to your mind?
I’d like you all to give this quote another thought for a second or more. It’s almost like saying the good and bad are the two sides of a coin. One cannot exist or perhaps be much valued without the other; prosperity and fears, adversity and hopes.