Piet Hein was a Danish mathematician, inventor, designer, and poet who was born in Copenhagen in 1905. He died at the age of 90. We were recently at a flow cytometry conference in Copenhagen, and written on one of the walls of our hotel room was one of Hein's short poems, entitled:
Det må vi efterligne (Kulturkritisk)
Kultur er evnen
til at leve livet,
så ny og ægte
livsform leves frem.
Den evne var
de store gamle givet
av hvilken grund
vi efterligner dem.
My translation from Danish into English; I hope that I have gotten the gist of the poem:
We must imitate (culture critical)
Culture is the ability
to live life,
so that new and genuine
life forms are created.
That ability was
the gift of the great old ones
and is the reason
we imitate them.
----------------------------------------------
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Monday, September 4, 2017
Friday, March 25, 2016
A beautiful poem for spring by Robert Frost
A Prayer in Spring
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
The wisdom of Mary Oliver
Mary Oliver intrigues me with her simple wisdom that goes right to the heart of things. She writes about the things that matter in life. There is no way that you can read her words without being affected by them, without some part of you knowing that you've been touched by the truth. And having been touched by the truth, that you know that you must abide by it. Here are some of her words of wisdom in the form of quotes and poems........
·
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious
life?
·
Someone I loved once gave me a box full of
darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.
·
Instructions for living a life.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
·
Listen--are you breathing just a little, and
calling it a life?
• To pay attention, this is our endless and proper
work.
·
Keep some room in your heart for the
unimaginable.
·
The most regretful people on earth are those who
felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and
uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.
·
You can have the other words-chance, luck,
coincidence, serendipity. I'll take grace. I don't know what it is exactly, but
I'll take it.
·
Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled—
to cast aside the weight of
facts
and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
·
to live in this world
you must be able
to do three things
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let
it go,
to let it go
·
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to
amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking
the world into my arms.
When it is over, I don't want
to wonder
if I have made of my life
something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself
sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply
having visited this world.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
One of those poems that you just recognize intuitively as truth
The Journey
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice – - -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations – - -
though their melancholy
was terrible.It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do – - – determined to save
the only life you could save.
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice – - -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations – - -
though their melancholy
was terrible.It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do – - – determined to save
the only life you could save.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
A very good poem--The Second Coming--by William Butler Yeats
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
-----------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, January 25, 2015
A beautiful poem by Wallace Stevens
Apropos my previous post--a visitor outside my office window that just happened to be a lovely blackbird--I am posting one of my favorite poems about blackbirds, by Wallace Stevens. I am sure you will enjoy it as much as I do.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
A summer poem by Mary Oliver
I love this poem........
The Summer Day
Who made
the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Come summer with your gentle breeze
This is my new poem--Come summer with your gentle breeze--part of a new collection that I am working on and that I hope to publish later this year or early next year.
Come
season of life-giving balm
Warmth
and peacefulness
Come summer
with your gentle breeze
Whispering
through the trees
Children
playing out of doors
Windows
open to streets below
Harkens
back to childhood days
Of
barefoot romps and non-stop play
Come
blessed season of few needs
Save sunshine and easy days
A good
life without many things
To
clutter peace that summer brings
A stroll
along a flowing river
A
pleasant walk, a cycle trip
Such are
summer’s many pleasures
Such are
summer’s many treasures
Copyright 2014
Paula M. De Angelis
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
My new poem---Beyond this world there lies another
Beyond this world there lies another
Beyond
this world there lies another
Peopled
by shades that walk among the trees
Elysian
Fields the beckoning meadows
The
gathering dark the gentle breeze
Stand as
in a trance, entranced
On the
shore Charon awaits
With his
humble ferryboat
Lights
upon the water dance
The trip
across the river Styx
Who
waits upon the shore afar?
For
those aboard to disembark
Stumbling
blindly in the dark
Who
guards the gates of Hades
Cerberus
with his three heads
A
devilish trinity of sorts
To
gather in the souls that dread
Once the
ferry crosses over
To the
shore of no return
Once the
gates behind souls close
Open others at key’s turn
Entry to
the netherworld
Place of
light, hole of dark
Fate of
souls whose lives unraveled
Eternal
rest the disembarked
--------------------------------
copyright 2014
Paula M. De Angelis
Monday, May 12, 2014
Essence
My new poem, Essence, part of the new collection of poems that I am working on.
The
flowing river does what it does best
Flows
Over
rocks and stones
Rushes
and roars
Over
waterfalls on its way to the sea
Sprays
A
delicate rainbow mist
Gem-like
droplets hanging in the air
Iridescent
Like sparkling
confetti tossed skyward by a child
Hovers
then descends
Wanders
Through
this ancient city
Weaves
Past
buildings it once knew as something else
Factories
and watermills
Provides
A
peopled river town
History
that came to pass and went
Disappears
Flowing
onward toward oblivion
Flowing river
Until
the day it does and is
No
longer………..
copyright 2014
Paula M De Angelis
Friday, February 14, 2014
A poem for Valentine's Day--How Do I Love Thee--by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How Do I
Love Thee (Sonnet 43)
How do I
love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love
thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul
can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the
ends of being and ideal grace.
I love
thee to the level of every day's
Most
quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love
thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love
thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love
thee with the passion put to use
In my
old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love
thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my
lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles,
tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall
but love thee better after death.
(by Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
A new poem
Dance--reflections
Dancing
my way to air
Gulping
in the light
Making
my way upstairs
Leaving
behind the night
Dancing
my life to find
That
which I feel as true
Life as
a walk in the blind
Love as
a part of the hue
Colors
abound about me
Circling
over my head
Lights
to guide my way through
Whispering
where to tread
copyright 2013 Paula M De Angelis
Monday, September 30, 2013
For a good friend
Out of the Rolling Ocean the Crowd
by Walt Whitman
Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me,
Whispering I love you, before long I die,
I have travel'd a long way merely to look on you to touch you,
For I could not die till I once look'd on you,
For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.
Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe,
Return in peace to the ocean my love,
I too am part of that ocean my love, we are not so much separated,
Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse forever;
Be not impatient--a little space--know you I salute the air, the
ocean and the land,
Every day at sundown for your dear sake my love.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
A beautiful poem by the Irish poet Seamus Heaney
The Blackbird of Glanmore
On the grass when I arrive,
Filling the stillness with
life,
But ready to scare off
At the very first wrong
move,
In the ivy when I leave,
It's you, blackbird, I love.
I park, pause, take heed.
Breathe. Just breathe and
sit
And lines I once translated
Come back: 'I want away
To the house of death, to my
father
Under the low clay roof.'
And I think of one gone to
him,
A little stillness dancer -
Haunter-son, lost brother -
Cavorting through the yard,
So glad to see me home,
My homesick first term over.
And think of a neighbour's
words
Long after the accident;
'Yon bird on the shed roof,
Up on the ridge for weeks -
I said nothing at the time
But I never liked yon bird'
The automatic lock
Clunks shut, the blackbird's
panic
Is shortlived, for a second
I've a bird's eye view of
myself,
A shadow on raked gravel
In front of my house of
life.
Hedge-hop, I am absolute
For you, your ready
talkback,
Your each stand-offish comeback,
Your picky, nervy goldbeak -
On the grass when I arrive,
In the ivy when I leave.
---------------------------------------
Saturday, July 27, 2013
In memory of a good man
Do not stand at my grave and weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
by Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
--------------------------------
In memory of my friend Jean's father, Jim, who passed away at 97 this past Wednesday. May he rest in peace. I know he is together now with his wife. Sometimes Jean and I would comment, when we visit Sleepy Hollow cemetery, that her parents' grave is right near my parents' grave, and that perhaps they have all met each other now and are together in heaven, happy and at peace. I hope so.
Friday, July 12, 2013
A poem by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
I
wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
(written in 1804 by William Wordsworth, when he had seen the daffodils blooming around Ullswater Lake in the Lake District)
Sunday, May 5, 2013
A new poem
Plato’s dream
Being born
From nothing
Taking form
Now something
Outside space and time
Perfection of the Forms
Acquiring a body
Changes rules and norms
Seeking back to birth
Time before in space
Seeking back to earth
Before the fall from grace
5 May 2013
copyright Paula Mary De Angelis
This poem is part of a collection that I will be publishing later on this year.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Little evening bird
Little
evening bird
Night
sings outside my window
Unafraid
of dark
Melancholy
sound
Strangely
comforting transport
To the
past and now
World
will ever need
Your
constancy and peaceful
River of
bird songs
You sing
of summer
Arrival
of warmth and peace
Bids a
soul’s release
copyright Paula M. De
Angelis
April
2013
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Daily news
Reading
daily news
Since
year’s start dire statistics
The
future is here
Bumblebees
dying
Climate
changes severe storms
A new
century
Filled
with new changes
Unsure
how they will impact
Just
sure that they will
Bees
disappearing
Pollination
a problem
Global food
problems
Arctic
ice melting
Rapidly
gone in few years
All
oceans rising
Water to
the air
More
storms tornadoes
More rain
more drought land dying
Bird flu
pandemic
Virus mutates
coming years
Fast spread
to humans
Advent
of new time
On earth
our home our planet
How will
we survive
Take
seriously
The
warnings dire real enough
Where to
go from here
copyright
Paula M. De Angelis
April 2013
--------------------------------------------------
Just to give you an idea of the types of articles I've read recently that inspired this poem:
--------------------------------------------------
Just to give you an idea of the types of articles I've read recently that inspired this poem:
- Millions face starvation as world warms, say scientists http://www.guardian.co.uk/global-development/2013/apr/13/climate-change-millions-starvation-scientists?CMP=twt_gu
- Arctic Nearly Free of Summer Sea Ice During First Half of 21st Century, Experts Predict http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/04/130412142848.htm
- Why Jim Hansen stopped being a government scientist http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/observations/2013/04/12/why-jim-hansen-stopped-being-a-government-scientist-video/
- Skeptical science http://www.skepticalscience.com/
- Pesticides definitively linked to bee colony collapse http://www.anh-usa.org/pesticides-definitively-linked-to-bee-colony-collapse/
- A Common Pesticide Decreases Foraging Success and Survival in Honey Bees http://www.sciencemag.org/content/336/6079/348.abstract
- Neonicotinoid Pesticide Reduces Bumble Bee Colony Growth and Queen Production http://www.sciencemag.org/content/336/6079/351.abstract
- Silent hives http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/comment/2012/04/new-studies-colony-collapse-disorder.html
- Total Buzz Kill: Metals in Flowers May Play Role in Bumblebee Decline http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/04/130402152432.htm#.UVs6x29BPR4.twitter
- Could New Flu Spark Global Flu Pandemic? New Bird Flu Strain Seen Adapting to Mammals, Humans http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/04/130412192402.htm
- New flu in China reveals its avian origins http://www.sciencenews.org/view/generic/id/349613/description/New_flu_in_China_reveals_its_avian_origins
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
To honor spring
Upturned
face to sky
Soaking
in the April sun
Warming rays of peace
Walking
in the park
Rivulets
of melted snow
Streaming
down the hill
Life gladly
returns
To the
slowly melting land
Chattering
of birds
Long
frozen body
Thawing
in the warming sun
Returning
to life
Copyright 2013
Paula M De Angelis
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Queen Bee
I play The New York Times Spelling Bee game each day. There are a set number of words that one must find (spell) each day given the letters...