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My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
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Kathleen-613's creation for my blog

"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN


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Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.

David Whyte


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This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.

May 28, 2015 at 12:12am
May 28, 2015 at 12:12am
#850416
Prompt: "A person who has not done one half a day's work by ten o'clock runs a chance of leaving the other half undone." Emily Brontë
Do you agree?


------

Hahaha! Dear Emily hasn’t lived in our time, let alone my life or in my house.

Of course, the other half is undone, all the time, and on purpose, too. For one thing, the to-do lists I make for myself are never do-able. I still make those lists with the hope that at least part of them will be done. Otherwise, without those lists, I’d stand in the middle of my house or my driveway wondering what to do next with that glut of stuff waiting for me.

I bet Emily never wrote one list down; while her servants did her dirty work, she was busy writing Wuthering Heights, her magnum opus best-seller for centuries to come. Oh well, to each her own…

So that dear Emily is not put off as the result of my words, here is a poem by her, and surprise, surprise, it starts with a house.

The Visionary
By Emily Brontë (1819–1848)

Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:
One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep,
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;
Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:
I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star.

Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame!
Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame:
But neither sire nor dame, nor prying serf shall know,
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.

What I love shall come like visitant of air,
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;
What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray,
Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay

Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—
Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;
Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.


          -- Note: the final two verses were written by Charlotte


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