Less is always more than much less, and enough may fall short of plenty, yet still hold the world in its hands. We count what can be counted, coins, hours, losses, and we call it knowing. But there are measures that refuse numbers: the weight of a sigh, the distance between two silences, the brightness of any given day. Problems increase when talked about, divide when left alone. Joy, by contrast, escapes all arithmetic, and a handful of grace outweighs a vault of need. The heart keeps its own scales, leaning toward what is gone, balancing what was never there against whatever cannot be said. In the dark, everything evens out: dreams add what life subtracts, and when you wake with nothing left to count, you discover, almost to your surprise, that nothing was exactly enough.
A very beautiful poem about the feeling of dissatisfaction that runs through humanity. It is a contemporary poem, which applies to today, but it is a poem that reflects the history of humanity, about the human need to fill the voids of existence. I recommend all my followers to follow Paul, for a daily dose of the invisible beauty that he portrays so well in his poems.
I sometimes think if I could see the world another way—but then I stop, because I really can't, at least not in a way that I can write about. I understand the William Carlos Williams idea "not thoughts but things," and it's a fine idea, but it doesn't drive me to write. I feel the same way about movies: I'm always more interested in the actors than the scenery and the props. I do feel a kinship with songwriters, though. I went off on a tangent there, Patris. Sorry.
I read quite a bit of Eliot at university, including Jessie Weston’s book “From Ritual to Romance,” which Eliot cited as a central source for “The Wasteland.” There was a point in my life when I wanted to take the text of that poem and feed it into an anagram generator to see what the results would be and whether I could take the results and create another poem based on the output. What was I thinking?
These things are real, Kim, or they seem so, yet they can't be measured and they're also hard to put into words when they occur. Maybe they're not meant for either words or measures?
At the moment, I'm watching the post for my copy of your new book. I hope it arrives soon, and it should, because the post between Ireland and the US is generally excellent.
I think it’s true: there is no number that measures Joy, Diane, neither length nor width nor depth. Time, perhaps, can tell us of its coming and going, and you can count the number of times you remember it, but there is no joy in counting memories, only in their making.
This truly spoke to me Paul. It let me to reflect on emptiness and impermanence in the Buddhist way again, which had been on my mind anyway due to a podcast I listened to.
I shouted “No Kings” this weekend, but I’ll always make an exception for the Haiku King! Thank you, @Harley King !
A very beautiful poem about the feeling of dissatisfaction that runs through humanity. It is a contemporary poem, which applies to today, but it is a poem that reflects the history of humanity, about the human need to fill the voids of existence. I recommend all my followers to follow Paul, for a daily dose of the invisible beauty that he portrays so well in his poems.
Good Monday, Rolando, and thank you for sharing your thoughts on this poem and for your kind recommendation.
Thanks, @Alison Redford
My thanks to @Liyana Zawawee for this restack.
Thanks for the restack, @quiet reminders 😊
Thanks for sharing this, @Kimberly Root
Thanks for this restack, @Ross Ion Coyle
As always, you're welcome sir 🙏
🙏😊
Thanks for this restack, @Portia 😊
you remind me again that poets are the Magicians that pull what we know but often forget from behind that blurred curtain we become so accustomed to.
I add musicians to this - the songwriters who are your brethren x
I sometimes think if I could see the world another way—but then I stop, because I really can't, at least not in a way that I can write about. I understand the William Carlos Williams idea "not thoughts but things," and it's a fine idea, but it doesn't drive me to write. I feel the same way about movies: I'm always more interested in the actors than the scenery and the props. I do feel a kinship with songwriters, though. I went off on a tangent there, Patris. Sorry.
You have that effect on me too - it delights me Paul xx
🌹
You remind me of him.
After I discovered him I realized that Elliot wrote my Bible
“……We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time…..”
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
—T.S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding,” Four Quartets
“Little Gidding” is one of my favorites.
I read quite a bit of Eliot at university, including Jessie Weston’s book “From Ritual to Romance,” which Eliot cited as a central source for “The Wasteland.” There was a point in my life when I wanted to take the text of that poem and feed it into an anagram generator to see what the results would be and whether I could take the results and create another poem based on the output. What was I thinking?
“Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.”
Thank you for your comments, dear Patris.
"there are measures
that refuse numbers:
the weight of a sigh,
the distance between two silences"
💙!
These things are real, Kim, or they seem so, yet they can't be measured and they're also hard to put into words when they occur. Maybe they're not meant for either words or measures?
I think I might say nothing about this poem, and maybe nothing might be more than enough because I'm so impressed with it. Well done, Paul!
Thanks for your comment, Martin, it means a lot to me. 😊
You are most welcome, my friend.
At the moment, I'm watching the post for my copy of your new book. I hope it arrives soon, and it should, because the post between Ireland and the US is generally excellent.
I love this: “Joy, by contrast,
escapes all arithmetic,
and a handful of grace
outweighs a vault of need.” True💙🌟💙
I think it’s true: there is no number that measures Joy, Diane, neither length nor width nor depth. Time, perhaps, can tell us of its coming and going, and you can count the number of times you remember it, but there is no joy in counting memories, only in their making.
Beautifully said!
💙💙
This truly spoke to me Paul. It let me to reflect on emptiness and impermanence in the Buddhist way again, which had been on my mind anyway due to a podcast I listened to.
When the hands open—
coins slip, days dissolve,
and the pulse of absence hums soft.
The river keeps flowing through what once was me,
clear of counting,
its current saying nothing
and meaning all.
When you wake there is other things to count. Like your dog howling wanting out at 4:30am. She usually is the last to wake but NOT this morning.
4:30am is close to my own waking time, but I rarely hear the neighborhood dogs much before 6am, often later. Thanks for reading and commenting, Paul.
Nothing will fill that void. We can't fill all the holes and broken pieces.
We can try, Chad.
May your heart one day lean towards what is on its way to you and your joy continue overflowing with grace. 💞
Thank you, Teyani!