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shadowkat1. Been having troubles falling asleep lately...and this poem which I read today more or less explains the problem in a nutshell. Busy brain.
Night Light by Kate Barnes
Lying in bed in the pitch black, a little breathing underlies my own;
It is my dog on the floor; we are both alive here.
And I struggle with the old illusion; there is something else in the room,
A story in the darkness – if I wake up I can write it down.
It is the light of the purple grape, the deep glowing light
That emanates from my black horse’s flank, the knee-length, straight,
Shiny black hair of the round-faced girl in Sonora
Dancing with her groom at the fiesta while all the aunts sat and smiled;
Or it is the telephone pole with Black Beauty stamped on it, or the thin black dog
Named Ink spot, or the one sleek all-black cow with black horns –
In the herd of Holsteins always a silhouette; it is the screaming games
Of murder in the dark house, the quick uncertain kiss in the pantry, the running feet;
They are all here in the darkness with me, they crowd me with their light.
2. While this poem by W. H. Auden really addresses something I've been pondering lately. When we have fights online or off with folks, rather they be about politics, religion or just a tv series...I think we don't always know the story behind it. And the difficulty with science, particularly the so-called soft sciences, or at least that's what they were called when I was in school, psychology, sociology and anthropology - is they based a great deal on observation and observation like it or not is not entirely objective, and the assumptions and generalizations we make regarding those observations are often wrong. We never know all the information. And I think we have a tendency to project our own views onto it or own perspective, when half the time - it's completely off. This poem in a way expresses that.
At Last the Secret is Out by W.H.Auden
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.
Night Light by Kate Barnes
Lying in bed in the pitch black, a little breathing underlies my own;
It is my dog on the floor; we are both alive here.
And I struggle with the old illusion; there is something else in the room,
A story in the darkness – if I wake up I can write it down.
It is the light of the purple grape, the deep glowing light
That emanates from my black horse’s flank, the knee-length, straight,
Shiny black hair of the round-faced girl in Sonora
Dancing with her groom at the fiesta while all the aunts sat and smiled;
Or it is the telephone pole with Black Beauty stamped on it, or the thin black dog
Named Ink spot, or the one sleek all-black cow with black horns –
In the herd of Holsteins always a silhouette; it is the screaming games
Of murder in the dark house, the quick uncertain kiss in the pantry, the running feet;
They are all here in the darkness with me, they crowd me with their light.
2. While this poem by W. H. Auden really addresses something I've been pondering lately. When we have fights online or off with folks, rather they be about politics, religion or just a tv series...I think we don't always know the story behind it. And the difficulty with science, particularly the so-called soft sciences, or at least that's what they were called when I was in school, psychology, sociology and anthropology - is they based a great deal on observation and observation like it or not is not entirely objective, and the assumptions and generalizations we make regarding those observations are often wrong. We never know all the information. And I think we have a tendency to project our own views onto it or own perspective, when half the time - it's completely off. This poem in a way expresses that.
At Last the Secret is Out by W.H.Auden
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.