Saturday Morning

ear-pale

How are you?
Silence again.
Fine, fine, I mumble, fine,
unraveling like string…

Sandra Cisneros, from “Drought” in My Wicked Ways: Poems


Notes:

Saturday Morning

sleep-dream-jpg

What I see in dreams
makes me breathe
shallow
like golden trout
floating just beneath
the skin of water
warmed by
late autumn’s
ticklish light

~ M.J. Iuppa, opening lines to “Something Brief, But Bright,” Small Worlds Floating: Poems

 


Notes: Art Source: mennyfox55. Poem Source: Memory’s Landscape

Saturday Morning

cat-stretch-fall-autumn

Complete relaxing never happened all at once. I found that it was a matter of at least five or ten minutes before the body would reach a profound repose. So I made a rule for myself, that as long as I felt an impulse to get up or turn over, then I had not lain long enough, but as soon as I felt I had never wanted to move again, then it was all right to get up at once. But I usually did not, I lay still for a little longer, lay still, while all the cells of my body came alive, like parched earth after rain. And then I discovered the most fitting end to my rest – a long cat-like stretch, which leaves one so at peace with the world, smooth and shining like wet sands, that it is worth indulging in deliberately, even when not prompted by a natural impulse.

~ Marion Milner, A Life of One’s Own (First Published, 1934)

 


Notes:

T.G.I.F.: the chatter of blind effortful thought

balloon-tgif-let-go

People had often told me to ‘let go’ more, to give myself up to music or impulse, or rest, and I had always thought it meant a passive plunging in to the oblivion of my blind thought. But always, when given its head, my blind thought had carried me away into hot, fussy anxieties or long-winded scheming for things it wanted, some plan or another which would not let me rest. And this state had spread from my mind to my body, so that my muscles were always taut with the effort to get what I wanted. Now, however, when I had at last learnt the restraining act which was real ‘letting go’, the chatter of blind effortful thought dwindled from an exhausting distraction to the far-away twitter of sparrows high up in the eaves.

~ Marion Milner, A Life of One’s Own (First Published, 1934)

 


Notes:

It’s been a long day

fly-wind-free

One day I’ll fly away
Leave all this to yesterday

~ Moulin Rouge! (2001), dir. Baz Luhrmann


Notes:

Saturday Morning

float-cross-dive-water-peace

I’m begging for stillness.
For calm at the centre of the storm.
When the dawn comes, let it bury me;
let it swallow me whole.

~ Michelle Tudor, from Excerpt


Photo: Ed Freeman with “Underwater” (via Precious Things)

It’s been a long day

hair-red

Beyond ambition,
beyond attainment,
is home.

Contentment,
without content;

peace,
uncaused.

—A.H. Almaas, Ripening of the Soul


Notes:

Saturday Morning

roberto-gioli-boots-reflection

The way I’d like to go on living in this world
wouldn’t hurt anything, I’d just go on
walking uphill and downhill, looking around,
and so what if half the time I don’t know
what for —

~ Mary Oliver, excerpt from 1945-1985: Poem for the Anniversary from Dream Work

 


Notes:

It’s been a long day

ballerini-dance

I have no bones…
there are days when I could leap up to the clouds —
days when I haven’t the strength to turn the pages of a book.

– Gustave Flaubert, from Intimate Notebook: 1840-1841


Notes:

I have packed my bags, I am out of here. Gone.

yoga-lean-jpg

I have had it with perfection.
I have packed my bags,
I am out of here.
Gone.

As certain as rain
will make you wet,
perfection will do you
in.

It droppeth not as dew
upon the summer grass
to give liberty and green
joy.

Perfection straineth out
the quality of mercy,
withers rapture at its
birth.

Before the battle is half begun,
cold probity thinks
it can’t be won, concedes the
war.

I’ve handed in my notice,
given back my keys,
signed my severance check, I
quit.

Hints I could have taken:
Even the perfect chiseled form of
Michelangelo’s radiant David
squints,

the Venus de Milo
has no arms,
the Liberty Bell is
cracked.

~ Father Kilian McDonnell, “Perfection, Perfection” from Swift Lord, You Are Not 


Notes: Photo by Ravshaniya (Uzbekistan) (via Mennyfox55 and Avax.news)

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