Ron Price
09-08-2005, 09:15 AM
You think it horrible that lust and rage
Should dance attendance upon my old age;
They were not such a plague when I was young:
What else have I to spur me into song?
-W.B. Yeats in On Poetry and Poets, T.S. Eliot, Faber and Faber, London, 1947, p.257. :blush:
Can it be that I do not envy any more?
No desire to be young or handsome?
No desire to receive some recognition
by being elected or appointed?
Perhaps a wishing that I might have
become something more: purer?
more independent? more courageous?
Horace said those who envy grow thin.
That’s why I’m getting chubby.
Found: a sign for the absense of
the least trace of envy--chubby
old men and women. No, that can’t be. :rage:
I’ve been envying all my life.
There was always someone better
at something than me. Now, well,
I just don’t care. Is this the root
of my spiritual gainer: insouciance?
The contextual nouances for envy
are multitudinous and I must confess
that occasionally, even now, admiration
finds envy’s trace element like a cold wind
from the Arctic blowing faintly, so faintly
across my face. I nearly miss it;
it goes so fast, but it stick’s in my liver,
or is it my kidney, unbeknownst. ;)
Envy’s microscopic trace, extracted,
purple? black? colourless? only one's
psychoanalytic-geologist would know for sure. :cool:
There’s been a thinning going on
underneath my nose leaving my
wanting faculty highly pruned, sorted.
What, pray, has slaked my envy?
Has that primary envy of my mother’s
breast just run out of gas?
This theological problem, abating,
perhaps is taking a new form: pride.
Good God, no! Desire’s quiet new receptacle.
Erudition, those who can amuse,
who have money to travel,
those who have radiant acquiescence,
courage--the list seems endless,
quieter but endless.
Lots of work still to do. :brow:
Ron Price
28 November 1995
Should dance attendance upon my old age;
They were not such a plague when I was young:
What else have I to spur me into song?
-W.B. Yeats in On Poetry and Poets, T.S. Eliot, Faber and Faber, London, 1947, p.257. :blush:
Can it be that I do not envy any more?
No desire to be young or handsome?
No desire to receive some recognition
by being elected or appointed?
Perhaps a wishing that I might have
become something more: purer?
more independent? more courageous?
Horace said those who envy grow thin.
That’s why I’m getting chubby.
Found: a sign for the absense of
the least trace of envy--chubby
old men and women. No, that can’t be. :rage:
I’ve been envying all my life.
There was always someone better
at something than me. Now, well,
I just don’t care. Is this the root
of my spiritual gainer: insouciance?
The contextual nouances for envy
are multitudinous and I must confess
that occasionally, even now, admiration
finds envy’s trace element like a cold wind
from the Arctic blowing faintly, so faintly
across my face. I nearly miss it;
it goes so fast, but it stick’s in my liver,
or is it my kidney, unbeknownst. ;)
Envy’s microscopic trace, extracted,
purple? black? colourless? only one's
psychoanalytic-geologist would know for sure. :cool:
There’s been a thinning going on
underneath my nose leaving my
wanting faculty highly pruned, sorted.
What, pray, has slaked my envy?
Has that primary envy of my mother’s
breast just run out of gas?
This theological problem, abating,
perhaps is taking a new form: pride.
Good God, no! Desire’s quiet new receptacle.
Erudition, those who can amuse,
who have money to travel,
those who have radiant acquiescence,
courage--the list seems endless,
quieter but endless.
Lots of work still to do. :brow:
Ron Price
28 November 1995