Einstein, who played with time

[PrinceMyshkin]

Einstein, who played with time
the way you and I used to play
with our dolls and Tonka trucks,
denied that there was such a thing
as time distinct from space
but they were one, a space-time continuum
as you and I, dear reader, are not
reader and writer but somehow
reader-writer, and you, who will know
what I mean by this, are not the woman
I desire but cannot have
but the woman I have and am and will have
again and again...



J. Newman 04Feb07 © 2007

[PrinceMyshkin]

There are those who give and those who take.
There are those who give but it’s only a trade,
watching to see that they get as much
or more in return.

They are capitalists of the heart:
“Buy cheap, sell dear...”

Bottom-line hearts on a flat-line street.


J. Newman © 27Oct06

[motherhubbard]

I loved both of these. I can't believe I missed that first one for so long. I can't choose between them. You've posted another poem like this second one (about loving like a miser) and I think they are both very poignant.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I loved both of these. I can't believe I missed that first one for so long. I can't choose between them. You've posted another poem like this second one (about loving like a miser) and I think they are both very poignant.


I'm flattered that you remember the other one, but ha-ha, Ms Literary Detective, you apparently missed this one, on the same theme:



ECONOMY

An iron economy governs us all.
You, who measure each cent,
will have nothing in the end.
While you, who are outwardly profligate

--who spend and spend: money and time
and love--and count nothing lost,
will have hearts that are in balance,
and joy without cost.

J. Newman Sudden Proclamations © 1992

Which my darling oldest child, Rafael, sang to my heart when he chose to recite it, verbatim, at the reception following my second marriage.

[motherhubbard]

I did miss it. You should have started a thread all about loving with abandon.

[firefangled]

...as you and I, dear reader, are not
reader and writer but somehow
reader-writer, and you, who will know
what I mean by this, are not the woman
I desire but cannot have
but the woman I have and am and will have
again and again...



J. Newman 04Feb07 © 2007

This is one of my favorites by you because in the last half you manage to turn my thinking about it in on itself, so there is no thinking about it without becoming it.

[CdnReader]

Einstein, who played with time
the way you and I used to play
with our dolls and Tonka trucks,
denied that there was such a thing
as time distinct from space
but they were one, a space-time continuum
as you and I, dear reader, are not
reader and writer but somehow
reader-writer, and you, who will know
what I mean by this, are not the woman
I desire but cannot have
but the woman I have and am and will have
again and again...



J. Newman 04Feb07 © 2007

Wow. Just wow.

[Pendragon]

The sage has spoken once more!

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/PuppyLove.gif

[symphony]

as you and I, dear reader, are not
reader and writer but somehow
reader-writer, and you, who will know
what I mean by this, are not the woman
I desire but cannot have
but the woman I have and am and will have
again and again...

what an unexpected turn, left me wow-ing. :)

[Virgil]

Einstein, who played with time
the way you and I used to play
with our dolls and Tonka trucks,
denied that there was such a thing
as time distinct from space
but they were one, a space-time continuum
as you and I, dear reader, are not
reader and writer but somehow
reader-writer, and you, who will know
what I mean by this, are not the woman
I desire but cannot have
but the woman I have and am and will have
again and again...



J. Newman 04Feb07 © 2007

I like this one, Prince. The poem takes a wonderful turn with the concluding lines:

...who will know
what I mean by this, are not the woman
I desire but cannot have
but the woman I have and am and will have
again and again...

edit: Symphony and I had the same exact comment. I know now I must be correct. :)

[ampoule]

Einstein, who played with time
the way you and I used to play
with our dolls and Tonka trucks,
denied that there was such a thing
as time distinct from space
but they were one, a space-time continuum
as you and I, dear reader, are not
reader and writer but somehow
reader-writer, and you, who will know
what I mean by this, are not the woman
I desire but cannot have
but the woman I have and am and will have
again and again...



J. Newman 04Feb07 © 2007

I wish that I could be fluent in signing at a time like this.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I wish that I could be fluent in signing at a time like this.

Pardon my vanity in quoting myself, but


Touch is the noun and verb of the heart.
Not all the words that you or I
can murmur, sing or shout
-–hoarse with eloquence, mad
with truth--words that beseech
or beckon or command,
can equal the touch,
in passing, of a friendly hand.

[dramasnot6]

Pardon my vanity in quoting myself, but


Touch is the noun and verb of the heart.
Not all the words that you or I
can murmur, sing or shout
-–hoarse with eloquence, mad
with truth--words that beseech
or beckon or command,
can equal the touch,
in passing, of a friendly hand.

This is lovely, just as your other two poems! Each poem flows so well.

[Bii]

I like all of these, but Einstein who played with time in particular. Like the others have commented it's the twist half way through which grabs you, the way you very smoothly move the theme from one thing, to something else. I have to wonder what exactly was in your mind with those last lines.......

[PrinceMyshkin]

I like all of these, but Einstein who played with time in particular. Like the others have commented it's the twist half way through which grabs you, the way you very smoothly move the theme from one thing, to something else. I have to wonder what exactly was in your mind with those last lines.......

Well, if I were to be facetious I might say that what was in my mind was a lot of viscous grey matter coiled around itself, electrical impulses racing around like mad bicycle delivery boys holding smudged, barely readable addresses...

But if I were pushed to the wall and obliged to be serious, it is that I almost always think of my poetry and/or prose as a conversation with an unseen but powerfully felt other. Not an other who could be named or visualized concretely but who is being willed into existence. It is for that reason that I abhor poetry - my own or others' - that seems to me to be wilfully (or lazily) obscure.

[ampoule]

I abhor poetry - my own or others' - that seems to me to be wilfully (or lazily) obscure.

Example? I'm curious because I think I feel the same way.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Example? I'm curious because I think I feel the same way.

Can't think of any off-hand and I'm too lazy and caffeine-starved to go and search right now. (The cafe opens late for the next two weeks as half the staff is away on holiday)

[Bii]

Well, if I were to be facetious I might say that what was in my mind was a lot of viscous grey matter coiled around itself, electrical impulses racing around like mad bicycle delivery boys holding smudged, barely readable addresses...

But if I were pushed to the wall and obliged to be serious, it is that I almost always think of my poetry and/or prose as a conversation with an unseen but powerfully felt other. Not an other who could be named or visualized concretely but who is being willed into existence. It is for that reason that I abhor poetry - my own or others' - that seems to me to be wilfully (or lazily) obscure.

Indeed, poetry should have a personal element to it, albeit that it doesn't need to be aimed at a specific person. I'll pull my mind back out of the gutter and look higher next time...

[PrinceMyshkin]

Indeed, poetry should have a personal element to it, albeit that it doesn't need to be aimed at a specific person. I'll pull my mind back out of the gutter and look higher next time...

Given what I know to be your height, pulling your mind out of the gutter you might find yourself staring at your knobbly knees!

[Bii]

Or worse - someone else's knobbly knees!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Or worse - someone else's knobbly knees!

Knees, whether knobbly or intended to please,
are but the entrance gates
to someone or other’s garden
of delight. Don’t squeeze the knees,
neither sneeze
at them, but seize,
I pray you do,
the opportunity to enter
or give entry to.