The Lonely
Lone and forgotten
through a long sleeping,
in the heart of age
a child woke weeping.
No invisible mother
was nigh him there
laughing and nodding
from earth and air.
No elfin comrades
came at his call
and the earth and the air
were blank as a wall.
The darkness thickened
upon him creeping,
in the heart of age
a child lay weeping.
--Æ (pseudonym of George William Russell) (1867-1935), "The Lonely"
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Dublin, 3 October 2005
Getting it off my chest
I'm bruised inside
from the
punches I've pulled.
--Kevin Whelan
From an excerpt of Alan Bennett's diaries published in the London Review of Books, 1 January 2009. Bennett writes, "24th May [2008]. Cleaning out some shelves, I find a note from Kevin Whelan dated Dublin 3 October '05. It's a poem.... I'd have liked to have written that, though I've no idea who Kevin Whelan is."
Possibly this Kevin Whelan? Please let me know.
UPDATE: The correct answer is below! Thanks.
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Every happy man should have someone with a little hammer at his door to knock and remind him that there are unhappy people, and that, however happy he may be, life will sooner or later show its claws.
--Anton Chekhov (1860-1904), in "Gooseberries," The Portable Chekhov, translated by S. S. Koteliansky and Gilbert Cannan
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The misery of a child interests a mother, the misery of a young man interests a young woman, the misery of an old person interests no one.
--Victor Hugo (1802-1885) in Les Misérables (1862)
La misère d'un enfant intéresse une mère, la misère d'un jeune homme intéresse une jeune fille, la misère d'un vieillard n'intéresse personne.
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Name me no names for my disease,
with uninforming breath;
I tell you I am none of these,
but homesick unto death --
Homesick for hills that I had known,
for brooks that I had crossed,
before I met this flesh and bone
and followed and was lost. . . .
And though they break my heart at last,
yet name no name of ills.
Say only, "Here is where he passed,
seeking again those hills."
--Witter Bynner, Second Book of Modern Verse (1919)
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The door opens
on my sadness;
there they come, my guests.
There she is, the evening
to lay a carpet of despair.
There goes the night
to speak of pain to the stars.
Here comes the morning
with its shining scalpel
to open the wound of memory.
Then there is afternoon
hiding whips of flame in its sleeve.
All these are my guests
who come to see me day and night.
But when they come
and when they go,
I do not know.
My thoughts are always
drifting homeward,
holding doubts and suspicions
asking many questions.
--Faiz Ahmad Faiz (1911-1984), tr. by Mahmood Jamal, ed. of The Penguin Book of Modern Urdu Poetry (1986)
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But in her heart the burden became ever heavier; she could not eat any more, and every day she became a little paler. In the evening she often could not fall asleep for a long, long time, for as soon as she was alone and all around her was still, everything came before her eyes, so alive, the Alm and the sunshine on it and the flowers; and when she finally fell asleep, she saw in her dreams the sharp red cliffs of Falknis and the fiery snowfield of Schesaplana, and then Heidi would wake up in the morning and want to run out of the hut full of joy-- suddenly there she was in her big bed in Frankfurt, so far, far away, and could not go home any more. Then Heidi would often press her head into the pillow and cry for a long time, very softly, so that no one would hear her.
--From Heidi (1880), by Johanna Spyri (1827-1901)
The mountains are real. You can see them below: Falknis, Schesaplana, and an Alm-hut; and Frankfurt.
Aber in seinem Herzen wurde das Last, die darinnen lag, immer schwerer; es konnte nicht mehr essen, und jeden Tag wurde es ein wenig bleicher. Am Abend konnte es oft lange, lange nicht einschlafen, denn sobald es allein war und alles still ringsumher, kam ihm alles so lebendig vor die Augen, die Alm und der Sonnenschein darauf und die Blumen; und schlief es endlich doch ein, so sah es im Traum die roten Felsenspitzen am Falknis und das feurige Schneefeld an der Schesaplana, und erwachte dann Heidi am Morgen und wollte voller Freude hinausspringen aus der Hütte-- da war es auf einmal in seinem grossen Bett in Frankfurt, so weit, weit weg, und konnte nicht mehr heim. Dann drückte Heidi oft seinen Kopf in das Kissen und weinte lang, ganz leise, dass niemand es höre.
--From Heidi, by Johanna Spyri
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It starts with something small and then it becomes everything.
--From "Vincent in Brixton," play by Nicholas Wright about Van Gogh
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If anguish were visible, almost the whole of this benighted planet would be enveloped in a dense dark vapour....
--J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973), in a letter, April 1944
Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, ed. Humphrey Carpenter with the assistance of Christopher Tolkien
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