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|Elizabeth Jennings||Carcanet Press Ltd.|
|Elizabeth Jennings||Carcanet Press Ltd.|
III To Paint the Dawn
You will need more than a northern light for this:
You will need hard thick paint,
To give this strange light emphasis,
To suggest life and half-life.
Nothing human will help you
But your own breathing, your own calm.
All the power that holding a brush has ever
Brought you will surely be needed now; the view
Is moving away but still warm.
Before it goes, before it finally goes,
At least fill out the darkness with some brief
Positive clarity – the hint of a rose
Towering a moment, say, above its leaf.
IV Provisional Attempt
Daily the cars race past.
Seasons seem irrelevant where the traffic
Coasts so constantly. Flowers are dusty before
Their blossoming, and air
Is filled with petrol and smoke before it reaches
The nose. The hand is gritty, the eye unsure.
Somebody swiftly pulls a curtain back
And then you can see the street either as they
See it, expectantly, or else
Can force your eyes into that darkened room
Swarming with shadows, and train your tired vision
To choose and affirm the solid objects there.See more
|Alan Guiden||Aeon Books||ePub|
STEP TWO: RELAXATION
Who are you kidding, laying there in your bed? You’ll never relax. But wait, perhaps I typed too soon. You are feeling kind of relaxed now. Yeah, this might be it. There you go. Relaxing. Relaxing. Alright, you’re really relaxed. Now just stay alert. Relax and stay alert. You can do it, relax but stay... ZZZzzzzzzzz.
Huh, what? Oh, hi again. You were looking so relaxed there you made me fall asleep. But I can’t blame you for all the times I fell asleep during my search for nonphysical answers. It’s not that I was sleepy. I simply went a little too far into my work. Or that’s what I tell myself.
I would try to relax, to let my body sleep, while I would stay alert and focused on traveling. I’m relaxing now. Down and down. I’m relaxing and staying focused on my traveling ‘plan’. Focused on my... ZZZzzzzzzzz.
Dagnabit, I fell asleep again. I’m clearly going to have a hard time finishing this section. But let’s press on anyway and tour the ‘awake/asleep line’ while we’re here.See more
|Moya Cannon||Carcanet Press Ltd.|
What will survive of us is love.
Seventeen-month-old Eliza Murphy died in eighteen twenty-seven and was buried in April, in a field south of a garden.
Perhaps spring gales prevented them from rowing her body across the short stretch of water to blessed ground in Killeenaran.
We do not know what brought on her death – fever, famine or whooping cough.
We do not know whether her hair was black, or whether her eyes were brown.
We do not know who raised the carved stone to her memory – perhaps an older sister or brother, who, later, sent money from America, or whether, at low spring tide, she had ever been carried across the sandbar to the mainland, past regiments of squirting razor-fish and sponges like staring moon-cabbages.
Neither can we be sure that she lived in the row of cottages beyond the garden or that she was born in one of the rooms now brimming with sycamores.
We cannot be certain that she had learned to balance on her feet before illness came or was able to toddle about on the cobbles.See more
|Maria Rhode||Harris Meltzer Trust||ePub|
Gabrielle Crockatt, Hélène Dubinsky, Ellen Jafe, Judy Shuttleworth, Brian Truckle, Eleanor Wigglesworth, Ricky Emanuel, Katherine Arnold, Herbert Chaim Hahn, Carlo Papuzza, Maria Pozzi, Renata Li Causi, Torhild Leira, Eve Steel
If I had to describe Mattie in one word, it would be “human” – in the best and warmest sense of that word. I first met her while I was still at university, and wondering how to launch myself into the world of adulthood and earning a living. I had decided that I wanted to be a child psychotherapist, contacted the Tavistock, and was offered an “interview” with Mattie.
I arrived full of trepidation at the old Tavistock in Marylebone, with a welcoming open fire in the entrance hall. The experience reminded me of the children’s story “Just Awful”, where a little boy goes to see the school nurse because he has cut his finger, and comes out having had his finger washed and dressed, and been given a big hug, saying “I think I’m going to be alright.”
Mattie asked reasonably challenging but sensible questions, such as how I had come to think of doing child psychotherapy. I felt anxiously self-revealing as I answered “because I read Laing’s The Divided Self, and connected with the idea that we all have our problems.” She was quite unfazed both by the knowledge that I was applying for a course by admitting that I had problems, and that I had been inspired by someone who I came later to realize was not part of required reading on the course, and simply suggested that when I had got my degree I should find a job working with children and contact her again, and she would arrange for me to attend some seminars and see how I got on. I did exactly that: found a job as a remedial teacher, started weekly evening seminars at Mattie’s house, and five years later was a qualifed child psychotherapist – a job which has seen me happily through my entire working life.See more
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