What a poet is, is not easy to describe. Poets demonstrate creativity, an imaginative power. They arrange words and phrases with rhyme and rhythm, with beauty and musicality. Recently, I've been reflecting on an entry I wrote in my journal, something to do with "blowing this thing called life."Today I've reflected on this again, in earnest, after a long phone chat with a friend who I haven't heard from for a while. Both busy with our separate pathways. She said she decided to call instead of email. Talk was good, the supportive sharing and active listening, as happens with true friends.
I found myself searching through past pages of this particular journal of mine again, one with a poem sent to me by my good friend Liz Ringrose. The poem is much related to my ongoing challenges and predicaments. It was written by William Henry Davies (1871-1940), a 19th-century British poet.
He wrote, I quote and share:
He wrote, I quote and share:
"What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs, and stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass, where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight, streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance, and watch her feet,how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare."
As I stare and keep staring, and try to live in-between times, I came up with these thoughts that, really, waiting times are growing times, and also, learning times. No matter where we are in the season of our lives.
About W.H. Davies: William Henry Davies (1871-1940) was born in Newport, Monmouthshire, Wales. His father was a Publican. After an apprenticeship as a picture-frame maker and a series of labouring jobs, he travelled to America.
He returned to England after an accident whilst jumping a train in Canada, where he lost a foot. Upon his return to Britain he led a poor, hard life living in London lodging houses and as a pedlar in the country. In 1923, he married Emma, who was much younger than he.
W.H. William published his first poems when he was aged 34. His poetry, exhibiting a natural simple and earthy style, is mainly on the subject of nature or life on the road. He wrote two novels and autobiographical works. His best known is Autobiography of a Super-Tramp.
