When I was writing this up, I found not just one quote to use, but two. I’ll title this with Joe Jackson’s song and include the video at the bottom. But following is another sonnet from Harper’s beloved Poetry Magazine archive (which really is a nifty source of material!)
How can I offer you the dull, frayed song Of love I know? Each word would stumble on A memory; and I should see a long Blurred line of faces grimacing upon A musty curtain of the past …. Ah, no …. Let me be silent …. Words would only sound A monotone: a toxic, cloying flow Of echoes would sift through, and eddy round My voice, and all the rapture that I feel Would turn into a harlequin and steal Away beneath the vivid, measured hum Of mockery. Ah, dearest, may there come An ecstasy of stillness in each day, That you may sense the thoughts I dare not say!
I love this song, and this video illustrates what we do in Second Life (as I did in my photos above) quite nicely, transforming ourselves for a time into whatever life we want to live, to change away from the humdrum and pains of daily Real Life.
Thank God for Second Life right now! A safe place to meet, and mostly a place of calm, where you can get your head together for an hour or two outside of the fears and panic of the times.
And a woman spoke, saying, “Tell us of Pain.” And he said: Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain. And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy; And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields. And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief. Much of your pain is self-chosen. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity: For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen, And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet, “On Pain”
Skin: Raonhausen Gweneth (BOM; Milk Brows)
Head: LAQ Skye 3.07 Bento
Body: Maitreya Lara 5.0.2
Eyes: Ikon Triumph (Chocolate)
Hair: no.match no.sir.
Outfit: Ricielli Vivian blouse (14) and skort (4) (purchase as separates; available at Cosmopolitan through April 4)
Shoes: Ohemo Daisy block-heel boots (available at Cosmopolitan through April 4)
Teleport to Tokyo-Windhill City (SSOC region).You will not land in the park, as this is a sim with a dedicated landing point! Exit the arcade you land in, then open the Map and change the Location numbers to 133 / 209 / 33, so you will get a beacon to walk toward (no flying allowed in the sim). The park will lie northeast of your landing point, 1-2 minutes’ walk.)
Many Second Life bloggers, including us at Around the Grid, do more than just shoot pretty pictures of pretty clothes or wonderful builds. We also try to talk about what we’re photographing, and we like to add quotes to further help along the story.
The first blogger I recall using quotes was my friend and “namesake,” Harper Beresford. She hasn’t published very regularly since about 2016, as far as I can see; but, when she does, there’s usually a quote of some kind in the text that catches your attention. Many other bloggers have done so over the years; for instance, Anne Daumig at The Wanton Wardrobe makes the quote her entire text, aside from the product list.
One source we’ve been using lately at AtG is the Web site for Poetry Magazine. I’ve known about Poetry for years in print form (I’m a trained librarian, remember, and I worked at college in the periodicals department), but I’ve visited their Web site on occasion since about 2012, when the magazine celebrated its 100th anniversary. They did a cover every month of that year with Pegasus, the symbol of divine inspiration; I chose the January issue to keep on my desk (so to speak [grin]) as a reminder that Real World arts reaches into the Second Life, and that the humanities is more than just prose and visual arts.
Poetry is just a few years shy of its 110th anniversary now, and it’s outlasted any other attempt made to publish interesting verse in the English language. For years, until a bequest by the estate of Ruth Lilly, its finances were, to say the least, living on a tightrope — writing and publishing poetry has never been an insanely profitable enterprise, even in the days of the bards. The publishers and editors have persisted like Elizabeth Warren, though, their mission to bring to attention the best in verse, both old and new, and to show there’s more to poetry than 19th-century romanticism, especially in America. You can learn more of the magazine’s history at their site.
The publishers have done a truly excellent thing, which draws me back time and time again to their site — they have placed their entire issue archive online for free. This brings an extraordinarily deep reservoir of work out into the widest possible availability, and I’ve been using it lately for my pieces here on the blog. I encourage you to stop by their site and browse through this collection, as well as searching by keywords for poems that may strike you as useful … or just for your own personal reading and enrichment. Remember that Goethe said, among the things we should do each day, is read a good poem. It gives you something to think about besides the depressing cadences of the news and Facebook.
This well and building are only part of a lovely build called Otter Cove, with lots of opportunities for photography. See below for the landmark.
Still half asleep, I sought the hill and found My vantage place, then stood a moment there To probe the wind for some familiar sound; But no vibrtation moved along the air, And I learned nothing that I did not know From the far east’s faint conglomerate glow.
A lovely build deserves a lovely dress. This spring outfit from Meva fits the need quite nicely!
I asked the stars, what destiny awaits Beyond this dark incalculable night? … And suddenly, incredibly, the gates Of morning opened to approaching light; Then, somewhere near, a bird began to sing — And my heart heard the whole world listening.
Great grandfather’s farm is still there But it isn’t the same ….
Judy Collins, “Secret Gardens”
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Some of my fondest memories are of a barn, such as the one you can just make out behind me here. After all, I may be much a product of cities and college these days, but I started out as a country girl in rural Michigan.
I am that woman who would wait for dawn, Nor slept while the slow moon rode into sight;
Who, fighting weariness, gazed full upon The starry circle drawn around the night.
I saw the Milky Way fade like a cloud, And, drowsy-lidded, watched the distance grow Between me and the Pleiades, nor bowed To heavy hands of sleep upon my brow.
Then, when night grew more stilly palpitate Listening for the faint birth-cry of morn, And the cock crew, I, at the very gate, Fell into cloddish slumber, all out-worn.
Even as I slept, soft as a look or sigh, The Dawn with Love beside her passed me by.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies ….
George Gordon, Lord Byron, “She Walks In Beauty”
Writing the previous article reminded me of a piece I wrote back in 2013, close to this time of the year, in fact (I published it on August 31). It had been about the time of the 2013 Black Fair, and Pure Poison … who were making clothing instead of shoes back then … had just released this lovely gown, all glittering sequins and a netting overgown that melted my buyer’s resistance into a puddle of goo. I just about titled that last article the same thing as six years ago; fortunately, I recalled the previous, and found another poem, by a poet I’ve loved for years, Edna St. Vincent Millay.
She had forgotten how the August night Was level as a lake beneath the moon, In which she swam a little, losing sight Of shore; and how the boy, who was at noon Simple enough, not different from the rest, Wore now a pleasant mystery as he went, Which seemed to her an honest enough test Whether she loved him, and she was content.
Second Life® with Harper, Conan, Jem, Diana and Morgan
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