Immaturity

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Knoted4ever
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Immaturity

Postby Knoted4ever » Mon, Sep 03 2007, 12:39 PM

Immaturity is a lack of Understanding

(while going beyond time is true wisdom)

... and kite flying doesn't hold a candle to understanding





BURNT NORTON
(No. 1 of 'Four Quartets')


from T.S. Eliot



I

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.



II

Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.



III

Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.

Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Desiccation of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movement; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.



IV

Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?

Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.



V

Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.

The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.
Tom P.
Illinois_______ (excerpt from E. E. Cummings: "How many winds make wonderful... and is luck The skeleton of life")

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Mike
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Re: Immaturity

Postby Mike » Mon, Sep 03 2007, 01:19 PM

Jeez Tom, you don't give us easy reading!
Maybe we should have an IKE poetry class this winter and you can help explain this poem to us!

... and kite flying doesn't hold a candle to understanding

How can you say that!

I think you've found the difference between Dual and Quads. Quad fliers are about precision and control. Dual line trick fliers are about contemplation and the nature of the universe. :-)

Actually, I think it must be the SLK folks who are the contemplative ones. You should try sewing up a single line to fly, Tom.

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Babbman
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Re: Immaturity

Postby Babbman » Mon, Sep 03 2007, 03:06 PM

The extent of my love of poetry...

I do not like them in a box.
I do not like them with a fox.
I do not like them in a house.
I do not like them with a mouse.
I do not like them here or there.
I do not like them anywhere.
I do not like green eggs and ham.
I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

then again, I've been reading them for 5 years now... and I honestly enjoy them!...

My favorite one?

Fox in Socks by Dr. Seuss
-------------------------

Fox
Socks
Box
Knox

Knox in box.
Fox in socks.

Knox on fox in socks in box.

Socks on Knox and Knox in box.

Fox in socks on box on Knox.

Chicks with bricks come.
Chicks with blocks come.
Chicks with bricks and blocks and clocks come.

Look, sir. Look, sir. Mr. Knox, sir.
Let's do tricks with bricks and blocks, sir.
Let's do tricks with chicks and clocks, sir.

First, I'll make a quick trick brick stack.
Then I'll make a quick trick block stack.

You can make a quick trick chick stack.
You can make a quick trick clock stack.

And here's a new trick, Mr. Knox....
Socks on chicks and chicks on fox.
Fox on clocks on bricks and blocks.
Bricks and blocks on Knox on box.

Now we come to ticks and tocks, sir.
Try to say this Mr. Knox, sir....

Clocks on fox tick.
Clocks on Knox tock.
Six sick bricks tick.
Six sick chicks tock.

Please, sir. I don't like this trick, sir.
My tongue isn't quick or slick, sir.
I get all those ticks and clocks, sir,
mixed up with the chicks and tocks, sir.
I can't do it, Mr. Fox, sir.

I'm so sorry, Mr. Knox, sir.

Here's an easy game to play.
Here's an easy thing to say....

New socks.
Two socks.
Whose socks?
Sue's socks.

Who sews whose socks?
Sue sews Sue's socks.

Who sees who sew whose new socks, sir?
You see Sue sew Sue's new socks, sir.

That's not easy, Mr. Fox, sir.

Who comes? ...
Crow comes.
Slow Joe Crow comes.

Who sews crow's clothes?
Sue sews crow's clothes.
Slow Joe Crow sews whose clothes?
Sue's clothes.

Sue sews socks of fox in socks now.

Slow Joe Crow sews Knox in box now.

Sue sews rose on Slow Joe Crow's clothes.
Fox sews hose on Slow Joe Crow's nose.

Hose goes.
Rose grows.
Nose hose goes some.
Crow's rose grows some.

Mr. Fox!
I hate this game, sir.
This game makes my tongue quite lame, sir.

Mr. Knox, sir, what a shame, sir.

We'll find something new to do now.
Here is lots of new blue goo now.
New goo. Blue goo.
Gooey. Gooey.
Blue goo. New goo.
Gluey. Gluey.

Gooey goo for chewy chewing!
That's what that Goo-Goose is doing.
Do you choose to chew goo, too, sir?
If, sir, you, sir, choose to chew, sir,
with the Goo-Goose, chew, sir.
Do, sir.

Mr. Fox, sir,
I won't do it.
I can't say.
I won't chew it.

Very well, sir.
Step this way.
We'll find another game to play.

Bim comes.
Ben comes.
Bim brings Ben broom.
Ben brings Bim broom.

Ben bends Bim's broom.
Bim bends Ben's broom.
Bim's bends.
Ben's bends.
Ben's bent broom breaks.
Bim's bent broom breaks.

Ben's band. Bim's band.
Big bands. Pig bands.

Bim and Ben lead bands with brooms.
Ben's band bangs and Bim's band booms.

Pig band! Boom band!
Big band! Broom band!
My poor mouth can't say that. No, sir.
My poor mouth is much too slow, sir.

Well then... bring your mouth this way.
I'll find it something it can say.

Luke Luck likes lakes.
Luke's duck likes lakes.
Luke Luck licks lakes.
Luck's duck licks lakes.

Duck takes licks in lakes Luke Luck likes.
Luke Luck takes licks in lakes duck likes.

I can't blab such blibber blubber!
My tongue isn't make of rubber.

Mr. Knox. Now come now. Come now.
You don't have to be so dumb now....

Try to say this, Mr. Knox, please....

Through three cheese trees three free fleas flew.
While these fleas flew, freezy breeze blew.
Freezy breeze made these three trees freeze.
Freezy trees made these trees' cheese freeze.
That's what made these three free fleas sneeze.

Stop it! Stop it!
That's enough, sir.
I can't say such silly stuff, sir.

Very well, then, Mr. Knox, sir.

Let's have a little talk about tweetle beetles....

What do you know about tweetle beetles? Well...

When tweetle beetles fight,
it's called a tweetle beetle battle.

And when they battle in a puddle,
it's a tweetle beetle puddle battle.

AND when tweetle beetles battle with paddles in a puddle,
they call it a tweetle beetle puddle paddle battle.

AND...

When beetles battle beetles in a puddle paddle battle
and the beetle battle puddle is a puddle in a bottle...
...they call this a tweetle beetle bottle puddle paddle battle muddle.

AND...

When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles
and the bottle's on a poodle and the poodle's eating noodles...
...they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle
bottle paddle battle.

AND...

Now wait a minute, Mr. Socks Fox!

When a fox is in the bottle where the tweetle beetles battle
with their paddles in a puddle on a noodle-eating poodle,
THIS is what they call...

...a tweetle beetle noodle poodle bottled paddled
muddled duddled fuddled wuddled fox in socks, sir!

Fox in socks, our game is done, sir.
Thank you for a lot of fun, sir.

Chris (aka Babbman)

They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety...
Benjamin Franklin, Historical Review of Pennsylvania, 1759

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Mike
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Re: Immaturity

Postby Mike » Mon, Sep 03 2007, 04:52 PM

For some reason, at our house whenever someone complains about cold feet we tend to reply "I have a bird I like to hold".


Image

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Knoted4ever
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Re: Immaturity

Postby Knoted4ever » Tue, Sep 04 2007, 11:56 PM

Mike wrote:Jeez Tom, you don't give us easy reading!
Maybe we should have an IKE poetry class this winter and you can help explain this poem to us!

... and kite flying doesn't hold a candle to understanding

How can you say that!

I think you've found the difference between Dual and Quads. Quad fliers are about precision and control. Dual line trick fliers are about contemplation and the nature of the universe. :-)

Actually, I think it must be the SLK folks who are the contemplative ones. You should try sewing up a single line to fly, Tom.




i would be glad to help with an IKE poetry class this winter... but i'm afraid those attending may pass out in shock! :shock:

Of course dual line kite flying is for deep and profound contemplation! With Yin as one hand and Yang as the other (what is the sound of one hand clapping?)... how could one do anything other than deep contemplation?

After seeing Chris' ("Fool" from Ohio) awesome Double Star which he made... i may very well get into SLKs! :!:


A few quotes from Wallace Stevens:



Reality is the motif.


Wisdom asks nothing more.


Poetry is a health.


There must be some wing on which to fly.


Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.


The theory of poetry is the theory of life.


Success is to be happy with the wise.


To sit in a park and listen to the locusts; to sit in a park and hear church-bells---two pasts or one present and one past?


The stream of consciousness is individual; the stream of life is total. Or, the stream of consciousness is individual, the stream of life, total.


The poet is the priest of the invisible.
Tom P.

Illinois_______ (excerpt from E. E. Cummings: "How many winds make wonderful... and is luck The skeleton of life")


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