The nature’s poet

I was reading some old emails and really felt grateful that I left behind an old life. Of course in my weakest of state I crafted some unimaginable pieces; characters and plots, posture and positions in dance and in writing. I was ill and strained and in my time spent in bed, I read quite a lot.

But I do not want to turn back. 

2009 has been refreshing. A few days ago I took my morning walks (which has now turned afternoon) to the outside countryside, quite close to the winding roads towards the narrow town of Kenilworth. I slept on the grass and listened to the Earth breathing, as I breathed with it. The area was so vast, so unlimited, so unlimiting, – no wonder Thoreau went into the woods, no wonder he tracked through nature to discover his bigger purpose, his life, his writing and in it his peace.  

I have places on my list. I know the Earth will never exhaust me. I want it to amaze me a million times over, to liberate this constraining mind. How does it feel to run through the fields, chasing the sun with the wind in your hair and through your fingertips…….or to dance in yellow fields of daisies and tulips……it is a beautiful feeling. I don’t think anything else makes me happier.

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. 
Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.
The winds will blow their own freshness into you… 
while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. (John Muir)

Thoreau in Nature

” There is nothing so sanative, so poetic,” he writes, ” as a walk in the woods and fields even now, when I meet none abroad for pleasure . Nothing so  inspires me, and excites such serene and profitable thought. . . . Alone in distant woods or fields, in unpretending sproutlands or pastures tracked by rabbits, even in a bleak and, to most, cheerless day like this, when a villager would be thinking o£ his inn, I come to myself, I once more feel myself grandly related. This cold and solitude are friends of mine. . . . I get away a mile or two from the town, into the stillness and solitude of nature, with rocks, trees, weeds, snow about….I enter some glade in the woods, perchance, where a few weeds and dry leaves alone lift themselves above the surface of the snow, and it is as if I had come to an open window. I see out and around myself. . . . This stillness. solitude, wildness of nature is a kind of thorough Nvort or boneset to my intellect. This is what I go out to seek.”

Nature and the Poet

The poet must live open to the sky and the wind ; his road must be prepared for him ; and yet not only for strength, but for beauty, the poet must, from time to time, travel the logger’s path and the Indian’s trail, to drink at some new and more bracing fountain of the Muses.


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