Psyculture Poetry & Quotes

 

Quotes

Ubuntu is the essence of being human. Ubuntu says, ‘I am because you are. I can’t be me, unless you are you. I need you in order for me to be me, as you need me in order for you to be you.’
— Desmond Tutu
Beauty is about more rounded, substantial becoming. When we cross a new threshold, if we cross worthily, we heal the patterns of repetition that were in us, that had caught us somewhere. In our crossing, we cross on to new ground where we don’t repeat what we went through in the last place we were. Beauty is about an emerging fullness, a greater sense of grace and elegance, a deeper sense of depth, and a kind of homecoming for the enriched memory of your unfolding life.
— John O'Donohue
At some point I thought, ‘Well, I’ve been really lucky to see many places, now the great adventure is in the inner world.’ I’ve spent a lot of time gathering emotions, impressions and experiences. Now I just want to sit still for years on end charting that inner landscape. Anybody who travels knows you’re not really doing so in order to move around— you’re traveling in order to be moved. What you’re seeing is not just the Grand Canyon or the Great Wall but moods or intimations or places inside yourself that you never ordinarily see when you’re sleepwalking through your daily life.
— Pico Iyer
 

Poetry

Have you been compassionate to yourself today?

Have you looked at the sun, the blue sky
and known they were made just for you,
A soft quiet place to rest your head
your heart.

Have you read mystical poets
whose words are the arms of an infinitely tender God
opening
for you.

Have you taken a moment
to visit the child in your heart,
laughing if there is laughter,
playing if there is playfulness,
wrapping your arms around
slowly, easily if there is pain
if there are tears

murmuring,
’My little one
my dear
little one.’
— Gus F. Bliese
‘H’m’
and one said
speak to us of love
and the preacher opened
his mouth and the word of God
fell out so they tried
again speak to us
of God then but the preacher
was silent reaching
his arms out but the little
children the ones with
big bellies and bow
legs that were like
a razor shell
were too weak to come
— R.S. Thomas
SANTIAGO
The road seen, then not seen, the hillside
hiding then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
when you thought you would fall,
and the way forward always in the end
the way that you followed, the way that carried you
into your future, that brought you to this place,
no matter that it sometimes took your promise from you,
no matter that it had to break your heart along the way:
the sense of having walked from far inside yourself
for something that seemed to stand both inside you
and far beyond you, that called you back
to the only road in the end you could follow, walking
as you did, in your rags of love and speaking in the voice
that by night became a prayer for safe arrival,
so that one day you realized that what you wanted
had already happened long ago and in the dwelling place
you had lived in before you began,
and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise
that first set you off and drew you on and that you were
more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way
than the gilded roofs of any destination you could reach:
as if, all along, you had thought the end point might be a city
with golden towers, and cheering crowds,
and turning the corner at what you thought was the end
of the road, you found just a simple reflection,
and clear revelation beneath the face looking back
and beneath it another invitation, all in one glimpse:
like a person or a place you had sought forever,
like a broad field of freedom that beckoned you beyond;
like another life, and the road still stretching on.
— David Whyte
A BRIEF FOR THE DEFENSE
Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafes and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.
— Jack Gilbert
 

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