Distilling Marcel Proust – Shadorma – January 16, 2016

the bench

fear of death
awakens our mind
our slothful
careless mind
to all that we will miss upon
slipping through the veil …

how careless
to be bored by life
tomorrow
or tonight
our life might slip away – gone
it’s our human fate

© G.s.k. ‘16

 

B&P Shadorma & Beyond – January 15, 2016 – Distillation 

This week we will do a poetry distillation … the poem I chose read by Alan Rickman passed away this week is: Text: Marcel Proust – Life Would Suddenly Seem Wonderful.  I’ll be distilling it into a shadorma.

[A shadorma is a non-rhyming six-line poem with a syllable count of 3/5/3/3/7/5.]

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15 thoughts on “Distilling Marcel Proust – Shadorma – January 16, 2016

  1. Dolce far niente is probably my greatest talent….letting life slip me by daydreaming out the window, eating a piece of chocolate cake or curling up under a duvet. Life is too beautiful to be boring…if you only focus on people you will always be disappointed. I like your thought provoking poems.

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    • An I like your dolce far niente … I do really think that “doing” is so over-rated … sometimes people tend to do so much that they do themselves out of a life.

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  2. The death of someone in the public eye seems to be even more powerful in showing this delicate thread we call life. I guess because while we mourn for them, it’s not an intimate mourning. There is room for kind of, analyzing life and death. When it’s someone close, it is just too close and thought almost stops.

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    • Sometimes … not always though. In a way though I do agree that someone in the public eye sort of becomes a projection of our reality … or maybe it would be better to say of our idea of reality. A writer for example, if you’re like me, you know little or nothing about his life – you know him through his books, his words the projection of ideas and sentiments and all these are that person to us. We have a contact with that person which can be far more intimate than we might have with someone we’ve lived with forever … even if that writer to his/her loved ones might have been completely different from what we imagine him/er to be. A person of this sort who dies leaves an emptiness because their figure is beyond and above the death of “just any person”. I don’t know if I expressed that well … but more or less that’s what I think might happen.

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