11.21.08
8th Letter to a Future Daughter
Dear Sofia,
…because the clock of my age struck one year more, you would regard me to have matured or to have outgrown extravagant thoughts that are considered childish to those who cannot afford to love, dream, and wish. Perhaps you assume that I have learned to ignore you and yearn less – that I have stashed you away beneath my consciousness because of how meagerly I write to you nowadays. But more and more these days, on solitary walks and lonely byways, when I drive past fields on rainy mornings, or see the sky come alive with stars’ twinklings, when the blazing sunset engulfs me, and my soul takes off and inhabits neither land nor sea, I discover myself thinking about him and you, and no other,
believing that each of us belonged to no one
but each other.
But I’ll wait a little longer.
.
To read all Letters to a Future Daughter, Click Here.
.
jonathan hawk said,
November 21, 2008 at 10:23 am
reflections of the ties that bind you, together. beautiful. may you have unbending intent until this, and all of your dreams - are realized.
Miracle ♪♫ said,
November 21, 2008 at 11:51 am
=)
Thanks, Jonathan…
balowen said,
July 10, 2009 at 11:01 am
….believing that each of us belonged to no one
i remember leaves of grass by walt whitman on this line. =)
Miracle ♪♫ said,
July 10, 2009 at 11:26 am
Is there a particular poem from Leaves of Grass which you’re referring to, Owen? I like Whitman! =)
Anonymous said,
July 10, 2009 at 11:56 am
i actually have not read the whole Witman’s Leaves of Grass but it was quoted many times in the novel of Michael Cunningham’s Specimen Days..it says “every atom of mine belongs to you”.. etc etc.. Witman triggers my interest on prose writings as well as your’s. =)
owen said,
July 10, 2009 at 12:06 pm
i actually have not read the whole Witman’s leaves of Grass poem but it was quoted many times in the novel of Michael Cunningham’s Specimen Days. It states..
No body really dies,
We go on in the grass.
We go on in the trees..
…Every atom of mine belongs to you,too.
Your’s and Witman’s writings are really great reads.
Im starting to love prose.
=)
Miracle ♪♫ said,
July 10, 2009 at 12:47 pm
Awww… that’s sweet, Owen. Although I’ll never be 1% the writer Whitman was, it’s nice to know that I remind you of him. hehe =)
One of my favorite poems is Miracles, by Whitman. It speaks for me, and to me. =)
Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the
water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love–or sleep in the bed at night with
any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds–or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down–or of stars shining so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best–
mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans–or to the soiree–or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old
woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring–yet each distinct, and in its place.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the
same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass–the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim–the rocks–the motion of the waves–the ships,
with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
…and he goes on to say, “each part and tag of me is a miracle.”
Beautiful, isn’t it? =)
owen said,
July 10, 2009 at 5:19 pm
indeed, it is.. =) lovely! words of Whitman’s are bringing evrything to life.
balowen said,
July 11, 2009 at 10:01 am
btw mirs, let me correct, i was inlove with prose now i think im falling with literature.* heheh!=)
Miracle ♪♫ said,
July 11, 2009 at 11:46 am
Hehe… =) Yes, there is prose that is not literature, but there is also prose that is literature. Enjoy reading, Owen. There is so much to discover. =)