Donnas Poems From The Heart Vol #1

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I followed my desire so closely that hunting one day as was my custom, I saw that creature, wild and beautiful, standing naked in a pool, when the sun shone most brightly. I, because no other sight so pleases me, stood and gazed: she covered in her shame: and for revenge or to hide herself, she splashed water in my face, with her hand. I speak the truth though I may seem to lie that I felt myself altered from my true form, and swiftly transmuted to a lonely stag, wandering from wood to wood: and fleeing from my own pack of hounds.

Search out a steadier fount than mine, which only wells in an impoverished stream, except for that which distils from my tears. Now God has returned you to the true way, I lift my hands with all my heart to heaven, thankful to him who in his mercy listens benignly to honest human prayers. And if in returning to the loving path, you found hills and ditches in your way enough to almost make you turn back, it was to show how thorny is the road, and how mountainous and hard the climb, if a man would find where true worth lies.

Note : See Luke XV. That mild and gentle lamb of yours destroys the fierce wolves: and so may it be with all who shatter lawful alliances. Console her then, you whom she waits for, and Rome who still complains of her spouse, and take up the sword now for Christ. Perhaps the devoted and loving prayers and the sacred tears of mortal beings have made their way towards the highest pity: and perhaps they were not great enough nor such as to merit eternal justice bending even a little from its course: but the benign king who governs the heavens through grace turns his eyes to the sacred place where one hung on the cross, breathing vengeance into the heart of the new Charlemagne, so that delay would hurt us, since Europe has sighed for it for many years: so he brings aid to his beloved spouse so that merely at his voice Babylon trembles, and stands amazed.

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What love, so lawful and worthy, whether of children or of wife, was the subject of such a just design? So that if they became more devout than they are, and took up swords with German fury, we would soon find out the worth of the Turks, and Arabs, and Chaldeans, with all the gods they place their hopes in, this side of the sea with blood-red waters: lazy and fearful, naked peoples, who never fight with steel, but commit their weapons to the winds.

What hope can the enemy have or human defence if Christ fights against them? Remember the rash audacity of Xerxes who outraged the sea with alien bridges made in order to land on our shores: and see how all the Persian women were dressed in black for their dead husbands: and the sea at Salamis tinted red. And not only is victory promised by that ruinous misery for the sad Eastern peoples, but Marathon, and that vital pass that the Spartan lion defended with the few, and other battles you have heard of or read: so we should certainly bow to God, our knees and spirit, He who has preserved our age for so much good.

And even if my spirit begins to grieve, losing its judgement, when suffering brings doubt, the loose will is quickly restrained by the sight of her, who razes from my heart every mad project, and makes all disdain sweet through seeing her.

I will have revenge, for all that Love has made me suffer, all I must still suffer until she heals the heart she ravaged, she, alien to pity, but still enticing, unless Anger and Pride opposing Humility close off and deny the way that leads to her. And the day and the hour that opened my eyes to the lovely dark and the lovely white that emptied me of that where Love now lives, were the new roots of the life that troubles me, as she does in whom our age is reflected, for he is made of lead or stone whom she does not make afraid. My own thoughts struggle against me: so Dido, weary as I am now, turned her beloved sword against herself: yet I do not pray for my freedom, since all other roads to heaven are less true, and there is no safer ship in which to aspire to the glorious kingdom.

Benign stars that were friends to that fortunate womb when that beauty came to this world! She is a star on earth, and she keeps her chastity as laurel stays green, so no lightning strikes her, no shameful breeze can ever force her. I know that to capture her praise in verse would be to exceed the most worthy that set hand to writing. What cell of memory is there in which to hold so much virtue and so much beauty together that shine in her eyes, the sign of all value, the key to unlock my heart.

Such lovely eyes were never seen in our age or in earlier years, that melt me as sun melts the snow: from which proceeds a tear-drenched shore a stream that Love leads under harsh laurel, that has branches of steel, and golden hair. The laurel, topaz in sun on snow, is exceeded by blonde hair near the eyes that bring my years so slowly to shore. If it passed between Venus, the third light, and Mars, it would lessen the brightness of the sun, since noble spirits would gather round her merely to gaze at her infinite beauty. The sight of these eyes is not yet taken from you. So now I believe that mountains and river-banks and rivers and forests know the quality of my life, hidden from others.

Yet I find there is no path so wild or harsh that love will not always come there speaking with me, and I with him. This hope sustained me for a time: but now it fails I spend too much time on it. Time passes and the hours are so quick to complete their journey, that I have no space even to think how I race towards death.

A ray of sunlight has hardly appeared in the east before you see it strike a high peak on the opposite horizon, by a long curving path. Life is so short, the bodies of mortal men so burdensome and weak, that when I recall how I am separated from that lovely face, unable to move the wings of my desire, my usual solace is of little help, and how long can I live in such a state.

All places sadden me where I do not see those beautiful bright eyes which carried off the keys of my thoughts, sweet while it pleased God: and all to make my harsh exile harder, if I sleep or walk or sit, I long for nothing more, and nothing I see after them can please me. How many mountains and waters, how many seas and rivers, hide me from those two eyes, that almost made a clear sky at noon from my shadows, only for memory to consume me more, and to show how joyous my life was before while my present is harsh and troubled.

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Ah, if speaking of it so rekindles that ardent desire that was born on the day when I left the better part of me behind, and if Love fades away with long neglect why am I drawn to the bait that makes my sorrow grow? And why not rather be turned to silent stone? Surely crystal or glass never showed colour hidden within more clearly than my desolate soul reveals my thoughts and the savage sweetness in my heart through eyes that always wish to weep day and night so she might give it rest.

How human wit often turns to seek out new pleasures, and loves whatever is new gathering a greater crowd of sighs! And I am one whom weeping delights: and as I bend my wits to fill my eyes with tears, so my heart fills with grief: and since it induces passion to speak of her lovely eyes and nothing touches me or makes me feel so deeply, I often rush to return to that which fills me with greater pain, and with my heart both my eyes are punished that led me along the road of Love.


And so I may weep with more delight her slender white hands and her gentle arms and her gestures sweetly noble and her sweet disdain proudly humble and her lovely young heart, a tower of noble feeling, are hidden from me by wild mountainous places: and I do not truly hope to see her before I die: since hope rises from time to time, but then does not stand firm, and recedes, confirming that I will never see her, whom the heavens honour, where Honesty and Courtesy reside, and where I pray my residence might be.

Do not touch it: but do reverence at her feet and say I shall be there as swiftly as I can, as naked spirit, or man of flesh and bone. And I grieve for a white hand too often lifted shrewdly to do me harm, and rising like a rock before my eyes. There is no difficult or high place from now on, I would not reach to avoid what scatters my senses leaving me as if I were cold enamel. So if I turned towards you only lately not to be nearer what consumes me, perhaps I am not without a true excuse.

More, to return to the place I fled from, and free my heart from such deep fear, is no light testimony to my loyalty. But since, to finish the labour, I lack some of those sacred threads revealed in those works of my beloved teacher, why do you close your hand to me, against your custom?

A breeze blows from the western shore that makes it safe to sail without art, and fills the grass with flowers in every meadow.

So that tired of searching, not knowing where she might be, whether near or far, he appeared to us like one maddened by grief, who cannot find again a much loved thing. And positioned apart and being so sad he did not see that face return, that if I live will be praised in more than a thousand lines: and suffering had even altered that face, until the lovely eyes left off weeping: so the sky remained in its former state.

But you whom pity never caused to pale, who always have your veil to protect you against the bow Love draws in vain, see me tormented by a thousand deaths: and yet have never let one tear fall from your sweet eyes, only disdain and anger.

Volume 17, Issue 1 (2013)

Through its promptings, Lady, I have been driven from my sweet resting-place: wretched exile, though I could not rightly stay where you alone can have existence. But if I had been fixed there with firm rivets, that mirror would not have made you proud and harsh, pleasing to yourself, to my harm.

Surely you can remember Narcissus: that course and this runs to the same end, though the grass is not worthy of such a flower. So my life will be tearful and short, since great grief rarely withers or grows old: but I blame those fatal mirrors more, that you have wearied gazing at yourself. They imposed their silence on my lord, who prayed to you for me, so he was mute, seeing you sate your passion with yourself: they were created beneath the watery depths, and tinted with eternal oblivion, where the cause of my death was born. And it brought me, slowly and shamefully, to look on those delightful eyes, that I guard myself from so they may not grow cold.

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Donna's Poems From The Heart Vol #1 - Kindle edition by Donna Baker-Jackson. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Donna's Poems From The Heart Vol #1 eBook: Donna Baker-Jackson: Amazon.​ Kindle Store.

Perhaps like the great falls along the Nile that deafen those around with their vast roar, or the sun that dazzles those who gaze too hard, so desire that is not in tune with itself, unrestrained in its object, comes to grief, and by spurring hard its speed is slowed. But, alas, every grief the day brings me, grows when the eternal light begins to depart from us. While the sun turns his fiery wheel to give space to the night, while darker shadows fall from the highest peaks, the greedy peasant gathers his tools, and with the speech and music of the mountains, frees every heaviness from his heart: and then sets out the meal of an impoverished life, like those acorns in the Golden Age that all the world rejects but honours.

But let whoever will be happy hour on hour since I have never yet had rest an hour, not to speak of happiness, despite the wheeling of the sky and stars. When the shepherd sees the rays of the great star sink to the nest where they hide, darkening the eastern landscape, he rises to his feet, and with his usual staff, leaving the grass, the fountains and the beeches, gently moves his flock: far from other men in cave or hut, he scatters green leaves, and without thought lies down to sleep.

Ah cruel Love, instead you drive me on to follow the sound, the path and the traces, of a wild creature that consumes me, one I cannot catch, that hides and flees. And the sailors in some enclosed bay as the sun vanishes, throw their limbs on the hard boards, still in their soiled clothes. Native people have more 'heart'. One of the immediately striking things in Donna's story is that she not only knows stories from her immediate family; she knows her people's history.

The story includes not only recognition of and reaction to the macro forces of assimilation and their impact on the generations preceding hers, she reveals two other phenomena: the impact on her generation and subsequent generations, and Donna's identification with her people. It is clear that she does not consider herself to be an outsider. Next, the first author then created line breaks in the narrative and broke it into the form of a poem. In creating line breaks, she paid attention to keeping discrete units of meaning together and to the sound of the newly forming poem.

As stated earlier, the authors worked together to verify the accuracy and emotional integrity of the presentation. The second author checked to make certain that the creation of line breaks did not alter the most central messages of the narrative. The authors than reflected together on the degree to which the depth and accuracy of affected content was maintained.

This three step process helped assure the trustworthiness of the data.

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The authors decided to move a section of the respondent's quotation that appeared at the end of her conversation to the beginning of the research poem because the intensity of the rest of the respondent's words seemed to flow from that single observation. Other than that lone relocation of content, the authors worked to ensure that the respondent's words and thoughts remained intact as they were re-worked into a poetry format.

One thing I've heard is a psychosis among the Cree, Cannibalism of the Soul. It explains Euro oppression on this continent, power relations as we now have is not a mentality that we were raised with.

Native people have more heart. Cannibalism of the Soul. Resentment toward Catholicism. Things happened to my family a great influence I would have been next in line that's lost to me. Land base was taken, an impoverished people, forced to make meager wages knew how to work make a living. Growing up in my family we'd get too rambunctious, told we were acting like Indians.

Got too quiet acting like squaws. When my parents were married they were asked for their nationality, father put his hand over Grandfather's mouth and said: Irish. There are several benefits of transforming respondents' words into a poem. First, the condensed form of a research poem leads to a more powerful presentation of data. For the first author, having done the original research and being very familiar with the data, the impact of the poem was a surprise. The emotional intensity and the poignancy of the respondent's comments were intensified for the researcher, compared to the narrative.

In this sense, the poem may more accurately express the intensity of emotions conveyed that may be lost in a longer narrative.