I want to write poetry. Now. But my mind isn't amenable, and my brain won't listen unless the Mind Pathway is open and uncluttered.
So I read.
***
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
~ Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evenings full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
***
Yeats puts into verse what we feel and think, but can't translate. Or perhaps it's the other way around. Either way, they click: his verse and our thought.
Lake Isle is a contained little poem (like most others of his), and it brims to the neck with a deep want to find a place of one's own:
that one place where everything is as it should be, and everything is as one wants. And there is no disturbance, either of the Mind or of people or of the world, and peace is everywhere because there is nothing to destroy it. This isn't hard-won, desperately-saved peace, but it comes "dropping slowly", beautifully, quietly, of a dew-misted morning and stays contentedly, for there isn't anything to shoo it away. It is like... a serene, azure lake, unspoiled by ripples or waves.
I don't think our Innisfree is east of Lough Gill. It's right here, deep inside. Finding it, though, is a different matter. Though it occurs to me now: we wouldn't value our Innisfree as much if there were no pavements of drab, grey stone.
