Four Aphorisms by Alessandro Morandotti

 Cherishing an idea can become so compromising that you have to marry it.

There's a difference between forgetting and not recalling.

Those who do not believe in coincidence lose it.

Only those are faithful who do not have the ability to be otherwise.

Poem: The River Merchant's Wife: a Letter, by Ezra Pound

 Here's a poem by Ezra Pound: https://mypoeticside.com/show-classic-poem-22742

Poem: Leaving

Leaving

The sky full of singing water,
the furrows thick with spring flowers,
are haunted with the fragrance of wind. 
No one else could know this like you. 
No other upheaval could be your hands on my chest. 
Tell me, do you know the spring water in the sunlight,
the best of chance and resolve?  This is good news,
the only news worth knowing.  It is daylight here,
as everywhere.  We need the rain, the sun.  We need
our hands on each other’s backs.  I knew when I saw you
I could never understand why you left me to go north,
why the ocean stopped its roaming and every body ushered
in the clouds.  No one could tell me why the land
crept westward with frost across the face of a guess,
why the night was imperial. Everyone forgot me. 
My only ambition was to leave.

Jonathan Winters

As I stated earlier, I used to work full time, but now I draw disability due to bipolar disorder. I watch a lot of Youtube. Sometimes I post videos of what I like here on my blog. I've been watching a lot of old Jonathan Winters videos lately. Winters was a comedian back in the sixties and seventies. He was probably the wittiest person on television. Here's a couple of videos of his comedy: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/U9itKlI_nWA   

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/ccTfiDTW2tY

Poem: The Subject of a Small World

The Subject of a Small World

A man walks across his backyard
as the only subject of a small world,
where a frenzy of finches and sparrows
fidget in the light they occupy. 
Crows squawk from high branches. 
He sees and hears himself laughing. 
None of the animals miss the point
of his wandering—patterns of a body
in play—but he misses everything in his
joy.  Delusion never comes at the wrong
time.  UFOs, devil men, and the unreason
of expectation slather the land with thick
pigments.  Whatever meant to hurry
the world hurries him.  His head is like
a bell with a cork clapper.  Yet his
whole body hears himself ringing, striking
the seconds and the hours, praising
the stars he cannot see and the stars
he sees in the flowers as if they
were all he could understand. 
He knows the rising sun better than anyone
can know his own body, better than a man
can know a woman or a monk can know
his cell.  The world expands
for him, opening like a lover on a late
night when her man has come
in from a long trip.  He never tires. 
He rages mirthfully.  What amuses him
never stops changing, jingling in a chorus
of twenty keys, sounding like a far-off
voice that calls him to come see himself
after the winter has passed.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

This is maybe the greatest poem of the Twentieth Century. Notice how dreamlike it is. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/44212/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock

Three Aphorisms

"Many of life's failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up."--Thomas Edison

"The poet makes silk dresses out of worms."--Wallace Stevens

"After one has abandoned a belief in god, poetry is that essence which takes its place in life's redemption."--Wallace Stevens