Dear loved papa, I so much want to see you. I have just ended my lesson of arithmetic, I think that I succeeded well. We go to school of nurses, I am very happy there. Today it is raining and it is very humid. I am in Tatiana’s room with Olga and Tatiana. When you will see Boba, say to him that my hands itch me. I try to breed my own livestock of poetry of earth. Olga says that I smell poor, but it is not true. When you will come back, I shall wash myself in your tub. I hope that you did not forget the history which I told you during our promenade. I am sitting down and scratch my nose with the left hand. Olga wanted to slap me for it, but I avoided the hand. Be happy and in good health. I think extremely of you and embrace you tenderly.
I sometimes think that we are like Stars in the Galaxy, the Time-travellers, millions and trillions of them are being born and being deceased every moment, as I write this note. Those who are being born right now cannot be seen by us, until the light from them should reach to us after many centuries or milleniums to come. The Stars twinkle, brighten our world, and many a times they burst into Supernova to illuminate the whole of universe. Just like Stars, we too like to leave our marks, with our divine sparks of intelligence that transform into our creations, writings, paintings, poetry, and inventions etc, something that we always struggle to salvage from the inebitable great dance of death. And each Star thus becomes the mirror that reflects that divine light within us, the humans and all the life on Earth alike.
I take as metaphysical poetry that in which what is ordinarily apprehensible only by thought is brought within the grasp of feeling, or that in which what is ordinarily only felt is transformed into thought without ceasing to be feeling.
If a man is called to be a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven played music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper who did his job well.
“From Conrad Aiken to Flannery O’Connor to Midnight, Savannah has always been a literary town. But certainly one of her most consistently excellent—and consistently underrated—writers is the man known as Aberjhani. Known for his nationally published short stories and poetry Aberjhani has received critical acclaim for his ability to encapsulate the Southern black experience in a sensitive and poignant way that’s accessible to readers of any race or region.” --from All That Jazz
”Aberjhani is also known as author of Encyclopedia of the Harlem Renaissance, The Bridge of Silver Wings, and The Wisdom of W.E.B. Dubois. He publishes often in various publications, print and online. His poetry has an intensely intimate courage, the sort we would all wish to have, but too often hold protectively back.”
I decided that it was not wisdom that enabled poets to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they mean.
I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce, and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain.
Books are the carriers of civilization. Without books, history is silent, literature dumb, science crippled, thought and speculation at a standstill. I think that there is nothing, not even crime, more opposed to poetry, to philosophy, ay, to life itself than this incessant business.
When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.
A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.