So interesting— we seem to be tapping into the same streams… I wrote about Atlas yesterday… not a poem, just in a comment to a substacker seeking some physical attention. I recommended lying on the ground and feeling the warm weight of the world like mother earths embrace, in a pose like Atlas, but without the frustration and the frantic pace.
So interesting— we seem to be tapping into the same streams… I wrote about Atlas yesterday… not a poem, just in a comment to a substacker seeking some physical attention. I recommended lying on the ground and feeling the warm weight of the world like mother earths embrace, in a pose like Atlas, but without the frustration and the frantic pace.
It’s lovely and thoughtful. It reminds me of ‘Atlas’ by U A Fanthorpe -
Atlas
There is a kind of love called maintenance,
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;
Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget
The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;
Which answers letters; which knows the way
The money goes, which deals with dentists
And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,
And postcards to the lonely; which upholds
The permanently rickety elaborate
Structures of living; which is Atlas.
And maintenance is the sensible side of love,
Which knows what time and weather are doing
To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;
Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers
My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps
My suspect edifice upright in the air,
As Atlas did the sky.
by U.A. Fanthorpe