#e.j. pratt

[intentionalsolitude]

from E.J. Pratt’s “The Good Earth”

[ohappylivingthings]

There is no silence upon the earth or under the earth like the silence under the sea;

No cries announcing birth,

No sounds declaring death.

(...)

There is no fury upon the earth like the fury under the sea. For growl and cough and snarl are the tokens of spendthrifts who know not the ultimate economy of rage.

Moreover, the pace of the blood is too fast.

But under the waves the blood is sluggard and has the same temperature as that of the sea.

From "Silences" by E.J. Pratt (1937)

[solitairesolstice]

I’m currently reading a collection of Canadian poetry and this one is my favourite so far

[ohappylivingthings]

Here the crags

Meet with winds and tides--

Not with that blind interchange

Of blow for blow

That spills the thunder of insentient seas;

But with the mind that reads assault

In crouch and leap and the quick stealth,

Stiffening the muscles of the waves.

Here they flank the harbours,

Keeping watch

On thresholds, altars and the fires of home,

Or, like mastiffs,

Over-zealous,

Guard too well.

From "Newfoundland" by E.J. Pratt (1923)

[ohappylivingthings]

"Erosion" by E.J. Pratt.

[elegantzombielite]

"The mark of the educated man is not in his boast that he has built his mountain of facts and stood on the top of it, but in his admission that there may be other peaks in the same range with men on the top of them, and that, though their views of the landscape may be different from his, they are nonetheless legitimate."

E.J. Pratt, poet (4 February 1882-1964)

[lyssahumana]

The mark of the educated man is not in his boast that he has built his mountain of facts and stood on the top of it, but in his admission that there may be other peaks in the same range with men on the top of them, and that, though their views of the landscape may be different from his, they are nonetheless legitimate.

E.J. Pratt, poet (4 Feb 1882-1964)

[sorexvagrans]

The Shark

by E.J. Pratt

He seemed to know the harbour, So leisurely he swam; His fin, Like a piece of sheet-iron, Three-cornered, And with knife-edge, Stirred not a bubble As it moved With its base-line on the water. His body was tubular And tapered And smoke-blue, And as he passed the wharf He turned, And snapped at a flat-fish That was dead and floating. And I saw the flash of a white throat, And a double row of white teeth, And eyes of metallic grey, Hard and narrow and slit. Then out of the harbour, With that three-cornered fin Shearing without a bubble the water Lithely, Leisurely, He swam— That strange fish, Tubular, tapered, smoke-blue, Part vulture, part wolf, Part neither—for his blood was cold.