There Is No Safe Place nor Ever Can Be I Wonder Why: Seventy Three Poems of Seventy Three Views of One World

Xlibris Corporation
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Why does poetry continue to exist? It does not deliver information to solve problems or assist in helping with problems. Facts have no usefulness for rhyming couplets. We live our lives in comfort when we solve tangible problems effectively. Facts usually have some built into it reward system. That is, until we seek a closer communion with ourselves living in a world made to be separate from us. It is a world where not seeking of competitive advantages, that emotional world within, leads to being struck by some indefinable satisfaction to be trusted. It brings approval for the arts in their many forms. For me, the most beautiful of them is poetry, making words, when read, into sounds equal to the power of singing by using much the same rhythmic repeats but to be accomplished without need of voice or ears and to be more easily remembered ever after throughout a lifetime with the same emotional impact, and, sometimes more so as deeper understanding evolves with time.
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About the author

After living long enough to suspect everything and enjoy the experiences of people rushing off into every possible direction and also being cynical enough to wonder what’s going on around me, I’m not likely ever to get my sought after answers to the biggest of the thoughts I wonder about. Me and most of humankind, and maybe some animal here or there not as yet understood by us, remain endlessly curious. What remains true, I’m not able to crack open the big answer into any of the unknown we are all staring at. My only destiny, along with centuries of others like me, is to make every attempt to handle the job of being one more of the strange species that have to be perplexed and by writing about it. —Maurice Siegel

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Additional Information

Publisher
Xlibris Corporation
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Published on
Sep 24, 2015
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Pages
138
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ISBN
9781514409176
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Language
English
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Genres
Poetry / General
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Content Protection
This content is DRM protected.
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Available on Android devices
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Maurice Siegel
What is a word? I mean to that brain of ours, a sound distinctly different from tree branches in motion or those of leaves hanging down uncertain what to do next. We get simple instructions from tree noises except for getting out of the way should one of them collapse. Not much information was gathered after a life of staring up at trees in awe, not even a smile. The reason is obvious. We have to be told what a word is when struck on the ears for the first time, generally intended to identify some object that can bring danger or caring or usefulness. After that identification, its clear sailing. The word grows like the tree does, with additional information tacked on to get you to laugh or cry or shrug or wonder or turn away unconcerned. Unless the word is attached to other words, words lurking about that can be hooked up with ease. Something new will happen. The mind can become busy directing the body to cause something to come about. Something to come about comes in two sizes. The one size we know the best is an action to change what is around our body, directed by needs and wants. It is the second one coming about that has no outward change of body direction but does something special to the mind as to be carried around by that mind for a lifetime, if not longer. It is an amazing sense of ones feelings without motion to the body, rising out of words clustered together in certain ways that words can come together. This miracle of the human animal creates the feelings of a satisfaction never to be known to any other of the animals also fighting for survival. This sensation strikes deeply within oneself and is called by names we all recognize. There is poetry, prose, and plays to mention the few that bring me to a sense of emotion that otherwise would lie forever dormant in the rush through lifes practical requiring needs to keep oneself available for more gathering up of practical needs. My break with that cycle, as life permitted, is what is expressed, as best as I could, in this book as I wandered in and out of one act, plays, poems, and essays, all discoveries I had a chance to taste while the tasting was good.
Maurice Siegel
What is a word? I mean to that brain of ours, a sound distinctly different from tree branches in motion or those of leaves hanging down uncertain what to do next. We get simple instructions from tree noises except for getting out of the way should one of them collapse. Not much information was gathered after a life of staring up at trees in awe, not even a smile. The reason is obvious. We have to be told what a word is when struck on the ears for the first time, generally intended to identify some object that can bring danger or caring or usefulness. After that identification, its clear sailing. The word grows like the tree does, with additional information tacked on to get you to laugh or cry or shrug or wonder or turn away unconcerned. Unless the word is attached to other words, words lurking about that can be hooked up with ease. Something new will happen. The mind can become busy directing the body to cause something to come about. Something to come about comes in two sizes. The one size we know the best is an action to change what is around our body, directed by needs and wants. It is the second one coming about that has no outward change of body direction but does something special to the mind as to be carried around by that mind for a lifetime, if not longer. It is an amazing sense of ones feelings without motion to the body, rising out of words clustered together in certain ways that words can come together. This miracle of the human animal creates the feelings of a satisfaction never to be known to any other of the animals also fighting for survival. This sensation strikes deeply within oneself and is called by names we all recognize. There is poetry, prose, and plays to mention the few that bring me to a sense of emotion that otherwise would lie forever dormant in the rush through lifes practical requiring needs to keep oneself available for more gathering up of practical needs. My break with that cycle, as life permitted, is what is expressed, as best as I could, in this book as I wandered in and out of one act, plays, poems, and essays, all discoveries I had a chance to taste while the tasting was good.
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