Mystery Writer
Someone wrote a little poem the other day in response to one of my journal entries about winter. It’s the sweetest thing ever…here is is below – enjoy!
Alone inside warm cosy cafe
outside wind and rain fight on
mysterious women masked in silver umbrella
flows into the night
Ben Hawker
A lovely poem indeed…
“The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To her, a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create — so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, her very breath is cut off from her. She must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency she is not really alive unless she is creating.”
Pearl Buck
Emma Wertheim replied
Exceptional…beautiful…inspirational!
thank you!