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| Dignity | A Look A Glance | Venetian Blind | Jude | Indifference | And |
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Dignity
We live in a world that has become
Intolerable as the subject for passing reflections
What is our response to the inescapable reality?
Are we too like these miserable little cliques to turn because of theoretic inadequacy from social occupation, from the poetry of pugative action and try to find form and significance in pure feeling itself.
Transplanted and reimagined.
Seeking the meaning of experience, in the phenomena of experience.
Pure sensation becoming an ultimate value in the neurotic and mystical attempt to give physicality an intellectual content.
Meaningless emotion roused automatically
Without satisfaction or education,
As in melodrama,
Man can find his own dignity only in action now.
by Donald McWhinnie
Donald McWhinnie was a talented Director of Film, TV and Stage. His work included Mapp and Lucia, Love in a Cold Climate, and he was most renowned for his work with Sam Beckett and Harald Pinter. Donald was also a very good musician and although a man of very few words, when he did speak, it was always worth listening to. This poem was found by his son Paul, in one of Donald's books, after his death in 1987. Date of poem estimated at 1957 or earlier)
What is our response to the inescapable reality?
Are we too like these miserable little cliques to turn because of theoretic inadequacy from social occupation, from the poetry of pugative action and try to find form and significance in pure feeling itself.
Transplanted and reimagined.
Seeking the meaning of experience, in the phenomena of experience.
Pure sensation becoming an ultimate value in the neurotic and mystical attempt to give physicality an intellectual content.
Meaningless emotion roused automatically
Without satisfaction or education,
As in melodrama,
Man can find his own dignity only in action now.
by Donald McWhinnie
Donald McWhinnie was a talented Director of Film, TV and Stage. His work included Mapp and Lucia, Love in a Cold Climate, and he was most renowned for his work with Sam Beckett and Harald Pinter. Donald was also a very good musician and although a man of very few words, when he did speak, it was always worth listening to. This poem was found by his son Paul, in one of Donald's books, after his death in 1987. Date of poem estimated at 1957 or earlier)
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