Sunday Scribblings - Passion

I am bobbing on another stream of insomnia. House MD is uploading on another window. And so my poor brain turns to the Sunday Scribblings prompt. I believe that I did this last week, bizarrely enough, writing about sleep when sleep was yet hours away. Even more ironic to write about passion when I am feeling as passionate as an old teabag.

I think the previous two posts cover quite a bit of ground on the old passion stakes. The fact that a building moved me to tears is fairly indicative of my love of art and architecture. The fact that I am nuts about spinning is apparent to all who know me. But I don't really want to focus on spinning right now.

Passion is a wonderful word - a Cathy and Heathcliffe word - but really in essence it means emotion. Passion being the opposite of rationality. Hmmmn. Passion, emotion: the soft underbelly, the vulnerability of the human - particularly the artistic types - the writers, the artists, the musicians, the visionaries of all kinds.
It deserves a poem really doesn't it? And a damned good one too. I shall have a think...

And late Sunday morning here it is:

Song
by Ted Hughes

O lady, when the tipped cup of the moon blessed you
You became soft fire with a cloud's grace;
The difficult stars swam for eyes in your face;
You stood, and your shadow was my place:
You turned, your shadow turned to ice
O my lady.

O lady, when the sea caressed you
You were a marble of foam, but dumb.
When will the stone open its tomb?
When will the waves give over their foam?
You will not die, nor come home,
O my lady.

O lady, when the wind kissed you
You made him music for you were a shaped shell.
I follow the waters and the wind still
Since my heart heard it and all to pieces fell
Which your lovers stole, meaning ill,
O my lady.

O lady, consider when I shall have lost you
The moon's full hands, scattering waste,
The sea's hands, dark from the world's breast,
The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed,
And my head, worn out with love, at rest
In my hands, and my hands full of dust,
O my lady.