Robert Romanyshyn

The DVD awakens the bond between the living soul of nature and us

You can purchase it here.
 

In this Jung Platform lecture excerpt, Robert explores the intertwining of psyche and nature in the context of the ecological crisis of the melting polar ice.

To celebrate National Poetry Month in April, Robert was invited to publish 3 poems:

Just Wondering
Early Summer Mornings
Being Elemental

 To visit the site where they are published go to
http://mythopoetry.blogspot.com/2017/04/poets-of-mythopoetry-robert-d.html

Exiting the House of Academia
By Robert Romanyshyn

 

I have been a standup comedian for the soul,
a juggler of passions,
a clown in a painted face,
a magician with a few bad tricks,
and a fool.

I have dropped milk-white semen words on many pages
and dripped blue honey in unsuspecting ears.
I have written articles and books,
traveled to far places,
made too many speeches,
ranted and raved,
begged and wept,
and made numerous appeals.

What is left behind of all these efforts,
of all these disguises?
Some legacy, some small trace of who I am, that I was here?
Are there any children of these deeds,
so many of which seem ill conceived?

On gray, empty days I see only abortions,
stillbirths and miscarriages.
And it seems I have wasted my seed and my life,
chasing phantoms.

I am getting old now and my days are long and slow.
I sit in the sun with a big hat to cover my face.
I have no magic to make the ghosts disappear,
and I am still a fool.

But at night in my dreams,
a poet sometimes comes
who leads me from the house of academia
into the streets of life.

Dec 1, 2019  Sunsetting, Alaign, France

---

 

 

Ronald Duncan's Hut

 

The miracle in the mundane,

    The extra-ordinary in the ordinary

Happens at Ronald Duncan’s hut
 

Sitting quietly, trying to wait out 

 the thoughts in my mind

--taking flight like weightless birds--

to make a place for what wants to be here:

     different birds--
  born in their resistance to gravity—

    pull me toward the sky,

wondering if they know the currents of air that 

hold them up to soar, 

or

if it is the wind calming their desperate flapping, inviting their trust in its promise.
 

Into this emptying space whispers:

ocean     
sky
  rock and wind
  tides
  clouds
  birds
  color
   there and there and there flowers

hills

 green

    curving

    sliding

up

down

rolling waves of stillness

Stones
 

Words!

Sum Zero!!

Should I go into the hut 

    to write this—is it a poem?—

        on paper?
 

Hesitate!
 

    Then I see him as I turn a corner
 

(Rilke’s man on the hill who,

    overlooking his valley for the last time,

will stop and turn and linger

we do live our lives

forever taking leave)

    

    Cap on his head,

        walking stick in hand,

            sweatered in green
 

    He stands there

    

I retreat

        wait a bit

    Do I want this quiet solitude disturbed?
 

    Turning again round the corner toward the hut.

        he is gone

    

    Crossing the threshold into the room

        the man on the hill

        is present
 

        Andrew Lawson!!!

 

He has brought books of John Moat

    as if he has granted my wish

    to have a book of poems, and his especially,

to companion me in this poet’s hut 
 

It is a meeting of two old men

    who have climbed this hill,

a journey whose beginnings are fogged in mystery
 

We talk of the landscape,

    its quiet peace

We talk of ageing,

    of who we have been and not been

    of what we have done and not done
 

Modestly!
 

    Only stories

        in this moment that 

            has always been

                and will be
 

    NOW!

When we part,

 

the hut has had a drop of grace 

added to its walls

July 15, 2019 Mead Farm, Devon, England