“We Are Transmitters” by D. H. Lawrence

I find this pearl again and again, stuffed into some corner of my desk or in a file folder. This morning I was throwing away or boxing up stuff I wrote years ago, when this jewel resurfaced. I recognized the Courier type font on the half sheet of paper. It was from an old blue IBM Selectric typewriter. As always, Lawrence’s poem takes my breath. As always, it seems to show up just when I am most ready to hear it. Enjoy.

We are Transmitters
(D.H. Lawrence)

As we live, we are transmitters of life.
And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us.

That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards.
Sexless people transmit nothing.

And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work,
life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready
and we ripple with life through the days.

Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool,
if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding
good is the stool,
content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her,
content is the man.

Give, and it shall be given unto you
is still the truth about life.
But giving life is not so easy.
It doesn’t mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up.
It means kindling the life-quality where it was not,
even if it’s only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.

3 thoughts on ““We Are Transmitters” by D. H. Lawrence

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