“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

[...] It is quite safe, therefore, to criticize them in that regard, to see how a story or a painting is constructed—or more importantly, to critically analyze the structure of ideas, themes, or beliefs, that appear behind, say, the poem or the work of fiction.

[...] She felt better after I read her the session for March 19, and a great Sumari poem I used to close out the essays for Dreams with.

When an idea for a book or a poem comes to him, he “tunes into it” immediately. [...]

[...] On September 28, 1978, Jane wrote this little poem when I brought in a few blooms from the climber growing up the trellis at the northeast corner of our hill house, near the kitchen windows:

(Jane’s poem can also serve as a symbol to show that she hasn’t held a session for Mass Events for 42 weeks, or since giving the 830th session last March; indeed, the summer, fall, and winter of 1978 have passed, and we’re into the next year [and a very cold and stormy one it is, so far]. [...]

[...] The interested reader will also be able to compare her composition with certain passages in her long poem, Dialogues of the Soul and Mortal Self in Time, when that work is published in book form in September 1975.

I like that entire poem, of course—but in a different way I like just as much the untitled poem Jane wrote on a different subject almost 15 years later (on August 25, 1980). [...] I borrowed this poem for the opening notes for Session 920, in Chapter 9 of Dreams, and urged her to give it a title and present it in If We Live Again. Jane did so on both counts, in Section Six: “Strange Liberty.” She also changed the format of the poem, but not the words of what I consider to be one of her best creative insights.

[...] Rather immodestly, I present below the first verse of a love poem Jane wrote for me on November 5, 1965. [...]

[...] It may be a straight-forward answer —or a poem or a phrase that at first seems to make no sense. [...]

(After lunch today, I showed Jane the last two poems she’s dictated at the hospital — those for July 25 and July 27. [...]

[...] Look at it this way: The young woman through whom I speak once stated in a poem, and I quote: “These atoms speak, and call themselves my name.”

[...] She read a few of the poems from the book to Mr. Fell over the phone and outlined her ideas for its humorous format, etc.; to her surprise he requested that she send him the manuscript for consideration. [...]

(Mr. Fell asked Jane to make a tape of her poems to send along with the manuscript, since he enjoyed her telephone reading. [...]

[...] The tape was one Jane made reading some of the poems for her publisher. [...]

[...] A variety of incidents were involved while Jane made the tape recording of the poems, etc.

Have him write a poem a day, and do an ink sketch. [...]

[...] My high point was receiving the little book of poems and sketches she’d made for me. [...]

Ruburt’s poem is of help to him, springing as it did from both levels of his personality. [...]

[...] (Pause.) You are not simply trying to look at the world differently, for example, or to change a hypothetical reality, but to creatively bring about some version of a creative and artistic vision that results not simply in greater poems or paintings, but in greater renditions of reality (all very intently.

[...] The same can be said for a successful poem, though here I speak of Ruburt’s knowledge of poetry, rather than of any of my own.

Science’s eyes, at least, have been largely closed, because it does not know how to read the personal script that is written everywhere in the passages of the chromosomes, or in the passages of a poem. [...]

9. See Note 3 for the 687th session in Volume 1. In that note Jane’s poem, Illumination, is especially apropos of Seth’s material here.

11. In 1959, some four and a half years before she began holding these sessions, Jane wrote a little poem about the arithmetic of her own being. [...]

[...] Ruburt becomes his poem during such occasions, and you become your painting.

[...] Ruburt knows when he is on to a poem. [...]