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Louisa’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Louisa’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
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Louisa Punt-Fouché
Goodreads Author
Website
Genre
Influences
Member Since
July 2011
Artful living
Artful living is poetry printed on the cracked bark of a tree. Its colours are waves of light kissing me – yellow, ochre, burnt orange and gold – the Super-self, the silence, forever old.
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On the Fence of Fears
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Carrying Sand To The River, The mandala as a seed-symbol of the Self in a forever changing world
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published
2021
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Karoo Pilgrimage: A fusion of word and image
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Silvering
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* Note: these are all the books on Goodreads for this author. To add more, click here.
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Louisa Punt-Fouché
is currently reading
Is a River Alive?
by Robert Macfarlane (Goodreads Author) Goodreads Choice Awards Nominee in Readers' Favorite Nonfiction |
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Louisa Punt-Fouché
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“Humans are forever in the process of nurturing the wounds of their unworthiness – a constant visitor in the psyche – the mortally wounded heroine who lies in the forest of shadows singing for years and years.”
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“We are the children of the earth. So, we play and dance with singular intelligence while we learn to discern between light and dark. And then, one day, if we play conscientiously, we might find ourselves in the library of all things where we are instructed by the sun, moon and stars to wake up and to be the marriage of light and dark – unity in shimmering silver – the mirror of the cosmos.”
― Silvering
― Silvering
“Poetry is like shards of meteorites falling on barren land – the shining of the secret stone unseen; the song of the vibration unheard; the fire in the ancient stone, forever burning alone.
The old mother of all is sitting under her favourite ash tree. She touches the shedding bark with her knobbly fingers and traces the wounds of unresolved shadows in strange circular patterns. She sees her children cry, their tears strange silver knobs that read like braille.”
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The old mother of all is sitting under her favourite ash tree. She touches the shedding bark with her knobbly fingers and traces the wounds of unresolved shadows in strange circular patterns. She sees her children cry, their tears strange silver knobs that read like braille.”
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“___________________________________________________________________________
A dream verse runs with strong legs after the wisp of snipes uttering their well-known cry, free of passion. It is early evening in autumn in a marsh.”
― On the Fence of Fears
A dream verse runs with strong legs after the wisp of snipes uttering their well-known cry, free of passion. It is early evening in autumn in a marsh.”
― On the Fence of Fears
“There is a quiet ache in the solitary darkness of a poet’s soul, which is unfathomable for many, but an unsuspected treasure at the same time.
The treasure is in a silver casket, created with the ash of burnt shadows and the blazing fire of eternal struggles. It contains the ultimate secret – the secret of the cloud of unknowing flickering the purest transparent flower in bright but brief flashes of lightning.”
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The treasure is in a silver casket, created with the ash of burnt shadows and the blazing fire of eternal struggles. It contains the ultimate secret – the secret of the cloud of unknowing flickering the purest transparent flower in bright but brief flashes of lightning.”
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“Poetry is like shards of meteorites falling on barren land – the shining of the secret stone unseen; the song of the vibration unheard; the fire in the ancient stone, forever burning alone.
The old mother of all is sitting under her favourite ash tree. She touches the shedding bark with her knobbly fingers and traces the wounds of unresolved shadows in strange circular patterns. She sees her children cry, their tears strange silver knobs that read like braille.”
―
The old mother of all is sitting under her favourite ash tree. She touches the shedding bark with her knobbly fingers and traces the wounds of unresolved shadows in strange circular patterns. She sees her children cry, their tears strange silver knobs that read like braille.”
―
“Humans are forever in the process of nurturing the wounds of their unworthiness – a constant visitor in the psyche – the mortally wounded heroine who lies in the forest of shadows singing for years and years.”
―
―
“We are the children of the earth. So, we play and dance with singular intelligence while we learn to discern between light and dark. And then, one day, if we play conscientiously, we might find ourselves in the library of all things where we are instructed by the sun, moon and stars to wake up and to be the marriage of light and dark – unity in shimmering silver – the mirror of the cosmos.”
― Silvering
― Silvering
