Sunday, September 30, 2012

On Giving it Up





Sugar Cane

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 Missy Higgins

Baby ballerina's
Hiding somewhere in the corner
Where the shadow wraps around her
And our torches cannot find her
She will stay there till the morning
Crawl behind us as we are yawning
And she will leave our game
To never be the same

So grow tall sugarcane
Eat that soil, drink the rain
But know they'll chase you if you play their little games
So run, run fast sugarcane

You see my peep-show booth is handy
There's a one-way-only mirror
So I can dance here with my hair down
But I don't see if you get bitter
ANd there's a button right beside me
If I happen to want a wall to hide me
If only the ballerina had one too

So grow tall sugarcane
Eat that soil, drink the rain
But know they'll chase you if you play their little games
So run, run fast sugarcane
Yeah you better run, run fast sugarcane

And she said always be afraid
Yeah you should always be afraid...

To grow tall sugarcane
Eat that soil, drink the rain
But know they'll chase you if you play their little game
So run, run fast sugarcane
You you better run, run fast sugarcane
 
On a Clear Night
-from On A Clear Night - Buy it on Amazon, baby!


 
 
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The Poetrycooker , OST

On That Feeling

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Materialism: Hand Carved Stamps

Materialism:


Hand-Carved Stamps by Chantal Vincent!

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Caravan hand carved Stamp
http://www.etsy.com/shop/ChantalVincent

Isn't this audio cassette stamp simply amazing? I'm just dying to have it! Linocut and Sketch Artist , Chantal Vincent is a woman of many talents - one of her best being making hand-carved stamps out of original sketches. So if you find that you are craving so creative activity, but find yourself unable to draw a straight line, not to worry! If you can dream it, you can stamp it- - the artist takes commissions on etsy !

Check out the link under the product shop to view the artist's etsy shop, and also, check out her other artist sites here:


Chantal Vincent Art
Chantal Vincent's Personal Blog

On Misty Meditations

Corsons Inlet

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By A. R. Ammons

I went for a walk over the dunes again this morning
to the sea,
then turned right along
the surf
rounded a naked headland
and returned

along the inlet shore:

it was muggy sunny, the wind from the sea steady and high,
crisp in the running sand,
some breakthroughs of sun
but after a bit

continuous overcast:

the walk liberating, I was released from forms,
from the perpendiculars,
straight lines, blocks, boxes, binds
of thought
into the hues, shadings, rises, flowing bends and blends
of sight:

I allow myself eddies of meaning:
yield to a direction of significance
running
like a stream through the geography of my work:
you can find
in my sayings
swerves of action
like the inlet’s cutting edge:
there are dunes of motion,
organizations of grass, white sandy paths of remembrance
in the overall wandering of mirroring mind:
but Overall is beyond me: is the sum of these events
I cannot draw, the ledger I cannot keep, the accounting
beyond the account:

in nature there are few sharp lines: there are areas of
primrose
more or less dispersed;
disorderly orders of bayberry; between the rows
of dunes,
irregular swamps of reeds,
though not reeds alone, but grass, bayberry, yarrow, all ...
predominantly reeds:

I have reached no conclusions, have erected no boundaries,
shutting out and shutting in, separating inside
from outside: I have
drawn no lines:
as

manifold events of sand
change the dune’s shape that will not be the same shape
tomorrow,

so I am willing to go along, to accept
the becoming
thought, to stake off no beginnings or ends, establish
no walls:

by transitions the land falls from grassy dunes to creek
to undercreek: but there are no lines, though
change in that transition is clear
as any sharpness: but “sharpness” spread out,
allowed to occur over a wider range
than mental lines can keep:

the moon was full last night: today, low tide was low:
black shoals of mussels exposed to the risk
of air
and, earlier, of sun,
waved in and out with the waterline, waterline inexact,
caught always in the event of change:
a young mottled gull stood free on the shoals
and ate
to vomiting: another gull, squawking possession, cracked a crab,
picked out the entrails, swallowed the soft-shelled legs, a ruddy
turnstone running in to snatch leftover bits:

risk is full: every living thing in
siege: the demand is life, to keep life: the small
white blacklegged egret, how beautiful, quietly stalks and spears
the shallows, darts to shore
to stab—what? I couldn’t
see against the black mudflats—a frightened
fiddler crab?

the news to my left over the dunes and
reeds and bayberry clumps was
fall: thousands of tree swallows
gathering for flight:
an order held
in constant change: a congregation
rich with entropy: nevertheless, separable, noticeable
as one event,
not chaos: preparations for
flight from winter,
cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, wings rifling the green clumps,
beaks
at the bayberries
a perception full of wind, flight, curve,
sound:
the possibility of rule as the sum of rulelessness:
the “field” of action
with moving, incalculable center:

in the smaller view, order tight with shape:
blue tiny flowers on a leafless weed: carapace of crab:
snail shell:
pulsations of order
in the bellies of minnows: orders swallowed,
broken down, transferred through membranes
to strengthen larger orders: but in the large view, no
lines or changeless shapes: the working in and out, together
and against, of millions of events: this,
so that I make
no form of
formlessness:

orders as summaries, as outcomes of actions override
or in some way result, not predictably (seeing me gain
the top of a dune,
the swallows
could take flight—some other fields of bayberry
could enter fall
berryless) and there is serenity:

no arranged terror: no forcing of image, plan,
or thought:
no propaganda, no humbling of reality to precept:

terror pervades but is not arranged, all possibilities
of escape open: no route shut, except in
the sudden loss of all routes:

I see narrow orders, limited tightness, but will
not run to that easy victory:
still around the looser, wider forces work:
I will try
to fasten into order enlarging grasps of disorder, widening
scope, but enjoying the freedom that
Scope eludes my grasp, that there is no finality of vision,
that I have perceived nothing completely,
that tomorrow a new walk is a new walk.
 
The Selected Poems (Expanded Edition)
Amazon, baby!

Free Your Mind

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Saturday, September 29, 2012

On Self-Preservation

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Save Yourself...

 

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On The End, and Everything Before It

Wake Me Up When September Ends
 
Was is a dream.

Songwriters: Pritchard, Michael; Wright, Frank E., Iii; Armstrong, Billie Joe;
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends

Like my father's come to pass
Seven years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends

Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are

As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends

Ring out the bells again
Like we did when spring began
Wake me up when September ends

Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are

As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends

Like my father's come to pass
Twenty years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends

Wake me up when September ends
Wake me up when September ends

Be Your Most Everything!

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Friday, September 28, 2012

On Connections

 

Bird-Understander

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Craig Arnold
Of many reasons I love you here is one

the way you write me from the gate at the airport
so I can tell you everything will be alright

so you can tell me there is a bird
trapped in the terminal all the people
ignoring it because they do not know
what do with it except to leave it alone
until it scares itself to death

it makes you terribly terribly sad

You wish you could take the bird outside
and set it free or (failing that)
call a bird-understander
to come help the bird

All you can do is notice the bird
and feel for the bird and write
to tell me how language feels
impossibly useless

but you are wrong

You are a bird-understander
better than I could ever be
who make so many noises
and call them song

These are your own words
your way of noticing
and saying plainly
of not turning away
from hurt

you have offered them
to me I am only
giving them back

if only I could show you
how very useless
they are not

Oh Beautiful Pain

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On Working A Poem


Spell

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Catherine Wagner

 
Ampersand to start the poem, keep you going, there’s a
Next Anne Cunningham
Now intubated in white bed mountain range —
Event brought you here and event will blow you onward.
this is the refrain from Anne harm
refrain from all harm
events blowing forward
gentle your train
refrain from all damn harm
Camp out in the mountains
Under fluorescent hiss and beep.
Nina (pet) put to sleep, ancient incontinent;
Now you mourn blood
Into your gastric tract.
Noble body, gather your
Guts, seal the passage:
Have to die sometime but curving intricate
Amerspand-tract says you’ll
Meet us for breakfast.
this is the refrain from Anne harm
refrain from all harm
events blowing forward
gentle your train
refrain from all damn harm

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

On Brevity and The Urgency Of Life

The Princess: O Swallow

Glitter Makeup

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
But in the North long since my nest is made.

O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

 

Your Life In Five Words

"For" my friends over at Five Words:
 
 
 
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Inspired by KellyTDesign | Five Words Tell A Story
 
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Dear Girls, Where Are You?
 
 

On Holy Natatation

 

To Orpheus

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Blas Falconer


It isn’t madness but shame for wanting
and shame for not having what I want,

which is a kind of madness—drunk,
3 a.m., the stairwell too steep to climb.

The bed can wait. I go to the pool instead,
strip and step in, the smell of smoke and sweat

washing from hair and skin. The wet kiss:
his mouth pressed here, my neck, and there,

my chest—in the end—went nowhere.
Cars pass with coupled strangers. I wade.

The brick wall stretches into the sky,
the sky empty, save the constellations,

whose lives I love—yours most of all,
father of poets, whose lyre filled trees

and stones with awe, the lover torn to shreds
and thrown in to the river. Tonight,

you’re the swan, lost among pinholes of light,
your throat bitten by a black hole

that takes and takes and never fills. I kick,
stroke my tired arms to buoy this body.

It makes ring after perfect ring, but each one
breaks along the edge. You who never were,

did you look down on the world at last
and see that more won’t be enough? Not now.

Not ever. Want picks the human heart.
You’re the lie I won’t believe forever.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

On The Light In The Night Sky

This piece by James Dickey reminds me of the 1998 animated short, Bunny, which  won over 25 international awards, namely, the First Prize title at the International Children's Cinema. Similar to Pixar's Up, Bunny serves as an exploration of life and death, while focusing on events that surround the  passing of the title character's companion.
 
 There is a beautiful scene in which moths flying at a light bulb are juxtaposed with the  widely held idea that one "heads" into a great light as their soul passes over.
 
I don't know if it's images of the moths in this poem, or perhaps the it's simply the hints at the quest for meaning and mission that makes me connect these two, but I feel that there is a definite common resonance.
 
I strongly recommend you check it out at the You Tube Link Here:
 

The Strength of Fields

a childhood dream iii by ~yusufartun on deviantart

 James L. Dickey

 

... a separation from the world, a penetration to some source of power and a life-enhancing return ...
Van Gennep: Rites de Passage

Moth-force a small town always has,

Given the night.

What field-forms can be,
Outlying the small civic light-decisions over
A man walking near home?
Men are not where he is
Exactly now, but they are around him around him like the strength

Of fields. The solar system floats on
Above him in town-moths.
Tell me, train-sound,
With all your long-lost grief,
what I can give.
Dear Lord of all the fields
what am I going to do?
Street-lights, blue-force and frail
As the homes of men, tell me how to do it how
To withdraw how to penetrate and find the source
Of the power you always had
light as a moth, and rising
With the level and moonlit expansion
Of the fields around, and the sleep of hoping men.

You? I? What difference is there? We can all be saved

By a secret blooming. Now as I walk
The night and you walk with me we know simplicity
Is close to the source that sleeping men
Search for in their home-deep beds.
We know that the sun is away we know that the sun can be conquered
By moths, in blue home-town air.
The stars splinter, pointed and wild. The dead lie under
The pastures. They look on and help. Tell me, freight-train,
When there is no one else
To hear. Tell me in a voice the sea
Would have, if it had not a better one: as it lifts,
Hundreds of miles away, its fumbling, deep-structured roar
Like the profound, unstoppable craving
Of nations for their wish.
Hunger, time and the moon:

The moon lying on the brain
as on the excited sea as on
The strength of fields. Lord, let me shake
With purpose. Wild hope can always spring
From tended strength. Everything is in that.
That and nothing but kindness. More kindness, dear Lord
Of the renewing green. That is where it all has to start:
With the simplest things. More kindness will do nothing less
Than save every sleeping one
And night-walking one

Of us.
My life belongs to the world. I will do what I can.
 
Bunny

Be Fierce, My Darling!

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

On Missing Him - Or Anyone

            Far and Away, written by Fanny Howe, was dedicated to Robert Creeley, founder of The Black Mountain Movement.

 
Robert Creeley
Robery Creeley
The Poetrycooker attended UNCW, where I studied Creative Writing. While in Wilmington, I read quite a bit of this talented poet.   

I met Mr. Creeley on a cold evening after one of his readings.  He was friendly, hilarious and nearly blind. This, sardonic, world-renowned poet turned out to be a sweet, self deprecating old gent who thanked me for coming to his reading and spoke to me as if I were an old friend.

 A few weeks later he passed away. I only stumbled across this poem at the Poetry Foundation this evening, and nearly seven years later it is just as heartwarming apt, as if his passing were fresh.
 
 
So, here's to you Mr. Creeley - wherever you are...

 

              Far and Away [excerpt]

 
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Get Flash Player

The rain falls on.
Acres of violets unfold.
Dandelion, mayflower
Myrtle and forsythia follow.

The cardinals call to each other.
Echoes of delicate
Breath-broken whistles.

I know something now
About subject, object, verb
And about one word that fails
For lack of substance.

Now people say, He passed on
Instead of that.  Unit
Of space subtracted by one.
It almost rhymes with earth.

What is a poet but a person
Who lives on the ground
Who laughs and listens

Without pretension of knowing
Anything, driven by the lyric's
Quest for rest that never
(God willing) will be found?

Concord, kitchen table, 1966.
Corbetts, Creeley, a grandmother
And me.  Sweater, glasses,
One wet eye.

Lots of laughter
Before and after. Every meeting
Rhymed and fluttered into meter.
The beat was the message. . . .

   (for Robert Creeley)

Monday, September 24, 2012

Don't Look Back!




The One and Only. . .You!

 

Irresitable Gems!

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-via WeHeartIt
 

On The Elusive Muse

 

Art

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Herman Melville
In placid hours well-pleased we dream
Of many a brave unbodied scheme.
But form to lend, pulsed life create,
What unlike things must meet and mate:
A flame to melt—a wind to freeze;
Sad patience—joyous energies;
Humility—yet pride and scorn;
Instinct and study; love and hate;
Audacity—reverence. These must mate,
And fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart,
To wrestle with the angel—Art
 
 

Sunday, September 23, 2012

On Every Climb... Exercise and the Soul

I know I'm all about nature, reading, music and movie - everything kinda soulful and artsy...
But another of my biggest passions is also exercise. For about a decade I have been floating on the high that I get from working out.
 
I think that exercise isn't only good for the body, but also for the soul, and I find that it's really great for clearing my head and getting some creative juices flowing as well -  I get some of my best ideas during cardio sessions -(strength training, however is a little harder to get lost in).
 
Now, I believe in at least an hour five days a week - (though it took me about a year to work up to this).  I know that this amount of time is not for everybody... and I know getting started is hard, but believe me when I tell you that you'll never regret a workout - EVER!
 
 
 
I'm not going to tell you it's easy, or that it will be fun right away. You'll probably want to die at first, But one day, you'll be running, and suddenly you'll  realize that the part of yourself that used to get winded, the part of yourself that used to fret over tying on the sneaks, is somewhere way back in the dust. .
 
And you'll find -  undoubtedly, you will find -  that the missing part has only left room for the rest of you to grow and conquer.
 
So go on, child, stretch out that free spirit,
and take that wild heart for a run!

 
 

Saturday, September 22, 2012

The Indulgence of Fall

A Crown of Autumn Leaves

 
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Annie Finch


For Mabon (fall equinox), Sept. 21
Our voices press
from us
and twine
around the year's
fermenting wine

Yellow fall roars
Over the ground.
Loud, in the leafy sun that pours
Liquid through doors,
Yellow, the leaves twist down

as the winding
of the vine
pulls our curling
voices—

Glowing in wind and change,
The orange leaf tells

How one more season will alter and range,
Working the strange
Colors of clamor and bells

In the winding
of the vine
our voices press out
from us
to twine

When autumn gathers, the tree
That the leaves sang
Reddens dark slowly, then, suddenly free,
Turns like a key,
Opening air where they hang

and the winding
of the vine
makes our voices
turn and wind
with the year’s
fermented wine

One of the hanging leaves,
Deeply maroon,
Tightens its final hold, receives,
Finally weaves
Through, and is covered soon

in the winding
of the vine—

Holding past summer's hold,
Open and strong,
One of the leaves in the crown is gold,
Set in the cold
Where the old seasons belong.

Here is my crown
Of winding vine,
Of leaves that dropped,
That fingers twined,
another crown
to yield and shine
with a year’s
fermented wine.

These Three. . .

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1 Corinthians 13
King James 2000 Bible
 
 
The Priority of Love
1Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal.
2And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing.
3And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profits me nothing.
The Qualities of Love
4Love suffers long, and is kind; love envies not; love vaunts not itself, is not puffed up,
5Does not behave itself rudely, seeks not her own, is not easily provoked, keeps no record of evil;
6Rejoices not in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;
7Bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
The Permanence of Love
8Love never fails: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.
9For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.
10But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.
11When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
12For now we see in a mirror dimly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
13And now abides faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
 
-via biblos.com

King of the Fall

 
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“But then fall comes, kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of September, it stays awhile like an old friend that you have missed. It settles in the way an old friend will settle into your favorite chair and take out his pipe and light it and then fill the afternoon with stories of places he has been and things he has done since last he saw you.”
Stephen King

Who Doesn't?

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Look Who Else Has Fallen!

 
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“Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.”
Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's
 
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“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.”
― Albert Camus
 
 
 
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“I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.”
― Henry David Thoreau
 
 
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“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.”
― George Eliot
 
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“No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
As i have seen in one autumnal face.”
John Donne
 
 
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“I want to say something so embarrassing about September that even the leaves start blushing and turning red.”
Jarod Kintz
 
 
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“Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.”
Lauren DeStefano