In the aftermath of calculus
your toast fell butter-side down.
Squirrels swarmed the lawns
in flight patterns. The hovercraft
helped the waves along. From
every corner there was perspective.
on the billboards the diamonds
were real, in the stores, only zirconia.
I cc’ed you. I let you know.
Sat down to write the Black Ice Memo.
Dinner would be meager &
reminiscent of next week’s lunch.
So what if I sat on the sectional?
As always, I was beside myself.
— Matthea Harvey
In the spirit of weird April weather, here’s Ralph Waldo Emerson’s The Snow-Storm:
Photo credit: Arlene Richards © 2006
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The steed and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structure, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
I’ve been reacquainting myself with my piano lately, so I thought this was a fitting choice for today. And now I’m off to tickle the keys of my freshly-tuned piano! Hurrah!
Sonnet 128: How of, when thou, my music, music play’st
-William Shakespeare
How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st,
Upon that blessèd wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It’s the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn’t what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.Then there’s the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It’s not love we don’t wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It’s a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.
~Margaret Attwood
I.
Crystal haven stands
Abandoned by its maker
Weighted tears consume
II.
Step back now, O veil!
Make known your luminous light,
Your black, freckled sky.
III.
Freedom flies above,
Flirting fiercely with the earth
But staying distant.
[Written on April 3, 2011]
Let’s dabble today with a little world poetry. Agneepath (meaning Path of Fire) is a Hindi poem written by Dr. Harivansh Rai Bachchan. Many consider this poem to be one of the most inspirational poems Dr. Bachchan ever wrote. It speaks about the struggles faced by humanity and about persistence and perseverance in the face of adversity. I can’t seem to find the English translation of this online (all the translations online are crap! Booo.) But it’s still worth sharing, if only for its visual value. If I feel up to it later, I might come back and translate it for ya’ll. But I’ll have to ask my mom for help because this level of Hindi (much more sophisticated than Fiji Hindustani or conversational Hindi) is beyond my skill level. :o)
[And, yes, for those of you who are wondering – the last name is not coincidental; Dr. Harivansh Rai Bachchan is the father of Mr. Amitabh Bachchan.]
Vruksh ho bade bhale,
ho ghane ho bhale,
Ek Patra chhah bhi mang mat, mang mat, mang mat,
Agnipath, Agnipath Agnipath;Tu na thamega kabhi tu na mudega kabhi tu na rukega kabhi,
Kar shapath, Kar shapath, Kar shapath,
Agnipath, Agnipath, Agnipath.
Ye Mahan Drushya hain,
Chal raha Manushya hain,
Ashru, Sweth, Rakta se Latpat Latpat Latpat…
Agnipath, Agnipath, Agnipath.
Photo Credit: The Atlantic.
Political opinions aside, I love that President Clinton values (or valued…at least in 1996) the arts so much! Hooray!
Let’s start things off with a little something by one of my all-time favorite poets, Ms. Emily Dickinson. This one is called Success is Counted Sweetest.
UCCESS is counted sweetest
- By those who ne’er succeed.
- To comprehend a nectar
- Requires sorest need.
- Not one of all the purple host
- Who took the flag to-day
- Can tell the definition,
- So clear, of victory,
- As he, defeated, dying,
- On whose forbidden ear
- The distant strains of triumph
- Break, agonized and clear.
Did you know that April is National Poetry Month? I had no idea until tonight, but I’m sure glad I found out!
If you read my last blog, then you are aware that, as of late, I have been struggling quite seriously with my creativeness. And, to elaborate a bit further on my thoughts from last night, I think part of my problem is my tendency to subconsciously believe the misconception that ‘true’ or ‘pure’ creativity and inspiration can only happen organically and never as a result of one’s deliberate intentionality. However, a fellow artist and friend of mine, after reading my last blog, said something to me that really hit home; it’s nothing I haven’t heard before, but it was definitely the reminder I needed: “…sometimes,” she said, “you have to be really purposeful and specific about creativity.”
Words of wisdom, those are! Thank you, Michelle!
It’s true, though, how we succumb to this belief that something isn’t really creative if we’ve created it through a scheduled and/or disciplined agenda. Somehow – and I have no idea why this is – in our minds, spontaneity becomes synonymous with true creativity.
But the two ideas are not synonymous, as Michelle pointed out. One can tap into her fullest potential and create something that’s true and meaningful and authentic while also being deliberate and completely strategic about it. Jeez, I, of all people, should know this! I’m a pianist!! Sure, the gruelingly long hours at the keys, practicing scales and arpeggios and the like can suck, but when you put everything together and apply the technicalities to, say, Liszt’s “Gnomenreigen”, the pieces all fall into place; and suddenly you find yourself effortlessly playing a highly creative, highly genuine masterpiece. A song. Not simply a series of complex notes and rhythms.
My point? You don’t just wake up one day and play a Liszt piece. You practice. And practice. And PRACTICE! Day after day, note by note, one fragmented measure at a time – for hours and hours and hours! Until a work of art is born. Now if that’s not an example of intentional, disciplined artistry, then I’m not sure what is!
All that to say, Michelle is right. Being specific and purposeful is key.
And that’s precisely where National Poetry Month comes in. First of all, I love poetry. And, for whatever reason, I’ve always enjoyed writing poetry more than I have prose (even though I think I’m actually better at the latter). Some of you know that I attempted National Novel Writing Month last year and failed miserably. Regardless, I think a specific plan and focus will help me get back on track with my writing, and the thought of writing (or reading) poetry for thirty days excites me far more than the idea of writing a shitty novel in a month.
Thus, I’m committing myself to a one-month poetry writing/reading/sharing challenge. For the entire month of April, I will attempt to interact with as much poetry as I can, whether it be original poetry that I’ve written myself or simply another poet’s work(s) that I read (and then share with my blog readers). After all, in any genre of literature, to be a good writer is to be a good reader first. Right?
So…let the poetry writing & reading begin!
[And just for kicks, check out this video of an 8-year-old who plays “Gnomenreigen” better than most adults probably ever will. Wowza! CLICK HERE.]
…a long-haired boy
behind a guitar
whose dreams —
night after
night —
become a reality.
Photo credit: Tracy Allison
hued unorthodoxy 