All you need to know about me you will find here in each poem, in a turn of phrase, in a photo. I am a Best Friend and I love one. I am an artist and I am fighting cancer. I'd paint anything that stood still long enough and I have a few cats (no specific number here).
You can miss someone before you even know them their absence can leave a hole in your life and you wait knowing that surely out there on some twinkling star in the swirl of some blue wind maybe in a bookstore he'll look up from a book you'd never read and you could have a conversation you've been waiting to have since you were old enough to know that someone out there somewhere could finish your sentences You could say "I want your hand" and he'd whisper "on your throat. I know baby" and you could get on with the rest of your life check off finding someone who gets it and who doesnt mind that you are a silly girl because sometimes he likes when you're just a little bit silly and I will always be the girl who wants to fill the world with silly love songs
In the background you could hear the rain hitting the awning and later when you hear it again and again when you try to capture those moments because when you aren't sure what it is just yet you want to hold on to each of those moments and play them again like they were a magical flute and the song if you heard it again could conjure love "I don't know if you will listen to this today on the way home or five days from now." and your heart full of stale spring air just waiting in the garden wringing out blood minding it's own business wondering where you'll plant the sunflowers and tasting the sauce on your tongue from those tomato plants Your stale heart feels this cool breeze blow in and the sky turns pea green and the air gets very still before the tornado hits and it's suddenly so cool you don't need to flip the pillow you hear a bee buzz and its all changed the trees are uprooted the air is clean wondering if you really did see a cow fly by your head just being there he fixes it washes off the dust of winter worries and if you lean your head back far enough yes his hand is there because God made your neck his safe place or maybe not so safe
It's easier to stand at the edge and look down when you can feel his arm around your waist the view is so beautiful I'll wait to see the green in the sky for the air to get very still and somewhere in Indiana an alarm is screaming people are seeking cover auntie Em is heading to the storm cellar I will be waiting feeling my breathing change and his hand slide over my left hip his tongue will taste like raw oysters I am so close to believing if you dream of something it can happen if you wait it will arrive the appointed hour when you are in the right place and room in your heart hearing your mother tell you stories about what men are supposed to be when you can hold them in a whisper and you just let go
This is the moment when the gods expect me To beg for help but I won't even try I want nothing in the world but myself to protect me But I won't lie down, roll over and die
All I have to do is to forget how much I love him All I have to do is put my longing to one side Tell myself that love's an ever-changing situation Passion would have cooled and all the magic would have died
It's easy, it's easy
Until I think about him as he was when I last saw him And how he would have been were I to be with him today Tender in his manner and my self-consolation All I ever wanted and I'm throwing it away
It's easy, easy as life
All I have to do is to pretend I never knew him On those very rare occasions when he steals into my heart Better to have lost him when the ties were barely binding Better the contempt of the familiar cannot start
It's easy, it's easy
Until I think about him as he was when I last touched him And how he would have been were I to be with him today Those very rare occasions don't let up, they keep on coming All I ever wanted and I'm throwing it away
It's easy, it's easy as life
And then I see the faces of a worn defeated people A father and a nation who won't let a coward run Is this how the gods reward the faithful through the ages Forcing us to prove that all the hardest things we've done
Are easy, so easy
And though I'll think about him until the earth draws in around me And though I choose to leave him for another kind of love This is no denial, no betrayal, but redemption Redeemed in my own eyes and in the pantheon above
It's easy, it's easy, it's easy as life
************************************************* Easily, my favorite Opera and of course the Elton John Adaptation my favorite. When Tina sings that song I am lost in it. All she had to do was pretend she never knew him on those very rare occasions when he steals into her heart. It's better to have lost him when the ties were barely binding.
Aida only had to forget that Radames (the warrior) ever loved her and she ever loved him. It's easy right? Aida the capture Nubian Princess is sent to be the handmaiden of Amernis, Radames soon to be wife. Love is an ever changing situation but does passion ever cool and how does magic die? When one tires of another. That can't happen when they are kept apart. It's easy right? When Aida is asked to betray Radames it doesn't seem that easy. The story elaborate as any opera in it's treachery and love and despair.
There is a line when the lovers need to keep love a secret and he tells her you don't have to ask me and I dont have to reply. I love that line. It is the secret lovers share. If you have to ask none of it was real and if you are waiting for a reply you never felt it in the first place.
I love that it's the green mermaid, hooray for the green mermaid. And in her darkest thoughts she wishes she'd never knew love or had it returned. The great stuff of operas. By the time we are old enough to figure out what we want from love we have already built our prison and living there is just so much easier than changing anything. And in any tragic story two lovers give up their lives and like Romeo and Juliet wait lifetimes to find one another again. All life is an italian opera, even one set in Egypt.
Wilde, an Irishman and a scholar, most known for The Picture of Dorian Gray and his acts of civil disobedience. He found himself in prison, died of his experience there, a tortured soul who loved men very much and admired the human frailties of mankind and wrote of them in fairy tales. I love these stories, one more touching than the other and my favorite below, shared because they are too wonderful not to share. He died poor in Paris at the age of 46. Sometimes I wonder what he would have written had he not been so tortured, had he not gone to prison. I suppose though dying poor in Paris is better than dying rich in London.
"Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow Speak gently, she can hear the daisies grow"
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything."
"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
"He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.
"How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never seen one."
"Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady- love. "She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also."
"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."
Then he saw the statue on the tall column.
"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
"I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness."
Then another drop fell.
"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw--Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
"Who are you?" he said.
"I am the Happy Prince."
"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched me."
"When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans- Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep."
"What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
"Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion- flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of- honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move."
"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus- flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad."
"I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger."
"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!"
"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy."
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting better"; and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold."
"That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
"To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"
"I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint."
"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"
"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play."
"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to weep.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
"I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I am going to Egypt"! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"
"It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea."
"In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her."
"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always."
"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."
"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there."
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
"I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy."
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings. But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"
"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you."
"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?"
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said.
"How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.
"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer," said the Mayor in fact, "he is litttle beter than a beggar!"
"Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors.
"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself."
"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
"What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
"Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
"You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me."
A robin red breast heard a cricket's song she watched his thighs move in a magical way and the song but a whisper, a twist of phrase She spoke to him in bird song of careful thought until after a few nights it felt like occasion to celebrate this date of the robin and the cricket and the almost effortless song they shared
In a bird fluster of Summer things to do she, a Robin afraid of heights hadn't wanted to notice that in quiet moments she'd listen for a song not her own song, not a new song she'd sing she knew those songs a thousand times over melody of want and well more want chirping lyrics of children and flowers and of the quiet stillness in a night sky when the moon fills the garden with his pale face of love's light
And as of any anticipated boiling pot of watched want there it was almost a chirp, a whisper of "Are you there?" and her heart replied, almost bursting from her feathered plumage "Yes" and in perfect beat to her own heart's pounding she listened to his reply "I am always here" he sang and oh she wanted to believe with a want that would cause a rain cloud to fill the cement communal bathing pool
She looked a few more times and there he was her singing cricket of such whispering song and out of the dark sky that was turning fall she sang out it was quite unexpected but not without thought "I love you" she sang "just a little" only the little being a lie of such white careful praise and in those few moments of silence she waited knowing that in three seconds the world can change the colors much brighter the world at an easier pace any irritation colored over in the comfort of Love's song of its promise a few beats later "We are having lovely weather for the summer" the sweet cricket sang "I will always be here" and this was their Eine kleine Nachtmusik
For a Robin resting on the ground is a terrifying thought and she wondered at the cricket's courage and one night when they were simply singing one to the other and the other caught she asked "aren't you ever afraid of anything?" and he wasn't of course that's why she loved him in the first place and she dreamt of the day when she wouldn't be either, afraid that is and she'd fall as she'd already fallen to be on the ground next to him the world's most lyrical cricket and they would sing in the same breath his cheek next to hers in a garden after a long winter and with a heart of Spring's promise beating and singing and beating some more Such is the way of love and it's little night song
When I am not feeling 100%, I usually avoid proteins. When I have no appetite, the meat thing can spoil any thoughts I have about being nourished. So today, I decided to try a vegetarian dish in my head and of course to share it here with you. I started with some bell peppers, hollowed them out, just cutting off the tops to save them for the cooking process. I zapped them in the microwave for about 2 minutes just to make them a little softer and then filled them with cooked rice, a large can of diced tomatoes, some fresh basil and rosemary, a large spanish onion chopped finely, a few cups of frozen peas and frozen yellow squash, a can of mexican corn (just yellow corn with some tossed in red pepper, so so good) and some green beans from a can. I filled the peppers, put them in a crock pot and then set them on high to cook covering them with a few cans of tomato puree. Let it cook about 5 or 6 hours or until the whole house smells like pepper and they are fork tender. If you are looking for a more meaty dish, adding a few cups of chopped portabello mushrooms really ads a protein feel to the whole thing. Don't over do the salt and pepper, better to be creative by throwing in a bay leaf on top of the dish while it's cooking then remove it right before you eat. I am trying to cook with less salt and have even experimented with a few of the Mrs. Dash products. I am thinking I will try to make a few of my own dash type things once them herbs are all grown in.
I started some pots of the herbs already so that I can keep them in the window and when I am sure we aren't getting any more cold weather I will throw them outside in the ground and start some late summer plants in the pots. Of course, I've started planting I couldn't stop myself. I found my way over to the Lowe's Garden department and found some single bulb tulips and daffodils that were just ready to bloom so I have a general idea that they will come back next year. If you have any vegetarian dish ideas, drop me a note and I will include them to share with everyone. Enjoy the day.
It's true you know every woman falls victim to the curse of the Russian poet. I found Khlebnikov devouring some poetry in an antiquated bookstore. At first he seems a little sing songy and was known in his time (the 1800's) as the purveyor of unintelligible verbal trickery. In other words? He made up words to rhyme other words, like a song of sorts and when I read his work I enjoy it even more if I sing it like a prayer or a song making up my own little tune the sing of the waxwings. Waxwings are song birds that almost look like a cardinal a duller color perhaps with a huge plume of feathers on their heads.
Like his American female counterpart; Dickinson he wrote of nature more than of people. I have a theory about this. I want to believe he was well loved or that his love life was at the least interesting. When I am in the midst of a lover's turmoil I write of men. When I am in love I write of nature when I'm unsure of either it's a strange mix of the two. This poet writes of nature often and of venturing into the Russian markets which at the time must have been fascinating.
He was an educated man, hence my fascination. I do like a smart man. Give me a smart man that can do push ups over the top of me and I am caught in his web, no matter what that web may be.
Khlebnikov belonged to the most significant Russian Futurist group Hylaea (along with Vladimir Mayakovsky, Aleksei Kruchenykh, David Burliuk, and Benedikt Livshits), but had already written many significant poems before the Futurist movement in Russia had taken shape. Among his contemporaries, he was regarded as "a poet's poet" (Mayakovsky referred to him as a "poet for producers") and a maverick genius.
In 1912 he wrote:
When horses die, they breathe
When grasses die, they wither,
When suns die, they go out,
When people die, they sing songs.
I like this poem a great deal and I am not the fan of the short poem for the most part. It reminds me of Sandburg's white horse girl and blue wind boy. I love the idea that in the lines you can read that when something, anything dies it just becomes something else. I have had a fascination with this lately, seeing as I've danced a little with the idea of death and everyone who does that enjoys the idea that perhaps we will just be something else rather than cosmic soul dust. What song would you sing when you die? I think I'd sing the song of the lilly of the valleys that deck my garden walk. Oh don't you wish you could hear them ring? That will only happen when the faeries sing. When I am with Best Friend I like to sing Paul Simon songs and I wish I was with her today, on the road singing Simon and Garfunkel until we were exhausted.
I included a few poems below, but didn't put out the laughter people for the hopes you'd look for it and find something of Khlebnikov's work you'd keep for yourself, read and sing and dance in his idea of what a future would be if he were king, King of Russia and King of the world. Enjoy.
Where The Waxwings Used To Dwell
Where the waxwings used to dwell,
Where the pine trees softly swayed,
A flock of airy momentwills
Flew around and flew away.
Where the pine trees softly whooshed
Where the warblewings sang out
A flock of airy momentwills
Flew around and flew about.
In wild and shadowy disarray
Among the ghosts of bygone days,
Wheeled and tintinnabulated.
A flock of airy momentwills
A flock of airy momentwills!
You're warblewingish and beguilish,
You besot my soul like strumming,
Like a wave invade my heart!
Go on, ringing warblewings,
Long live airy momentwills!
Wind is song
Of whom and of what?
Of the sword's longing
To be the word.
People
cherish the day of death
Like a favorite daisy.
Believe that the strings of the great
Are strummed by the East these days.
Perhaps we'll be given new pride
By the wizard of those shining mountains,
And I, of many souls captain,
Will wear a white snowcap of reason.
umbrage 1426, "shadow, shade," from M.Fr. ombrage "shade, shadow," from L. umbraticum, neut. of umbraticus "of or pertaining to shade," from umbra "shade, shadow," from PIE base *andho- "blind, dark" (cf. Skt. andha- , Avestan anda- "blind, dark"). Many fig. uses 17c.; main remaining one is the meaning "suspicion that one has been slighted," first recorded 1620; hence phrase to take umbrage at , attested from 1680.
Umbrage is found under your left wing over my left hip in your left eye through my left ventricle past your left tonsil into my left ear it's comfort changed my life
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I love the word umbrage. I didn't mean to post the meaning to assume you were ignorant, but I didn't know it had two meanings. To take offense and to offer shade. It interested me so much that I wrote a short poem and I seldom write short poems. Love is that feeling though of being defined in two fashions. It does offer shade and comfort and then just when you are feeling so comfortable you can close your eyes and drift off you are waiting for a phone call or wishing for someone to be closer and you are on the other side of umbrage. I get angry with myself for wanting. Is that insane or what? that we are driven to be angry with ourselves because we don't have enough of something that brings us such joy? Umbrage.
Then today I am speaking with someone who often offers me the shade and he says, "It's amazing to me that you say in a few words what someone is feeling in their whole heart." I write that off as lazy often enough. Even when I am writing it never feels like work but I have yet to write a short story in such a long time, the poetry seems easier.
Someone, a new someone in my life asked me to do something I didn't want to do. I tried, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I carried the anger around for a few days, thinking that perhaps I was being selfish or even prudish. Finally after a week, I wrote about it, I wrote the green mermaid poem, I put it out there in a poem, the anger that can be love. Ultimately I decided to do what was best for me, what made me feel comfortable int he hopes that if love was the word kicking around that it would be alright. Men are supposed to look out for women, friends for one another and I am spoiled I have the best friend in the entire world and if she wanted something from me and I felt reticent, she'd drop it like a hot rock. I am hard on Cds, men and mostly myself. When will we learn to love ourselves better?
Now on to Yates...
Yates, over educated and under appreciated would probably best describe his life. I found him recently and was touched by revolutionary road. It always charms me when a journalist (I am quite fond of journalists) writes the great American novel and revolutionary road is one of these works. April Wheeler is a piece of all of us. She's sad and she's hopeful and she's fragile. Yates served in the army during WWII and after being in France and Germany found himself back in New York, writing. In April, Wheeler could tell the world that love has so many forms. People can damage themselves to love someone else, to make them feel happier, more secure and when we do this, when we sacrifice ourselves, the deck of cards falls all around our feet. To love is to be selfish to maintain who you are, to save yourself from the fall so there is something left there to love and appreciate.
Yates' story the Canal was published in the New Yorker. It's a short story about a couple at a dinner party and two men who find out they both served in the war and one who is very anxious to recount his tales there and the other quite reticent. It's a wonderfully sad read for one of those rainy days when you want to welcome the blues and dance with them a little. I think I am caught in his realism because I have been reading the life of Balzac and his realism is quite moving and follows the path of his life. I wonder though if realism carries so much sadness you can only take it in little doses. I am posting the Johnny Cash song hurt because I think it's realism is quite moving as well. If you find Yates and want to drop me a note about your thoughts, feel free.
–verb (used without object) 1.to have the necessary courage or boldness for something; be bold enough: You wouldn't dare!
"Don't you dare" he said "leave me" when I hung up When Summer is fading into fall you wonder if the branches hold on to the orange leaves with every last bit of might or do they dare let go and relish the idea of sleeping through winter's storm
"I'll fix it" he whispered "I can and I will" He's brave, holding on fighting the good fight and I'll let him because he is Zeus the oak tree in the pantheon of my garden and I am perched on his scepter like a song bird and I like the view
When he holds me there in the moment when I am sure I am unsure he will tell me to let go and remind me me that even the Gods love silly girls and the secrets they carry in their little lockets
To dare is to be bold to wear red lipstick to teeter totter in boots to sing right out loud when your throat is burning so and i always think I am going away and one day I will When i am far away he will use a compass as big as a sun dial to find me and bring me home
Of course the most memorable quotes always come from my Best Friend. On the topic of motherhood, and her mother in particular.
"My mother makes this guy peach pie and he cleans her gutters. I am sure this is an euphemism for something else but I don't want to think about it too much."
From the Leprechaun "Ya know the problem with Daylight savings? You don't really know when to stop well, working."
From The Bossy Republican: "These pants? What's wrong with these pants. I've had them for thirty years." (Somewhere a designer drops dead every time he says this.)
My Niece Laura: "If you were a book of the bible, which would you be?"
From my child when I commented that some friend of his aunt's claims a 147 IQ and I reminded this fellow that my son gets by with less than half those points. "Very Funny Mom, who wants to carry around extra points they don't need."
From the Newly departed North "Calm the Fuck Down." and of course "I do and you know I do."
From Katie, my sweet very smart niece, "p.s. I love women who try very hard to appear as though they're not trying at all, that's a level of self control awareness even gay men cannot aspire to." (isn't this genius?) and of course, So, in case you were wondering, intense red with auburn is pretty much just brown with a tint of red." She's talking about hair dye, something we both share as powerful interests.
From Sara Gotta Love Her Palin: "Left Unalakleet warmth for rain in Juneau tonite. No drought threat down here, ever but consistent rain reminds us: 'No rain? No rainbow!'"
From Elise, my far too old for her age niece. I really did think this was hers and find out recently it's some country song, "Screw the horses let's ride cowboys."
From My Best Friend when riding in a car with me and sees her reflection in a big glass window, "I make this car look good, Hell I make everything look good. I class up everywhere I go." This is one of my favorite quotes from her of all time.
From my brother: "Stop caring what your kid does and just be glad he's not moving home." This is PURE genius.
From Kid Rock, often quoted by my Best Friend, "You get what you put in and people get what they deserve."
From Al Franken: “It's the Power of the Almighty, the Splendor of Nature, and then you.”
From one of the most romantics in the world: "You're ducking turning me on."
From my brother about my painting of a tree "That belongs in an opium den"
From Cassilyn the niece who hates wearing clothes and eating anything, "No, no no no no no no." She's a genius already.
From my Best Friend "are you sure there are no secret spices in ham?"
From Balzac: "Great love affairs start with Champagne and end with tisane."
From The Bossy Republican: "Carrie, I know pants with pleats are out of fashion but they aren't hamma pants." (yes they are)
From a new song I've just heard: "If you have a little faith in me I can let you be who you need to be."
From Best Friend when she heard the dog had 7 kittens. "Carrie gets and F in animal husbandry."
From Rob: "your farm is a clusterfuck"
From TMobile: "Ma'am we've never had a problem with the blackberry flip phones." (This one almost caused me to fall off my chair.)
From The bossy Republican: "Carrie, it wasn't again and again and again, just one again." When I think of this I laugh out loud over and over again and again.
From Richie: "Every time I come home there's another cat and another project to do."
And of course, in all hilarity, a series of text messages from my Best Friend on her way home from work in the DC bus system, which after having ridden a few times is by far the wackiest bus system in the world:
Me: You there? BF: just got on the bus BF: Hot out BF: Whadda you got? Me: Rainy, cold BF: Guy at bus stop was Mr. Pee Pants Me: Nice, only in DC BF: Tornado weather BF: No, Dc in the summer Me: HA ha BF: Didn't realize hot was tough on bladder control Me: Cold beer can fuck you up BF: Never heard that before Bf: Sounds like leprechaun wisdom Me: He's mia Bf: So are we having fish for dinner? Bf: Maybe, or in the middle of the action and cant see the shore Me: not sure Bf: After four Me: Sure Bf: Duck the ham then Bf: What are WE doing for fun? Bf: I got pee pants 2 and loud talker here Me: ha ha Bf: Oh super, and to round it out a wailing child Bf: I am the ham, duck me Me: Quit it you are making me laugh Bf: Girl on the street, VERY tight red sox shirt, skirt to her ankles, work boots and wait for it, ready? Bf: She thinks she's hot Bf: ha Me: So does karen, go figure. Bf: even wailing pants looking at her cuz don't u know she's on my bus Bf: Hottie has on fake eye lashes that look like spiders Me: Taking off my fake eyelashes right now Bf: Wailer hushed pee pants left, maybe I can make it home BF: Taking them where? maybe hottie collects old ones Bf: Take them to salvation army Bf: Man boobs just got on sat down next to hottie Bf: Toss up as to who is hotter me: Jesus Bf: Next apt? walking distance to work Me: I caught leroy for love Bf: Rousing debate on when mighty mouse was on TV Bf: Caught him doing what? Me: ha ha I miss bus chatter Me: Caught him to love on him BF: Ha! man boobs just yelled shut the hell up y'all cant you see I'm romancing my woman here Me: You? Bf: lmao, no hottie in red sox Bf: He likes her boots Me: Boots make the woman Bf: or maybe he said boobs Me: Lunch at bk Me: then mad park ducking Bf: 1957 year of the mighty mouse, i swear to god Bf: That's not what parks are for Bf: they are for jerking off on trees Me: You dont watch cheaters Me: Happens every day Bf: My not watching balances the universe for your watching it in repeats Me: Sometimes three peats Me: ha BF: Ha, no way Me: yup BF: I'm going to have to double up on pbs Bf: hot guy in lexus suv has 6 of those 29 cent tree air fresheners hanging in his window Me: Ha ha you have a white trash best friend ducking cope with it Me: he farts in his car BF: Ha, could be he's swarthy Bf: Big class ring on middle finger right hand, is this a symbol of anything but horrid taste? Bf: Beeped his horn scared me BF: Calling with the leprechaun? what's the occasion? Bf: Crikey a fire truck BF: I spot your potential boyfriend ahead waving his arm so bus will stop, we haven't moved in five minutes and he refuses to walk here Me: Oh I miss that picking out boyfriends BF: Absolutely your boyfriend he looks angry Me: dancing to music not even realizing it's your own cell phone, I miss that too BF: I swear to d uck I want to take the world pol out of this dictionary Me: I know Bf: Guy in car in lane facing us has no shirt on Bf: He may be naked Me: our nation's capitol Bf: I miss all the good chit Bf: it's hot out there people look sweaty Bf: cmon baby sweat for me, who's your daddy now? Bf: Some big heads of state mtg here monday warned us traffic would be bad me: they should let them meet bus patrons Me: Some sweat smells good Bf: That's aftershave Me: Some men too manly for aftershave Bf: he thinks you're perfect, he's delusional Me: Pretty close Me: He shines me on BF: You're a polisher yourself Bf: And I didn't even mean Polish which is what came up Me: He could be perfect, who knows Bf: what not to wear photo just got on Me: Take a picture I dare ya Bf: Too dim, too far Bf: and very obvious Me: Dim and Obvious? That's richie Bf: OMG been on the bus over an hour Bf: Or dimansmelly Bf: or a shared screen name with his g/f Dimanddimmer
At this point we get separated because of the appointed hour or either of us wanders off. I almost forgot how much I love to text. If you haven't tried it, I recommend it highly.
I left the sheets on the line in the Spring air and fell asleep in one of those Spring afternoon slumbers where I find myself somewhere else and you are always somewhere else I am planning a garden and a life of stolen kisses at airports
When from this dream I awoke the rain wasn't drip dropping in music of the garden faeries each drop the thousands of drops were nails and hammers striking nails, one and then a thousand closing the window only muffled their power
What mother nature gives she takes away and in her infinite wisdom teaches us to forget and in another time, in another Spring storm afternoon you were walking up the steps to my room and quietly undressing and then slipping between these sheets soaked in anxiety pulling me close to you in some Spring's promise
I curled into you, until your spine was mine and your ribs covered my bruised heart and when the rain flooded the yard you whispered to me stories of great promise turning the noise to a song that watered flowers and I could hear you whisper "all storms pass"
Your tulips touched mine and we were there in the moment listening to Beethoven's 9th the violins, now sparrows I could feel your finger tips trace my left hip and push that hip flat against the mattress so you had a warm place to just wait waiting for me to push back
Just when I am sure I am the one who waits in anxious desire I am reminded that you lead like Job and that tender girls are hard to love they break like glass and we are the teetering lamp on the edge of the table and I trust your hands just like I trust your heart When love makes the choice what are we to do but follow? or pull the cover over our head and whisper prayers of sunshine
************************************************
I wrote this Easter Sunday when it was raining and today it's snowing. Chicago weather is as capricious as my heart. I am full of thanks I didn't plant anything I didn't mind losing. My Best Friend called from DC this morning where she assures me Spring has to be close as it is horridly hot there but with a comforting breeze. I am easier to find, nose to the grind stone,and today I fell the cats cat nip so they are all stoned and napping. I had an evening of wonky uneasiness but keeping positive. If you have an idea of a flower to plant in shade, poor soul and without much water, let me know as the side of the house could use some love.
Carrie
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You can hold her hand And show her how you cry Explain to her your weakness So she understands And then roll over and die
You can brave decisions Before you crumble up inside Spend your time asking everyone else's permission Then run away and hide
Or you can sit on chimneys Put some fire up your ass No need to know what you're doing or waiting for But if anyone should ask Tell them I've been licking coconut skins And we've been hanging out Tell them God just dropped by to forgive our sins And relieve us our doubt La la la la la la la...
Oh you can hold her eggs But your basket has a hole You can lie between her legs and go looking for Tell her you're searching for her soul You can wait for ages Watch your compost turn to coal Time is contagious Everybody's getting old
So you can sit on chimneys Put some fire up your ass No need to know what you're doing or looking for But if anyone should ask Tell them I've been cooking coconut skins And we've been hanging out Tell them God just dropped by to forgive our sins And relieve us our doubt La la la la la la la...
It sounded a little like Joni Mitchell and some great war protest song just for lovers. All of love is war, ask bukowski:
"For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can't readily accept the God formula, the big answers don't remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us." — Charles Bukowski
and of course "she's mad but there's no lie in her fire"
An Almost Made Up Poem
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny they are small, and the fountain is in France where you wrote me that last letter and I answered and never heard from you again. you used to write insane poems about ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you knew famous artists and most of them were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right, go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous because we’ never met. we got close once in New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never touched. so you went with the famous and wrote about the famous, and, of course, what you found out is that the famous are worried about their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed with them, who gives them that, and then awakens in the morning to write upper case poems about ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe it was the upper case. you were one of the best female poets and I told the publishers, editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’ magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom, but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder. your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying bench every night and wept for the lovers who had hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide 3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you I would probably have been unfair to you or you to me. it was best like this.
After reading Balzac and the little Chinese Seamstress I wanted to read Balzac's work. Due to the fact our educational system in this country is dismal, the local library had no copies of anything written by Honore de Balzac and even the local Borders informed me they would have to order in. I was beyond livid. It seemed nobody cared he almost created realism, nobody even flinched. I set out to find some of his work today after Easter brunch and headed out to a remote used bookstore where I have found some amazing little gems. I found a bag full of fun and wanted to share the finds with you. I have decided to read all Balzac's work along with his autobiography. I have been trying to learn French this year and trying to read more. I am going to download some of his work from Itunes and listen to it while I am painting and creating. Born in the South of France, he was a prolific writer and I am anxious to delve into his life a bit.
I also found an interesting little set of rubber stamps that are courier type fonts. I have an idea for these and a wonderful idea for a little faded copy of the play Dangerous Liaisons. I have wanted to paint a Marie Antionette piece and I think I will use strips of the play ripped from the book for her hair.
There is a series of books called 2 X 2. This seems a great find. The 2X2 series pairs literature, usually by men and women sometimes from different parts of the world and with differing view points so that each lights up the other, allowing to learn from difference and different view points. This book paired up Old Mrs. Harris by Willa Cather and Gustave Flaubert presents A Simple Heart. Both are relatively short stories and look like an easy read.
I always look for poetry, off the wall and out of the way. It's how I found Pinsky. This book is Now that my father lies down beside me. It's selected poetry by Stanley Plumly.
Now That My Father Lies Down Beside Me
We lie in that other darkness, ourselves. There is less than the width of my left hand between us. I can barely braethe, but the light breathes easily, wind on water across our two still bodies.
I cannot even turn to see him. I would not touch him, nor would I lift my arm into the crescent of a moon. (There is no star in the sky of this room, only the light fashioning fish along the walls. They swim and swallow one another.)
I dream we lie under water, caught in our own sure drift. A window, white shadow, trembles over us. Light breaks into a moving circle. He would not speak and I would not touch him. It is an ocean under here. Whatever two we were, we become one falling body, one breath. Night lies down at the sleeping center--no fish, no shadow, no single, turning light. And I would not touch him who lies deeper in the drifting dark than life.
******************************************************* If I find another gem tearing through this book, I'll let you know. I am working on a poem about Lawrence's Wild Thing. It's turning in my head as a wild thing never feels sorry for itself.
The Visible world is a novel about WW2 and the heroic account of seven Czech parachutists who in 1942 assassinated a high-ranking Nazi. And of course mixed in here somewhere is a love story, or I wouldn't have bothered. I like that it's set in Prague. I'll let you know if it's passionate enough to look for later. and last but not least The Italian American Reader. This group of essays, memoirs, and poetry written by Italian Americans on Italian interests. I picked it up because Mario Puzzo had something int here on his mom and I love reading Puzzo and when I read the Godfather, I read it twice through.
If you have some favorite Balzac story you'd like to share you know how to find me. I haven't posted a song for awhile and then I find this, perfect for Balzac. I first heard Wainwright sing he sang this lyric, "I don't want to smell you and lose my senses." I was a devotee. Enjoy.
La lune, trop bleme, (the moon, too white) pose un diadème (puts a tiara) sur tes cheveux roux. (on your red hair) La lune, trop rousse, (the moon, too red) de gloire éclabousse (with glory splashes) ton jupon plein de trous. (your ragged underskirt) La lune, trop pâle, (the moon, too pale) caresse l'opale (caress the opal) de tes yeux blasés. (of your indifferent eyes) Princesse de la rue, (princess of the street) sois la bienvenue (be welcome) dans mon coeur brisé. (in my broken heart)
The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh. While windmill wings of the Moulin shelter you and I.
Ma petite mandigotte, (my little beggar) je sens ta menotte (I feel your hand) qui cherche ma main. (searching for mine) Je sens ta poitrine (I feel your chest) et ta taille fine, (and your slim waist) j'oublie mon chagrin. (I forget my sorrow) Je sens sous tes lèvres (I smell on your lips) une odeur de fièvre, (a scent of fever) de gosse mal nourrie, (of an underfed kid) et sous ta caresse, (and under your caress) je sens une ivresse (I feel a drunkeness) qui m'anéantit. (that kills me)
The stairways up to la butte Can make the wretched sigh While windmill wings of the Moulin Shelter you and I
et voilà qu'elle trotte, (and there she goes strutting about) la lune qui flotte, (the floating moon) la princesse aussi. (along with the princess)
lalala....
Mes rêves épanouis. (my thriving dreams)
Les escaliers de la butte (The stairways up to la butte) sont durs aux miséreux. (are tough on the poor) Les ailes du Moulin (the wings of the Moulin) protègent les amoureux. (shelter those who love)
We might kiss when we are alone When nobody's watching We might take it home We might make out when nobody's there It's not that we're scared It's just that it's delicate
So why'd you fill my sorrows With the words you've borrowed From the only place you've known And why'd ya sing Hallelujah If it means nothing to you Why'd you sing with me at all?
We might live like never before When there's nothing to give Well how can we ask for more We might make love in some sacred place The look on your face is delicate
So why'd you fill my sorrow With the words you've borrowed From the only place that you've known And why'd you sing Hallelujah If it means nothing to you Why'd you sing with me at all?
And why'd you fill my sorrows With the words you've borrowed From the only place that you've known Why'd you sing Hallelujah If it means nothing to you Why'd you sing with me at all?
The three videos are from Sessions@aol. I have listened to Damien for awhile now, but now when I am happy, more when I feel blue and want to just wallow in it for awhile. I haven't known any situation worth having that wasn't somewhat "delicate." Are you ever really not fragile at the same time? I was thinking the other day I can't remember a time when I really was forced to have faith in something new. When you have known people for years and years the faith becomes almost a habit. When is the last time you trusted in something new? When have you made love in some sacred place? By the end of Spring I am going to cook something I've never cooked before, kissed someone I've never kissed before, and painted something I've never even thought of painting. I may write a song, try to sleep in the rain and learn to trust my instincts. If you haven't heard Damien before, I hope you enjoy his angel voice as much as I do.
