If you click on the painting above you will find a 360° panorama. This was created using software called 'Photosync' ---- which you can look up on your browser and create your own panoramas. This could be a great way for our painters to show a 360° panorama of your studio highlighting your favorite paintings.
I created two panoramas of my backyards, both in Colombia and Brookeville. It's fun and painless -- -- you take a series of over- lapping photographs and then use a software package from Microsoft named ICE which stitches the photographs together and exports the result to the Photosync website. All of this is free and fun to play with.
Holiday Party
The chemistry of creativity in the flesh
Glorious meeting at Najwa's studio
Najwa thank you for a great evening, the food, drink, and discussion could not be better. And thank you for introducing us to your very talented and dear friends Ed and Shakir. Please see Shakir's stunning work at http://alousiart.com/.
Your delicious Iraqi food and warm Iraqi hospitality were gracious beyond bounds --- wa alaikum salaam.
A poem inspired by Picasso
Mary's recent postings remind me of the important ways that poets are influenced by art. I offer here the opening poem of my new collection (Red Has No Reason, Plain View Press, 2010) -- it came from my viewing of a sequence of several drawings by Picasso, works that progress from a carefully detailed ink drawing to a sketch of a few lines that, with extreme brevity, also gives us the bull.
How Did It Come to This? by JoAnne Growney
Prints on exhibit walls—
notions of a bull by Picasso,
whose clear eye directed a deft hand.
Careful likeness becomes surreal
design then sketch
and in the end
a few fine lines.
Poems also we make
by erasing.
How Did It Come to This? by JoAnne Growney
Prints on exhibit walls—
notions of a bull by Picasso,
whose clear eye directed a deft hand.
Careful likeness becomes surreal
design then sketch
and in the end
a few fine lines.
Poems also we make
by erasing.
Another Ekphrastic Poem
Picasso's Insomnia After Final Self Portrait
idnight in the emerald garden,
and I long for the moon to drown
me in its shadow, the sky to soothe
with its blackness, for stars to stave off
the unshaven stubble of insomnia,
heavy and brown like mud.
If I could dream, my body would race
backward with the swiftness of the Seine.
I’d dance with a barefoot maiden
in a cornfield, my green forehead
obscured by a wide straw hat.
I’d inhale the apple of her hair,
see the lake’s mirror in her blue eyes.
I’d strut in the willows, limbs nimble
with the greed of youth.
Still awake, I find sleep slow-footed,
dragging its shackles.
Mary L Westoctt
idnight in the emerald garden,
and I long for the moon to drown
me in its shadow, the sky to soothe
with its blackness, for stars to stave off
the unshaven stubble of insomnia,
heavy and brown like mud.
If I could dream, my body would race
backward with the swiftness of the Seine.
I’d dance with a barefoot maiden
in a cornfield, my green forehead
obscured by a wide straw hat.
I’d inhale the apple of her hair,
see the lake’s mirror in her blue eyes.
I’d strut in the willows, limbs nimble
with the greed of youth.
Still awake, I find sleep slow-footed,
dragging its shackles.
Mary L Westoctt
Ghazals
Poetic Form: Ghazal
The ghazal is composed of a minimum of five couplets--and typically no more than fifteen--that are structurally, thematically, and emotionally autonomous. Each line of the poem must be of the same length, though meter is not imposed in English. The first couplet introduces a scheme, made up of a rhyme followed by a refrain. Subsequent couplets pick up the same scheme in the second line only, repeating the refrain and rhyming the second line with both lines of the first stanza. The final couplet usually includes the poet's signature, referring to the author in the first or third person, and frequently including the poet's own name or a derivation of its meaning.
Traditionally invoking melancholy, love, longing, and metaphysical questions, ghazals are often sung by Iranian, Indian, and Pakistani musicians. The form has roots in seventh-century Arabia, and gained prominence in the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century thanks to such Persian poets as Rumi and Hafiz. In the eighteenth-century, the ghazal was used by poets writing in Urdu, a mix of the medieval languages of Northern India, including Persian. Among these poets, Ghalib is the recognized master.
Other languages that adopted the ghazal include Hindi, Pashto, Turkish, and Hebrew. The German poet and philosopher Goethe experimented with the form, as did the Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca.
The ghazal is composed of a minimum of five couplets--and typically no more than fifteen--that are structurally, thematically, and emotionally autonomous. Each line of the poem must be of the same length, though meter is not imposed in English. The first couplet introduces a scheme, made up of a rhyme followed by a refrain. Subsequent couplets pick up the same scheme in the second line only, repeating the refrain and rhyming the second line with both lines of the first stanza. The final couplet usually includes the poet's signature, referring to the author in the first or third person, and frequently including the poet's own name or a derivation of its meaning.
Traditionally invoking melancholy, love, longing, and metaphysical questions, ghazals are often sung by Iranian, Indian, and Pakistani musicians. The form has roots in seventh-century Arabia, and gained prominence in the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century thanks to such Persian poets as Rumi and Hafiz. In the eighteenth-century, the ghazal was used by poets writing in Urdu, a mix of the medieval languages of Northern India, including Persian. Among these poets, Ghalib is the recognized master.
Other languages that adopted the ghazal include Hindi, Pashto, Turkish, and Hebrew. The German poet and philosopher Goethe experimented with the form, as did the Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca.
PIcasso's Last Self Portrait
A green fawn flees undaunted
by figs or orphan eyes,
hungry for a face fig-green,
stubble awed by angles and lines,
nostrils greedy for tears,
circling. Abiding desire to flee
absinthe, his face spikes blue,
steeple black against the dangling
retina of a moon. Greedy for steeples
and stars, rising in awed angles
and lines, a greedy orphan circles
the One.
Mary L. Westcott
This is an ekphrastic poem. I can't copy and paste the portrait...
by figs or orphan eyes,
hungry for a face fig-green,
stubble awed by angles and lines,
nostrils greedy for tears,
circling. Abiding desire to flee
absinthe, his face spikes blue,
steeple black against the dangling
retina of a moon. Greedy for steeples
and stars, rising in awed angles
and lines, a greedy orphan circles
the One.
Mary L. Westcott
This is an ekphrastic poem. I can't copy and paste the portrait...
St Raphael Academy HS 50 year reunion
We had a fifty-year golden high school reunion on September 18 and 19, St Raphael Academy Pawtucket RI class of 1960. There were many colorful scenes -- -- the best of which was the reception in the Galway Bay Irish Pub, a seedy rundown ethnic local pub with a house above where the proprietor keeps close watch. Now that's class!! Can you imagine that people mistake me for an uptight proper New England WASP!!
In any case there were many colorful and poignant scenes meeting friends of 50 years ago. Many erstwhile drinking buddies still holding a bottle of beer in their dominant hand like I left them 50 years ago ---- in a look-a-like musty dark rundown pub. There was so much magic -- conversations picking up from 50 years ago without even a pause --- bonds reconnected that ran deep --- being with best friends that you really knew, each with a 50-year story to tell --- carefree laughter recreated from our teenage years. The feeling that you were really home after 50 years of displacement, navigating by memory through streets with no name with each corner resurrecting delicious warm memories of carefree childhood. Yet all the while knowing it is but a visit to a distant home that now had a different character.
After reminding me of my Huckleberry Finn childhood including being thrown out of the high school my classmates were all quite surprised that my professional career turned out successful -- -- likewise to this day so am I surprised. Little did we know that all the tumult in high school was purifying my character for the topsy-turvy experience of an entrepreneur, and it turned out the combination of pure mathematician and Yankee underclass grit is deadly.
As you can tell by the picture the Galway Bay Pub bar is elongated and runs parallel to Pawtucket’s South Bend street. I arrived late to the reception and the place already had a healthy hilarious buzz. Each tap on the shoulder awakened a long forgotten friendship --- each a separate celebration of laughter and joy -- -- no polite warmup necessary. At this age part of the celebration is just being alive and the beauty of this age is that ego is finally put aside and the laughter, hugs, and affection are finally all authentic ---- just like it was back in the high school days. It was best showing up late meandering like a bumper car through each of the narrow side conversations and having people tap me on the shoulder exclaiming ‘Baron’.
My nickname was Baron --- I had a certain royal indignant posture that let me skate above all the bothersome high school responsibilities of homework and assignments -- -- and somehow get away with it. The flood of emotion and memories forgotten now reawakened opened me up -- -- the usual guarded comportment stripped away. Best yet I had to interact the way these old high school buddies remembered me -- -- the Baron was back!! More compelling than memories of old buddies are the memories of ourselves back them --- more authentic, outlandish, and crazy than now. And for a brief moment in the Galway Bay Pub I was indeed the Barron of old. And it felt so comfortable and so much fun and so silly and spontaneous -- -- it was glorious. I stayed until the very last drop of alcohol and in fact found another old friend, not of the class of 1960, who was tending bar -- -- and we hugged and told a few more good stories.
Back at the hotel that night I recounted the experience many times over with my wife trying to hold on to the high school years and the innocence of my adolescence. I knew it wasn’t me but it also wasn’t a masquerade -- -- it was true and authentic, a chance to relive the past and exalt in the gift and glory of childhood.
I still hold a piece of it now and as my degree of separation increases thought it best to capture the sentiment in writing. I have this notion that life turns back and revisits its past, mine was glorious, and I’m not through with it yet. All this is so special to me because, thank God, I never grew up.
In any case there's the making of a good story here --- thought I would share my first thoughts.
A visit to Cezanne's Studio and Picasso's Studio at Aix-en-Provence
I have always been fascinated about artist's studios and places of work.......I cannot describe how I feel when I am in the place where creativity happens , it is almost like entering a place so sacred that I tip toe not to break the air, specially those places were artists are long gone to a different place or to a different world...... My heart rate races , my eyes don't know where to look, and I smile of indescribable joy until my face hurt.
The trip I took with my French/American fiancé to Aix en Provence gave me the chance to visit not only one but 2 studios, Paul Cezanne's ( I touched his coat , No one saw me). And Picasso's Studio at Chateau Vauvenargues, which is where he is buried.........I had to touch his easel , I got yelled at....who cares I had to touch the flat edged screw that he must have touched hundreds of times to adjust his easel .... Crazy yes, I am.
Thank you Tim
What a great meeting at Tim's house. Most of us express our creativity keeping the homestead safe, on an easel or on the web or in a book. Not Tim, he lives inside his creation. We steped inside Tim's gallery, with a room by room tour with each room telling the story of it's destruction, reincarnation, reinvention, re-creation
We each experience a sinking chaos when trying to form our vision with uneven unhinged working material --- can you imagine what it feels like to rip a room apart, in the name of creative expression. And like Phoenix arising from ash we witnessed Tim marvelous bigger than life creation.
We each experience a sinking chaos when trying to form our vision with uneven unhinged working material --- can you imagine what it feels like to rip a room apart, in the name of creative expression. And like Phoenix arising from ash we witnessed Tim marvelous bigger than life creation.
There is a certain zaniness that comes from following the creative spirit. As Tim told his story I was struck by how everybody was rejoicing in and celebrating Tim's creative initiative . When we take on a creative project it takes ignoring the demands of the outside world and the experience is uneven with a certain price to pay. We each act on our own creative instincts and together with Tim's story we celebrate it with each other. Everybody identifies and empathizes with Tim's magnificent zany story and our shared creative crazy gift.
There is no place I would rather be.
Red Has No Reason
Mary's postings this evening have reminded me that I want to share with you all the news of my new poetry collection entitled Red Has No Reason -- the publisher is Plain View Press and the book is also available (discounted) at amazon.com. The final poem in the collection, from which the title is taken, is:
Aurora Borealis
As there is no purpose for violet,
there’s no purpose for purpose.
As there is no order for orange,
no order exists.
As green escapes gravity
and indigo invites inertia,
as blue begs argument
and yellow fails to yield,
As red has no reason,
reason is repealed.
JoAnne Growney 2010
Aurora Borealis
As there is no purpose for violet,
there’s no purpose for purpose.
As there is no order for orange,
no order exists.
As green escapes gravity
and indigo invites inertia,
as blue begs argument
and yellow fails to yield,
As red has no reason,
reason is repealed.
JoAnne Growney 2010
New Poem--Ode to the Beach
Ode to the Beach
If only blue water could forever wave
white bonnets at gulls that dig for dinner
among silver fish flashing, scattering
to swimmer’s skin with pinpricks light
as wings of angels brushing past.
A poet could tip back onto a soft cushion,
lay into a sun so warm it travels to gills
of grouper and wrasse, passes through fins
to sparkle on kelp and coral nourishing
the dolphin leaping with a sly smile.
Mary L. Westcott
If only blue water could forever wave
white bonnets at gulls that dig for dinner
among silver fish flashing, scattering
to swimmer’s skin with pinpricks light
as wings of angels brushing past.
A poet could tip back onto a soft cushion,
lay into a sun so warm it travels to gills
of grouper and wrasse, passes through fins
to sparkle on kelp and coral nourishing
the dolphin leaping with a sly smile.
Mary L. Westcott
New Poem
Five-Year Olds Creating a Heart Agreement
the First Day of Sunday School
at Unity of Gaithersburg
Rambling nonstop with guess whats
and stories of the pet goldfish that died
and came back to life, somehow,
the girl leaped like a fish to another bowl
of words about the goldfish swimming to heaven,
or how to draw the Big Head of God,
or should a sea nettle be colored magenta
or green, how we shouldn’t bite each other
in Sunday school, that was for a dog
one boy piped up, a dog who nipped at people
like the mailman and fire engines, biting
that just wouldn’t do on Sundays.
The boy drew his bad alien spacecraft
(to be destroyed by a bigger and nicer ship)
and still the talk was of fish
and cats who chased squirrels that
dressed in pink and sea nettles
that swam to shore and bit their legs,
and the boy listened patiently because
we agreed to be friendly in Sunday school.
the First Day of Sunday School
at Unity of Gaithersburg
Rambling nonstop with guess whats
and stories of the pet goldfish that died
and came back to life, somehow,
the girl leaped like a fish to another bowl
of words about the goldfish swimming to heaven,
or how to draw the Big Head of God,
or should a sea nettle be colored magenta
or green, how we shouldn’t bite each other
in Sunday school, that was for a dog
one boy piped up, a dog who nipped at people
like the mailman and fire engines, biting
that just wouldn’t do on Sundays.
The boy drew his bad alien spacecraft
(to be destroyed by a bigger and nicer ship)
and still the talk was of fish
and cats who chased squirrels that
dressed in pink and sea nettles
that swam to shore and bit their legs,
and the boy listened patiently because
we agreed to be friendly in Sunday school.
My Father's Cane
My Father’s Cane
(After Pinsky)
When I had no words, I listened to the rain,
to the crystal silence between the pages.
I could feel the cadence of my father’s cane.
When I had no meter, I was not quite sane.
I looked for joy in trying to assuage
the memory of the cadence of my father’s cane.
When I had no rhythm, I walked the lanes,
placed words on pages, a sauntering sage.
I sang to the cadence of my father’s cane.
When I had no image, prosody was my bane,
I borrowed from Neruda: he was my gauge.
When I had no words, I listened to the rain.
When I had no lyrics, I let images reign
like the one of the heron standing on an edge
with one foot tapping like my father’s cane.
I sat at the table to the right of pain,
to the left of father, away from his rage.
When I had no words, I listened to the rain,
and wrote the cadence of my father’s cane.
(After Pinsky)
When I had no words, I listened to the rain,
to the crystal silence between the pages.
I could feel the cadence of my father’s cane.
When I had no meter, I was not quite sane.
I looked for joy in trying to assuage
the memory of the cadence of my father’s cane.
When I had no rhythm, I walked the lanes,
placed words on pages, a sauntering sage.
I sang to the cadence of my father’s cane.
When I had no image, prosody was my bane,
I borrowed from Neruda: he was my gauge.
When I had no words, I listened to the rain.
When I had no lyrics, I let images reign
like the one of the heron standing on an edge
with one foot tapping like my father’s cane.
I sat at the table to the right of pain,
to the left of father, away from his rage.
When I had no words, I listened to the rain,
and wrote the cadence of my father’s cane.
Rainforest Poem
Costa Rican Rainforest
Does the one-eyed moon hear our cries?
Coral snakes startle with a faint hiss.
All things die, all things rise.
The daylight brings parrot’s reprise.
The green poison dart frog insists
that the one-eyed moon hear her cries.
The drizzle drips on ferns disguised
in faint fog shifting in the leafy mist.
All things die, all things rise.
Volcanoes erupt to fire-orange skies.
Clouds hover above and coexist
with the one-eyed moon that hears our cries.
Ocelots swim, spiders improvise,
wrap their bodies, spin webs, persist-
all things die, all things rise.
Haze obscures the Quetzal’s sighs,
spirits linger while monkeys tryst.
Oh, one-eyed moon that hears our cries:
all things will die, all things will rise.
Mary Westcott
Does the one-eyed moon hear our cries?
Coral snakes startle with a faint hiss.
All things die, all things rise.
The daylight brings parrot’s reprise.
The green poison dart frog insists
that the one-eyed moon hear her cries.
The drizzle drips on ferns disguised
in faint fog shifting in the leafy mist.
All things die, all things rise.
Volcanoes erupt to fire-orange skies.
Clouds hover above and coexist
with the one-eyed moon that hears our cries.
Ocelots swim, spiders improvise,
wrap their bodies, spin webs, persist-
all things die, all things rise.
Haze obscures the Quetzal’s sighs,
spirits linger while monkeys tryst.
Oh, one-eyed moon that hears our cries:
all things will die, all things will rise.
Mary Westcott
Thanks for the great meeting!
Dear Group,
I really enjoyed meeting everyone and will keep you posted on my poetry progress!
Tom, I hope you can link me up to email so I can get official notices of meetings.
All best,
Mary Westcott
I really enjoyed meeting everyone and will keep you posted on my poetry progress!
Tom, I hope you can link me up to email so I can get official notices of meetings.
All best,
Mary Westcott
Attempt to recreate the story of Lot's wife
I Am Salt
The men of Sodom gather like storm clouds
outside my house, rumbling and loud
and my husband and I inside, cowed.
The angels are pleading: go now,
the city will perish and burn.
I’m torn and I shout no, and I run
out the door, leaving my gold rings
and tapestry, the smells of garlic
and roasted lamb, the fruit of the fig
and honeyed wine.
I am slow as a sow
as moisture drips down my body.
I flee in the desert and fear
for my husband running ahead.
Sand sticks to my feet
through my sandals, and sweat
trickles down my brow.
I am running, running
per the angels’ decree,
running from my city close
to the sea.
My fears crystallize into thoughts,
and I long for my couches and carpets,
the sweet aromas of cinnamon and myrrh.
Salty tears sting my face,
and I yearn to look back. God said,
Look ahead to your destination,
Do not return to home and bed.
I can hear my anklets chinking,
already grieve my silver and purple
garments left inside my house below,
which is sinking to ash and rubble.
I say salt, and begin to feel
bereft. I taste salt
on my lips. A voice says halt
and the angels touch my shoulder,
and God wants my feet to move,
my head to remain forward, but
I am curious and stubborn,
I don’t believe the angel’s decree,
and I want to be free. So I turn
my head and my sweat dries to salt.
Mary Westcott
The men of Sodom gather like storm clouds
outside my house, rumbling and loud
and my husband and I inside, cowed.
The angels are pleading: go now,
the city will perish and burn.
I’m torn and I shout no, and I run
out the door, leaving my gold rings
and tapestry, the smells of garlic
and roasted lamb, the fruit of the fig
and honeyed wine.
I am slow as a sow
as moisture drips down my body.
I flee in the desert and fear
for my husband running ahead.
Sand sticks to my feet
through my sandals, and sweat
trickles down my brow.
I am running, running
per the angels’ decree,
running from my city close
to the sea.
My fears crystallize into thoughts,
and I long for my couches and carpets,
the sweet aromas of cinnamon and myrrh.
Salty tears sting my face,
and I yearn to look back. God said,
Look ahead to your destination,
Do not return to home and bed.
I can hear my anklets chinking,
already grieve my silver and purple
garments left inside my house below,
which is sinking to ash and rubble.
I say salt, and begin to feel
bereft. I taste salt
on my lips. A voice says halt
and the angels touch my shoulder,
and God wants my feet to move,
my head to remain forward, but
I am curious and stubborn,
I don’t believe the angel’s decree,
and I want to be free. So I turn
my head and my sweat dries to salt.
Mary Westcott
Names for Najwa's picture
Desert Sunset
Palm Oceans
City of Palms
Mary Westcott
PS Nice meeting you
Couldn't upload picture
Palm Oceans
City of Palms
Mary Westcott
PS Nice meeting you
Couldn't upload picture
Adele Bloch-Bauer Ekphrastic Poem
Adele Bloch-Bauer Speaks to Museum Goers
(Portrait by Gustav Klimt)
Held tight by coins and the eyes
of quilted squares, I gaze beyond
the Van Gogh down the hall,
if only to ignore your pink
shirt and the apple browning
in your knapsack as you brush
past Whistler and Picasso. I’m
on the wall next to a better version
of myself enmeshed in fabric.
I still have beauty and red lips--
my black hair and stark white face
are faultless. My dress of golden spirals
and silver even now lures lovers.
Yet I weary of entrapment
in brocade, long for the glory light.
If I could choose life—
such incandescence!
Mary L. Westcott
(Portrait by Gustav Klimt)
Held tight by coins and the eyes
of quilted squares, I gaze beyond
the Van Gogh down the hall,
if only to ignore your pink
shirt and the apple browning
in your knapsack as you brush
past Whistler and Picasso. I’m
on the wall next to a better version
of myself enmeshed in fabric.
I still have beauty and red lips--
my black hair and stark white face
are faultless. My dress of golden spirals
and silver even now lures lovers.
Yet I weary of entrapment
in brocade, long for the glory light.
If I could choose life—
such incandescence!
Mary L. Westcott
Otis Poem
This poem is dedicated to Otis.
Otis was my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel that just died. It was so sad. The picture is from when we first got him as a puppy.
Otis
I lost my Otis wag and calm,
My puppy dog eyes of clear conscience.
Otis had tricks of roll over, stay, and bang-bang play dead,
Tactics of bacon and animal cracker trance to be fed.
Dogs are Officers of Family Public Relations and Ambassadors fit.
They work the crowd, but really weave people tight knit.
Otis avoided mean dogs and biter.
He was the canine Michael Jackson, lover not fighter.
Feline and Squirrel what a waste of a tail, simply to land to safety.
Dogs wag them without fail, saying “Look at me, I’m friendly.”
Otis was a beacon to all that this yard was safe harbor,
Especially to animal cracker and briber.
Horses gallop and dash to minds mark,
But puppies barrel and tumble into your heart, then park.
They instantly set residence there,
With whatever room you’ve available to spare.
Card playing dogs art and clever, yet a poker face never.
Rather they spray unmasked enthusiasm with a dash of desperation differ.
Dogs are those little noses that poke thru with first crack of door.
Only thing you need to be loved, is home wherefore.
Love is patient and is kind. It does not boast, and is not proud.
It always protects and it doth trust.
So many verses to the Corinthians discussed.
Love is a Dog is simply allowed.
No more vacuum cleaner for hard to reach places.
Otis is gone, Kleenex, now only empty spaces.
All the animals piled into the Ark and floods only bobber,
But I bet it was the dog beside Noah and rudder.
Friendship can take a lifetime to grow for people.
A dog takes no more than one look from kennel.
Otis lived as no tomorrow for rent.
Now that he is gone, I get what he meant.
A beating heart is special,
That wants nothing but sitting next to you grateful.
It takes people old age to be on track,
Puppies are born to that cage and knack.
I wish I could take just one more walk.
Otis would fertilize every tree and yard stalk.
But he marked my life for the better.
Goodbye Otis. You were the best dog ever.
I love your poems Mary!
Your train poem is very good at projecting simple emotions. I feel like I am on that train with you. As it turned out, I was actually on a train to NY as I was reading it, so that made it an even better experience.
I love the Bill and Wine poem as well. Take a trip and never leave the farm. That is very good for a wine poem.
And I especially love the ode to the painting. I have been on a kick of paintings with accompanying poems ever since I did some study on Japanese art. I have done it for my recent paintings because it keeps me in the right mood and emotion of the painting, rather than getting swamped with the technical aspects of painting. Just today I was conceptualizing a painting like Cezanne. The thought was 3D for parts of the painting and other parts flat, which this Klimt painting is another example of that. So just as I get a train poem while riding a train, I get a poem about a painting done in a composition that I am currently studying.
Given all the parallel thinking going on, perhaps you send me a poem about winning lottery numbers, because I think it will pay me to play.
Your spurt of creativity also has helped motivate me to do a poem about my dog Otis. I had to put him to sleep about a month ago. I wanted to write a poem about him, but I have been too upset to start. I am going to use your burst of poems to get me over the hump, so thank you for that.
I love the Bill and Wine poem as well. Take a trip and never leave the farm. That is very good for a wine poem.
And I especially love the ode to the painting. I have been on a kick of paintings with accompanying poems ever since I did some study on Japanese art. I have done it for my recent paintings because it keeps me in the right mood and emotion of the painting, rather than getting swamped with the technical aspects of painting. Just today I was conceptualizing a painting like Cezanne. The thought was 3D for parts of the painting and other parts flat, which this Klimt painting is another example of that. So just as I get a train poem while riding a train, I get a poem about a painting done in a composition that I am currently studying.
Given all the parallel thinking going on, perhaps you send me a poem about winning lottery numbers, because I think it will pay me to play.
Your spurt of creativity also has helped motivate me to do a poem about my dog Otis. I had to put him to sleep about a month ago. I wanted to write a poem about him, but I have been too upset to start. I am going to use your burst of poems to get me over the hump, so thank you for that.
Another Poem #3 today, comments appreciated
Capital Limited Train to Chicago
Slant light falls faintly on frosty panes.
I quiver lightly with the moving train.
Swerving and circling, the train rumbles and strains.
Passengers sway and lean on the moving train.
The clanking of drums as it grumbles, complains.
I listen to shrieking wheels of the moving train.
The train treks through deep quarries and plains.
I’m soothed by rocking on the moving train.
Grey rocks rise up along colorless streams.
Snow geese fly above the moving train.
Black sticks of trees as backdrop to sky,
traces of snow drift on the moving train.
The steeple stands high against billowing clouds.
Winter white stains windows on the moving train.
We march past white caps, hawks disdain.
I arrive in Chicago on the moving train.
Mary Westcott
Slant light falls faintly on frosty panes.
I quiver lightly with the moving train.
Swerving and circling, the train rumbles and strains.
Passengers sway and lean on the moving train.
The clanking of drums as it grumbles, complains.
I listen to shrieking wheels of the moving train.
The train treks through deep quarries and plains.
I’m soothed by rocking on the moving train.
Grey rocks rise up along colorless streams.
Snow geese fly above the moving train.
Black sticks of trees as backdrop to sky,
traces of snow drift on the moving train.
The steeple stands high against billowing clouds.
Winter white stains windows on the moving train.
We march past white caps, hawks disdain.
I arrive in Chicago on the moving train.
Mary Westcott
Bill's Ballad, new poem
Bill's Ballad
There is a bottle of dry white wine
cold and floating in a spring.
It dangles from a hempen vine:
a tug will reel it in.
My life is wispy as a cloud
whose aimless paths I follow.
I might stray from bubbly springs
but now I want a swallow.
Within a grove of cherry trees,
a basket waits for me
It holds fresh bread and soft white cheese
and the wine I drink with thee.
Mary L. Westcott
There is a bottle of dry white wine
cold and floating in a spring.
It dangles from a hempen vine:
a tug will reel it in.
My life is wispy as a cloud
whose aimless paths I follow.
I might stray from bubbly springs
but now I want a swallow.
Within a grove of cherry trees,
a basket waits for me
It holds fresh bread and soft white cheese
and the wine I drink with thee.
Mary L. Westcott
New Poem--Ekphrastic, August 3rd
Ode to Adele Bloch-Bauer
(Painted by Klimt in 1907)
To have had your radiance,
your swirling symphony of shine,
Oh queen of the golden gown,
incandescent wife of aristocracy.
Uplift your lustrous eyes,
light candles of sparkling silver,
raise your oddly restrained arms
beyond the wall of luminous yellow,
frankincense in your glinting veins,
and nourish the ghosts whirling
around you like a vortex. You
are a meditation on heaven’s
glistening light. Bow down
and be grateful.
Mary Westcott
(Painted by Klimt in 1907)
To have had your radiance,
your swirling symphony of shine,
Oh queen of the golden gown,
incandescent wife of aristocracy.
Uplift your lustrous eyes,
light candles of sparkling silver,
raise your oddly restrained arms
beyond the wall of luminous yellow,
frankincense in your glinting veins,
and nourish the ghosts whirling
around you like a vortex. You
are a meditation on heaven’s
glistening light. Bow down
and be grateful.
Mary Westcott
Another poem
The Fiddler Crabs
The sun’s rays light upon marsh
hawks first, as the male fiddler rises
on a spring morning to take up post
outside a creek tunnel,
his dominant claw a gaping
dinosaur mouth. He stretches
to the height of moon snails,
attempts to wave the next female
into his lair and failing, moves sideways
through spartina grass tall as trees
to hunt for another mate.
A female fiddler sets out to the dance,
entices with her slender arms.
The male swings his appendage,
beckoning, bending at the knees
like a body builder. After they mate,
he moves onto his next
prey, barely resting his giant
claw, fighting off other males
along the way.
She lays her eggs, attaches them
to her belly, then scurries to the water’s edge
to wash them. Most of her offspring
will be eaten by birds or fish.
She traipses over salt meadow grasses,
a golden plover hovering overhead.
Sure her task is done, she examines
detritus in the gray dusk.
Mary L Westcott
The sun’s rays light upon marsh
hawks first, as the male fiddler rises
on a spring morning to take up post
outside a creek tunnel,
his dominant claw a gaping
dinosaur mouth. He stretches
to the height of moon snails,
attempts to wave the next female
into his lair and failing, moves sideways
through spartina grass tall as trees
to hunt for another mate.
A female fiddler sets out to the dance,
entices with her slender arms.
The male swings his appendage,
beckoning, bending at the knees
like a body builder. After they mate,
he moves onto his next
prey, barely resting his giant
claw, fighting off other males
along the way.
She lays her eggs, attaches them
to her belly, then scurries to the water’s edge
to wash them. Most of her offspring
will be eaten by birds or fish.
She traipses over salt meadow grasses,
a golden plover hovering overhead.
Sure her task is done, she examines
detritus in the gray dusk.
Mary L Westcott
One poem
After Picasso's Final Self Portrait
A green fawn flees undaunted
by absinthe or distortion,
hungry for a face fig-green,
nostrils greedy for tears,
circling. Abiding desire to flee,
greedy for steeples and sstars,
undaunted by figs, a face spiked blue,
steeple blackk against the dangling
retina of a moon. Overcome by blazing
sun, the stubble of an earlobe
or spikey bear, rising in angles
and lines, greedy orphan circling
the One.
Mary L. Westcott
A green fawn flees undaunted
by absinthe or distortion,
hungry for a face fig-green,
nostrils greedy for tears,
circling. Abiding desire to flee,
greedy for steeples and sstars,
undaunted by figs, a face spiked blue,
steeple blackk against the dangling
retina of a moon. Overcome by blazing
sun, the stubble of an earlobe
or spikey bear, rising in angles
and lines, greedy orphan circling
the One.
Mary L. Westcott
New Member
Can anyone help me with cutting and pasting from Word?
This is a picture of me with my niece's painting of a pomegranate.
The artist connection --- the creative force connects us
The driving force of creativity fascinates, in the traditional roles of painters, poets, writers, ... But equally in endeavors not thought of as art --- engineering, mathematics, science, law, ..
When excellence tops competence it is always an art form, the leaders and leading edge are always driven by imagination and creativity. Would you call Einstein's relativity physics or poetry, all his work was done in his imagination, none in a lab. Is Obama's eloquence correct grammar or an inspired gift? Steve Jobs continually transforms the computer landscape, Apple describes their employees as artists, not engineers.
The best science, oratory, mathematics, poetry.. conforms to the strictest professional canon when analyzed --- viewed passively after the fact. When viewed before the fact, when constructed, they all are products of the unbounded creative imagination.
Click the 'CREATE' image to the right --- click twice to renew inspiration.
Physicist connects walt whitman to his muse Frederic Church with Meteor
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/john-lundberg/physicist-decodes-a-walt_b_600719.html
Interesting article..
If there wasn't a connection between Whitman and Church (Poet and Painter), then this rare meteor event would have been lost.
My poems, stories, and adventures
For me it is rather...My dark side touches my creativity
Exceptional people will bolt to the racetrack and bet on a horse with the same name as an old fling that shows up on facebook. Exceptional people will play the lottery with their birth date. Whereas ordinary people like me reach for their paintbrush or pen in inverse proportion to the number of visits to the psychologist.
I find that paddling thru poetry is especially productive during low tide. Whereas, my preference for painting would be to create like the Rolling Stones and be high all the time. However, inspiration comes like a flood, which is fun because I can at least get some humor from shocking my psychologist.
Here is my latest...
Holy Trinity of Teatro Signorelli
The Father is in the middle, the son on the right and the holy spirit on the left.
I have been studying the trinity in the bible. I also have been studying the blues in Greg Mort's paintings. I decided to try something different with my blues. I normally would use 2, but because of Greg and his blues I used 5 in this painting.
Does your creativity have a dark side?
Sally e-mailed the thought below which is a good discussion topic.
To what extent is your creativity driven by an inner torment? Would you trade places with a normal person giving up both the torment and creativity? Do you think yourself quite normal with a creativity gift with no particular downside?
----------------------------------------
"So many scientists, philosophers, writers, poets and artists live
in torment! And while the public is inspired by their works, they
themselves would happily exchange their great talent for a few
days of inner peace. You may ask, 'But why are there so many
disorders and so many tragedies in the lives of such remarkable
people?' Because, while these creative people have nurtured the
gift they received from heaven, they have not been concerned
about working at a deeper level or accepting a disciplined life.
Many of them even think their suffering and imbalances feed their
talent, and in a way they cultivate them.
It is true that, in the case of exceptional beings, their
achievements of art and of the mind, as well as those of the
spirit, arise more often than not out of the suffering and deep
turmoil they have somehow been able to overcome. But to truly
overcome them, an inner work is necessary, and if this work is
non-existent or insufficient, in the end imbalance will prevail,
with all the anxiety and suffering that brings.
Omraam Mikhaël Aïvanhov"
To what extent is your creativity driven by an inner torment? Would you trade places with a normal person giving up both the torment and creativity? Do you think yourself quite normal with a creativity gift with no particular downside?
----------------------------------------
"So many scientists, philosophers, writers, poets and artists live
in torment! And while the public is inspired by their works, they
themselves would happily exchange their great talent for a few
days of inner peace. You may ask, 'But why are there so many
disorders and so many tragedies in the lives of such remarkable
people?' Because, while these creative people have nurtured the
gift they received from heaven, they have not been concerned
about working at a deeper level or accepting a disciplined life.
Many of them even think their suffering and imbalances feed their
talent, and in a way they cultivate them.
It is true that, in the case of exceptional beings, their
achievements of art and of the mind, as well as those of the
spirit, arise more often than not out of the suffering and deep
turmoil they have somehow been able to overcome. But to truly
overcome them, an inner work is necessary, and if this work is
non-existent or insufficient, in the end imbalance will prevail,
with all the anxiety and suffering that brings.
Omraam Mikhaël Aïvanhov"
Greg hits the ball out of the ballpark -- -- all the way to Mars
The quality of this presentation is suitable for a scientific convention -- -- it was an honor and privilege for our home grown group to see Greg's ideas. Greg reopened controversial theories about the lines on Mars. Everybody wanted the presentation to go on.
Connecting the dots to the historical Jesus
Jesus was born in 100 BC. The Dead Sea Scrolls , the Talmud and the Bible provide the clues to the Real Jesus Story. Jesus lived under the reign of King Alexander Jannai and Queen Alexandra Salome. The Pharisees were in revolt from 88BC to 76 BC. During this time Jesus and his Tutor the leading Rabbi Perachiah were in exile in Alexandria Egypt. When King Alexander died in 76 BC , Queen Salome Ruled over Israel deferring to the Pharisees.
The Leader of the Pharisees was the brother of the Queen, Simon Shetach.
Jesus and the Rabbi returned in 76 BC when Jesus was 24 years old. Jesus found out that the Pharisees were deviating from Judaism in critical ways like the Calendar Holy Days and following the Torah. The Pharisees promoted the "Oral Torah", Rules not found in the Torah.
Jesus became the Teacher of Righteousness of the Dead Sea Scrolls who stood up for traditional Judaism. The Queen.s son Hyrcanus II, was the High Priest and a Pharisee. The Pharisees pursued a policy of vengeance against the Sadducee supporters of the King and other opposition to Pharisee Rule. This included the Essenes or Nazarenes at Qumran which led by the Teacher of Righteousness aka Jesus. In 67 BC Jesus was stoned and hung on the eve of Passover by Queen Salome and the Pharisee Sanhedrin.
The Bible story of Jesus does not capture the historical Jesus.
Top Ten Explanations for the newly established Lines on Mars
Thanks Greg for giving my mind something to race about...
10.The trenches are where the blocks came from to build the pyramids in Egypt.
9.Our George Jetson understanding of how spacecrafts land is immature. They need a very big runway.
8.Like Germans, the Martians are great brewmeisters. They did not want aliens to steal their Martian water that they use to make their beer - so they had to cover the trenches every night. Lowell caught them in the act.
7.The Martians were busy building roads around Mars, but then the labor unions when on strike because of the 600 MPH working conditions.
6.The Governor of Mars got caught in a sex scandal telling his staff he was in Argentina, when really he was on hiking in Appalachia with his girlfriend.
5.The Martins flying saucers don't emit enough green house gases so the water froze at the top, making the canals worthless.
4.The Martians had a global economic crisis so the government stepped in with emergency measures for more people to stand at the construction site. Ultimately business was toppled and they no longer needed roads.
3.The Martins started importing fuel-efficient hybrids from Jupiter and they realized that they were living on a rock and left.
2.The former President of Mars miscalculated that Plutoians had Weapons of Mass destruction.
1.The current President of Mars is for change so he got the Government involved to go after the evil Flying UFO insurance industry, at which point nobody could afford UFOs.
10.The trenches are where the blocks came from to build the pyramids in Egypt.
9.Our George Jetson understanding of how spacecrafts land is immature. They need a very big runway.
8.Like Germans, the Martians are great brewmeisters. They did not want aliens to steal their Martian water that they use to make their beer - so they had to cover the trenches every night. Lowell caught them in the act.
7.The Martians were busy building roads around Mars, but then the labor unions when on strike because of the 600 MPH working conditions.
6.The Governor of Mars got caught in a sex scandal telling his staff he was in Argentina, when really he was on hiking in Appalachia with his girlfriend.
5.The Martins flying saucers don't emit enough green house gases so the water froze at the top, making the canals worthless.
4.The Martians had a global economic crisis so the government stepped in with emergency measures for more people to stand at the construction site. Ultimately business was toppled and they no longer needed roads.
3.The Martins started importing fuel-efficient hybrids from Jupiter and they realized that they were living on a rock and left.
2.The former President of Mars miscalculated that Plutoians had Weapons of Mass destruction.
1.The current President of Mars is for change so he got the Government involved to go after the evil Flying UFO insurance industry, at which point nobody could afford UFOs.
The Unemployment Office
An unexpected visit to the unemployment office brings back haunting memories.
Tap here to read
Tap here to read
Poet Richard Wilbur (b 1921)
Richard Wilbur has been on my mind recently -- ever since I heard that he will be reading at the Folger Elizabethan Theater in DC on Tuesday, May 18. A couple of his poems "The Beautiful Changes" and "Love Calls Us to the Things of This World" are on my list of favorite poems. His poem "Mind" seems appropriate to our discussion of creativity -- and I offer the first stanza of it here.
Mind
Mind in its purest play is like some bat
That beats about in caverns all alone,
Contriving by a kind of senseless wit
Not to conclude against a wall of stone.
. . .
"Mind" is from Collected Poems: 1953-2004 by Richard Wilbur (Waywiser Press, 2004). Buy it! You will find rich enjoyment!
"Mind" is from Collected Poems: 1953-2004 by Richard Wilbur (Waywiser Press, 2004). Buy it! You will find rich enjoyment!
Gwyenth Davis ---- the lifestyle and discipline of a writing career
Gang,
Honor thy muse,
One of our major topic areas is nurturing the creative spirit. I have attached a link to a interview with a well known author, Gwyneth Lewis, who describes her habits and discipline in her creative trade of writing. She writes much poetry, some novels, and also some screenplays. The interview is a bit slow and rambles at times, however I found some real meat from a person who full-time plies her creative writing skills.
Tap here for the interview
Tap here for the interview
Among the observations I found interesting are:
-- -- Gwyneth typically has several projects going, when stuck on one she goes to the others.
-- -- she gives poetry a priority because it's elusive, the thoughts could disappear, a novel on the other hand is more of a steady effort and less elusive
-- -- a major point is that she shows up for work. I have heard several other authors and artists say the same thing, typically in response to the question of a missing muse. The point is that even though feeling somewhat uninspired the commitment to a daily writing routine is a necessary component for success.
-- -- even when the schedule has no slack time, Gwyneth says even a 10 minute effort is worth it.
-- -- Gwyneth makes the point that she likes to stay porous, open to every experience and taking everything in. Making herself open and will vulnerable to the world. However, she adds that when dealing with editors and publishers where there is a business exchange she has to change her temperament, otherwise she would be taken advantage of.
-- -- Gwyneth reads extensively of other authors and unabashedly borrows their style and structure. She says the classics have so much to teach and she is first in line to imitate or at least interpret and reuse their form of expression.
-- -- Gwyneth always rights to someone. She envisions their attitude, posture, philosophy, ..... even the shoes they're wearing. She says it's all about composing and delivering the poem or story to the imagined person sitting across the table.
-- -- she says many of her products are not good enough. They are shelved and not delivered -- -- she says one advantage of being an author is that you don't do it in public. She adds however, that occasionally she will dust off a shelved piece modify it and transform it to a different setting -- -- and then it works.
-- -- she describes 'creative writing' as having no preordained or pre-known ending. It goes where it goes. She states that writing with a known end is more like reporting or exposition.
There is also much discussion about the lifestyle of a full-time author. Very interesting is the discussion of the next big hit -- -- the pressure that comes about after a very popular book to produce the next big hit -- -- and how in a very humble way she negotiates the pressure.
It is an hour long interview and, at least for me, very well worth the time. The subject here is writing but I would guess pretty much all the comments are equally true about painting.
Honor thy muse,
Tom
Synchronism --- Vivaldi Four Seasons
Here are two glorious synchronistic portrayals of the seasons --- one winter one spring.
Vivaldi Four Seasons ---- Winter
Vivaldi Four Seasons --- Spring
Vivaldi Four Seasons ---- Winter
Vivaldi Four Seasons --- Spring
Thunderstorms
The wise adage 'don't play with fire' seems child's play when tampering with lightning. So here's synchronism at its best --- the poem 'thunderstorms' as seen for real, together with sound. The male thunder and female lightning in a majestic and dangerous flirtation which transforms the landscape and creates its own music.
Tap here and witness the thunderstorm
Tap here and witness the thunderstorm
The opposite
Hi Tom,
You have succinctly described a key attribute of the creative process. The ability to see/exploit/learn from understanding the opposite. A key part of the creative process is to know what to include. However, knowing what to exclude is also very much part of the creative process. It doesn't surprise me that you have this skilled honed.
If you extend this art concept into regular human life, this is exactly the human condition that most astounds me the most - even more than the getting dumber over time. It is not so much that people can't use opposites to be creative, but that they are clueless on the concept of opposite. Some psychologists would describe this as Emotional Intelligence - the ability to understand/comprehend the other persons perspective. However, it transcends relationships. People can't judge, can't analyze, can't rationalize, can't negotiate, they simply lock on there view. I suppose everything else is irrelevant. I am not sure what it is exactly that prevents them from projecting. It affects more than creativity; it affects the divorce rate, facebook faceoffs, international conflicts, etc.
You have succinctly described a key attribute of the creative process. The ability to see/exploit/learn from understanding the opposite. A key part of the creative process is to know what to include. However, knowing what to exclude is also very much part of the creative process. It doesn't surprise me that you have this skilled honed.
If you extend this art concept into regular human life, this is exactly the human condition that most astounds me the most - even more than the getting dumber over time. It is not so much that people can't use opposites to be creative, but that they are clueless on the concept of opposite. Some psychologists would describe this as Emotional Intelligence - the ability to understand/comprehend the other persons perspective. However, it transcends relationships. People can't judge, can't analyze, can't rationalize, can't negotiate, they simply lock on there view. I suppose everything else is irrelevant. I am not sure what it is exactly that prevents them from projecting. It affects more than creativity; it affects the divorce rate, facebook faceoffs, international conflicts, etc.
Poetry of a different kind
Keith,
I am so impressed by how you very deliberately and carefully hone and perfect your subject before painting. I have previously noticed that your accompanying poetry is really really good --- so now I can see that your careful and elaborate planning has both your poetry and painting hit the bull's-eye.
I use poetry in the exact opposite way -- -- poetry captures my throwaway and byproduct thoughts. I have been so over trained as a mathematician and businessman that I dismiss and disregard the nuances and feelings and milieu of my emotional life. Poetry is my attempt to recapture what an overly focused and overly trained intellect has come to ignore.
One of the great lessons in industry is that often the byproduct is the real treasure -- the steam byproduct of the fire in a steam engine provides the energy, the esprit de corps byproduct of a competitive team is often the essence of the team, the popular mandate byproduct of Obama's campaign is turning out to be his strength after his winning election....
Likewise the byproducts of my overly active mathematical imagination is more the essence of me then the mathematical result. And it was all discarded --- until my fascination with poetry and the expression of these fleeting insights.
So the signature of my poetry is it's spontaneity, surprise, nuance .... for me it's a gift of the erstwhile unseen.
Tom
I am so impressed by how you very deliberately and carefully hone and perfect your subject before painting. I have previously noticed that your accompanying poetry is really really good --- so now I can see that your careful and elaborate planning has both your poetry and painting hit the bull's-eye.
I use poetry in the exact opposite way -- -- poetry captures my throwaway and byproduct thoughts. I have been so over trained as a mathematician and businessman that I dismiss and disregard the nuances and feelings and milieu of my emotional life. Poetry is my attempt to recapture what an overly focused and overly trained intellect has come to ignore.
One of the great lessons in industry is that often the byproduct is the real treasure -- the steam byproduct of the fire in a steam engine provides the energy, the esprit de corps byproduct of a competitive team is often the essence of the team, the popular mandate byproduct of Obama's campaign is turning out to be his strength after his winning election....
Likewise the byproducts of my overly active mathematical imagination is more the essence of me then the mathematical result. And it was all discarded --- until my fascination with poetry and the expression of these fleeting insights.
So the signature of my poetry is it's spontaneity, surprise, nuance .... for me it's a gift of the erstwhile unseen.
Tom
Life Without Stars - My thought process for Composition
I plan to have this painting done for our next meeting. I thought you might like to know my thought process.
I am finally thru my compositions and am ready to get this done.
I originally thought my composition would be about the Big Dipper and how it provides direction and perspective. However, I am not a sailor. Plenty of people have used its North Star for safe passage. However, I never have, so I realize I don't connect to it that way. For me, the big dipper is romantic. It is always there. It connects you to your past and future. It is a reliable friend.
Being Synchronism's newest fan, I am going to compose my painting with the story of the Great Bear (Ursa Major) being chased into the heavens. Now that is something much closer to me! Staying a steady course with the North Star is not me. That composition is best served for a sailor/painter. I am the farm boy/painter meandering thru life and the open stars.
I am finally thru my compositions and am ready to get this done.
I originally thought my composition would be about the Big Dipper and how it provides direction and perspective. However, I am not a sailor. Plenty of people have used its North Star for safe passage. However, I never have, so I realize I don't connect to it that way. For me, the big dipper is romantic. It is always there. It connects you to your past and future. It is a reliable friend.
Being Synchronism's newest fan, I am going to compose my painting with the story of the Great Bear (Ursa Major) being chased into the heavens. Now that is something much closer to me! Staying a steady course with the North Star is not me. That composition is best served for a sailor/painter. I am the farm boy/painter meandering thru life and the open stars.
Great Poem Susan!
I love poems that can transport me like this one.
Art/Poems should be about special things to you. However, I feel it is best art when it can create special things for others.
Art/Poems should be about special things to you. However, I feel it is best art when it can create special things for others.
The tree of life, the poem of life
Susan, what an enrapturing poem. You beautifully use metaphor as a sneak attack -- -- when you convince the reader are you talking about a tree you unveil a wonderful surprise -- -- the direct personal meaning of the poem.
And it's meaning is all of painful, glorious, and beautifully true.
And it's meaning is all of painful, glorious, and beautifully true.
Another Seasonal Poem
Since we have been talking about seasons, here is a poem about the season of harvest, about how the pain in our lives later becomes part of the goodness we have to offer.
Harvest
Late summer, I pull a peach. The tree
lets it go with a quiet snap, and I know
to pick the others before they fall.
My arms tire from constant reaching;
I stop to see how the trunk has thickened.
It nearly hides a barbed wire coiled around it
by someone years ago -- I don’t know who, or why.
This year a few barbs show; next year, none:
the way wanting you disappeared but never left,
a memory surrounded by living, so firmly encased
that the sting comes as an unexpected gift
only when high winds cross this place.
I won’t try gouging it away. Wrapped in the rest
of me, it becomes, after all, part of the harvest.
JoAnne's blog
JoAnne,
Thank you for the very interesting pair of winter and spring stanzas. But more so I think your new blog on mathematics and poetry is absolutely wonderful -- -- and I highly recommend it to others all -- -- http://poetrywithmathematics.blogspot.com/. Everybody please take a look at JoAnne's blog, it's extremely well done and has fascinating topics about this synergy of poetry and mathematics.
It stimulated a topic high on all of our writing lists -- -- the blank page.
Thank you for the very interesting pair of winter and spring stanzas. But more so I think your new blog on mathematics and poetry is absolutely wonderful -- -- and I highly recommend it to others all -- -- http://poetrywithmathematics.blogspot.com/. Everybody please take a look at JoAnne's blog, it's extremely well done and has fascinating topics about this synergy of poetry and mathematics.
It stimulated a topic high on all of our writing lists -- -- the blank page.
Synchronism
Thanks Joanne,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
This is an example of Synchronism. Rather than objects, or colors or lines as in art, it ties poetic verses to a sensation in music. It is amazing how much you can feel in music.
Synchronism can also achieved in cinematography, like Ravels Bolero and Bo Derek.
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
This is an example of Synchronism. Rather than objects, or colors or lines as in art, it ties poetic verses to a sensation in music. It is amazing how much you can feel in music.
Synchronism can also achieved in cinematography, like Ravels Bolero and Bo Derek.
Winter and Spring in Poetry
Previous posts with their poetic contrasts of winter with spring made me think of Emily Dickinson and I went in search of her poems online. I found her complete collection at Bartleby.com and offer here a pair of first-stanzas that I found there. Both of these are in “Part Two: Nature” of the Dickinson collection.
LXXXII
There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
LXXXV
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
By the way, I have developed a poetry-math blog, “Intersections – Poetry with Mathematics,” that is available here. I invite your comments and suggestions. Thanks! JoAnne
LXXXII
There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
LXXXV
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
By the way, I have developed a poetry-math blog, “Intersections – Poetry with Mathematics,” that is available here. I invite your comments and suggestions. Thanks! JoAnne
Renoir Poem
My goal is a poem that intertwines Spring in a Park and Sisters. People create movies from a hit song, so this is the reverse. I will create a poem song, from a hit movie about two sisters on a bench in spring.
Here is a start...The rest will have to wait, so I can spend Spring with my Daughters.
That bench so frequent, so familia,
Raptured by petals and buds and sibs Renoir’s way;
Here is a start...The rest will have to wait, so I can spend Spring with my Daughters.
That bench so frequent, so familia,
Raptured by petals and buds and sibs Renoir’s way;
Spring Twin - Two Sisters by Renoir
The first picture is an etching from James Tissot - "Walk in the Snow".
Of course this second picture is appropriately a Renior Painting - "Two sisters".
I am going to try my hand at a poem for this one. I think I can conjure up some rhyme and rythym. I was an identical twin boy, but allow me to extrapolate.
Of course this second picture is appropriately a Renior Painting - "Two sisters".
I am going to try my hand at a poem for this one. I think I can conjure up some rhyme and rythym. I was an identical twin boy, but allow me to extrapolate.
My winter Twin - per Tissot and Keats
Fancy
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped Autumn’s wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth:
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn:
And, in the same moment—hark!
first annual Artist Connection Spring Citation --- identical twin poems
Gang,
I wanted to post twin poems --- with photographs of the same scene, one winter and one spring, twin verse of winter and spring.
The view is my backyard overlooking the Tridelphia reservoir.
The project still unfinished, instead of just twins I wanted identical twin poems. The winter poem should be rewritten for spring so that when put side-by-side photographs match up and so do the words.
The spring poem would start out with analogs to: winter's a thief, .....eg spring is summertime Santa Claus ..
next stanza: spring analog to winter's a bully,...
I just finished putting a book together where pages 24 and 25 face each other with the poems 'winter' and 'spring' with the photographs side-by-side facing each other. More on the book publishing later --- much to talk about and much to learn.
In any case may we all have a glorious and joyful spring -- -- if anyone wants to take up the challenge of the identical twin 'spring' poem they'll be awarded the first annual Artist Connection Spring Citation.
Cheers all,
Tom
I wanted to post twin poems --- with photographs of the same scene, one winter and one spring, twin verse of winter and spring.The view is my backyard overlooking the Tridelphia reservoir.
The project still unfinished, instead of just twins I wanted identical twin poems. The winter poem should be rewritten for spring so that when put side-by-side photographs match up and so do the words.
The spring poem would start out with analogs to: winter's a thief, .....eg spring is summertime Santa Claus ..
next stanza: spring analog to winter's a bully,...
I just finished putting a book together where pages 24 and 25 face each other with the poems 'winter' and 'spring' with the photographs side-by-side facing each other. More on the book publishing later --- much to talk about and much to learn.
In any case may we all have a glorious and joyful spring -- -- if anyone wants to take up the challenge of the identical twin 'spring' poem they'll be awarded the first annual Artist Connection Spring Citation.
Cheers all,
Tom
Read your poem again Tom
I have to read a poem several times before I can feel it. You have some ominous verbs in your poem. Oddly, I would have guessed you were more somebody that is oblivious to the weather. I could picture you doing math theorems with a desk planted on a frozen lake.
Movements in Art
I am taking nominations for movements in Art. Have all the good movements been taken? I will pursue no movement until its time? How do you recognize a movement when you see one? I have read so much about movements, I sure wish I could be in a movement. The only movements we have today are political - change and tea-party movements. My opinion is that they suck. I want to live a movement like the impressionists. Am I living in a dream world?
I would like to see a movement away from buying paintings based on a color that matches the drapes. Would that be a movement? Even if that weren't a movement, I would really like to see that. It seems as if nobody has feelings, or rather that they would really rather just be entertained so to avoid feelings.
How about a movement where art is more collaborative, rather than a single artist?
Is that a good movement? Wouldn't emotion intensify if more than one person is involved? I believe we have seen this in the past with artists and their mistresses. However, what if art was truly collaborative? Golf does this with a "scramble" format. What if art had a scramble? People with different handicaps approach the bare canvas.
I would like to see a movement away from buying paintings based on a color that matches the drapes. Would that be a movement? Even if that weren't a movement, I would really like to see that. It seems as if nobody has feelings, or rather that they would really rather just be entertained so to avoid feelings.
How about a movement where art is more collaborative, rather than a single artist?
Is that a good movement? Wouldn't emotion intensify if more than one person is involved? I believe we have seen this in the past with artists and their mistresses. However, what if art was truly collaborative? Golf does this with a "scramble" format. What if art had a scramble? People with different handicaps approach the bare canvas.
Spring
Spring
When sunshine feels warm,
the winter blahs transform.
When dogwoods wear paisley-pink light skirts,
- with my Linda I want to flirt.
Spring's when days begin to linger long;
a tarrying embrace is our song.
The magic of nature all around us;
how we miss it in our blind fuss.
It's when hope rises again;
youth renews, spirits enliven, love reigns,
when birds and bees pick it up again, the winter's chill forgotten,
our fears turn misbegotten,
when just being suffices,
in fact, exceeds the forced plan of our own devices.
Let me feel it, be part of it, exalt in its arrival and simplicity;
and not be numbed by winter's worry demons with whom I have complicity.
Let me be reminded that the best in life is free: love, laughter, friends –
when this is gone, life ends.
Let me be in tune with spring's moods;
just as the animals, so simple yet more astute, pursue sex not grains for spring's foods.
Let me realize that hurt is only a winter season
– replaced by a loving spring where fear is blasphemy and treason.
Let me share this because of Linda, spring of my wintery life stroll,
alignment of the seasons with my mate’s soul.
Let it last. Let my body and spirit have a spring of full measure,
celebrating their temporary presence with Linda, my treasure.
When sunshine feels warm,
the winter blahs transform.
When dogwoods wear paisley-pink light skirts,
Spring's when days begin to linger long;
a tarrying embrace is our song.
The magic of nature all around us;
how we miss it in our blind fuss.
It's when hope rises again;
youth renews, spirits enliven, love reigns,
when birds and bees pick it up again, the winter's chill forgotten,
our fears turn misbegotten,
when just being suffices,
in fact, exceeds the forced plan of our own devices.
Let me feel it, be part of it, exalt in its arrival and simplicity;
and not be numbed by winter's worry demons with whom I have complicity.
Let me be reminded that the best in life is free: love, laughter, friends –
when this is gone, life ends.
Let me be in tune with spring's moods;
just as the animals, so simple yet more astute, pursue sex not grains for spring's foods.
Let me realize that hurt is only a winter season
– replaced by a loving spring where fear is blasphemy and treason.
Let me share this because of Linda, spring of my wintery life stroll,
alignment of the seasons with my mate’s soul.
Let it last. Let my body and spirit have a spring of full measure,
celebrating their temporary presence with Linda, my treasure.
Winter
Winter
Winter is a thief:
lite on light, terse on time, chilling cheer, hijacking hopeWinter is a bully:
cowardly cruel, crotchety cold, cripples cupid, clamoring cover
if sleep is death's second self
winter's the zodiac's purgatory
a forewarning of the coming dark abyss
a preview of the inexorable dark cold void
we start out with hopeful plans, enthusiasm for projects, enticing the muse
end up wanting to escape, muse muzzled, staring at walls
limp and lame
winter days are eventless, empty, evacuated. Life
cheated, chiseled, cuckolded,
by the Winter God
the sun God is adored
darkness of night is abhorred
the cold is glum
our spirit goes numb
She hijacks our spirit, imagination, initiative in a cold freeze
and when she leaves
our spirit has to be gently gradually thawed out,
like a holiday turkey with freezer burn
our defrosted damaged daemon reemerges
a frost bitten version of its former self
A Poem and a Riddle - Brewed by Cabin Fever
Here is a poem and a riddle.
BREWED BY A CABIN FEVER
It doesn’t get better than this, as the mercury grew.
A whole lot can happen, out of the blue.
Forsake the flakes and out of the darkness comes light.
Good things come to those who wait right?
This weekend is to be beautiful and some things get better given longer,
Would you ever say no to another?
Life Beckons, choose wisely.
As for me, It is miles away from ordinary.
You never forget your first girl,
Give him a right good hemmeling tonight awhirl.
Fresh. Smooth. Real. Its all here.
If I had wanted water, I would have asked for water for sure.
Relax on an equinox and be yourself for a while.
Sooner or later you will get it and smile.
Spring, it’s a bit gorgeous and dogwood.
It looks good, it tastes good, and by golly it does you good.
BREWED BY A CABIN FEVER
It doesn’t get better than this, as the mercury grew.
A whole lot can happen, out of the blue.
Forsake the flakes and out of the darkness comes light.
Good things come to those who wait right?
This weekend is to be beautiful and some things get better given longer,
Would you ever say no to another?
Life Beckons, choose wisely.
As for me, It is miles away from ordinary.
You never forget your first girl,
Give him a right good hemmeling tonight awhirl.
Fresh. Smooth. Real. Its all here.
If I had wanted water, I would have asked for water for sure.
Relax on an equinox and be yourself for a while.
Sooner or later you will get it and smile.
Spring, it’s a bit gorgeous and dogwood.
It looks good, it tastes good, and by golly it does you good.
Paris Video
I would say...Don't tell me what you believe, show me what you have done and I will tell you what you believe.
History has said this another way.....Follow the money trail.
This video is a great example of what art is and what its value is.
We don't have to guess what the artist believes is important. Where the video camera points tells us everything we need to know. The accompanying music adds a poetic touch, and a rhythm. If you gave ten people videos cameras and told them to walk around Paris, most people point it at their relatives, because people love their relatives. However, if you love Paris, you would point it at Paris.
Net: It is difficult to be an artist, if you have too many relatives. Having said that, I am really looking forward to the Easter Egg Hunt with all the kids. Does anyone have a rabbit costume I can borrow?
History has said this another way.....Follow the money trail.
This video is a great example of what art is and what its value is.
We don't have to guess what the artist believes is important. Where the video camera points tells us everything we need to know. The accompanying music adds a poetic touch, and a rhythm. If you gave ten people videos cameras and told them to walk around Paris, most people point it at their relatives, because people love their relatives. However, if you love Paris, you would point it at Paris.
Net: It is difficult to be an artist, if you have too many relatives. Having said that, I am really looking forward to the Easter Egg Hunt with all the kids. Does anyone have a rabbit costume I can borrow?
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