How souls remember travels.

December 28, 2011

she is floating in deviation, in a boat downriver amongst and betwixt the blades

there is no sound here, only shadow and sun. observing wide pockets of shade

and slivered carrels of bright light. in the glare, she follows the cloud maps

per contra in the dark she cannot find her compass skidding about the floorboards

climbing awkwardly from the craft to scrunch the luxury of grass beneath bare feet

peering quizzically into a forest, now being so far outside it. it is not more beautiful

than the glades and the fields and the dirt paths and the pebbles and the ants

pro forma she walks forward and wherever her foot lands she sees she makes a print

(she survives this journey via deus ex machina)

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She does this.

December 23, 2011

One eye open. One eye closed.

Klimt's "Judith"

Klimt's "Judith" - click to enlarge

When what where how.

December 22, 2011

she had sung aloud, when’st alone quite unabashed she was

only the doors have opened and the room turns amber

where’st the sun has peaked its head around the corner

alas there is the stopping of the hands

alack there is the stopping of time

alas there is the stopping of forward’d fate

alack there is the how’st and the why’st of stopping

alas there is the flooded eyes and softened lips

alack there is the recollections of complex tapestry

alas there is the memory of fall’d robes and Turkish towels

alack there is the opening up and there is trust

(And so this is Christmas, and What Have We Done?)

and there are their quietudes and their poetry and their wonder

there is this year, fate, deed, word, thought, destiny

“Every time you say it (or read it) you make another copy

In your brain”

– touch like this, hold like that –

once loved, and awakened, there is no sleep

Gustave Klimt knows and he knows and she knows

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They know five graces.

December 19, 2011

An aria is an elaborate composition, replete. It is stone fireplaces and unguarded glances, champagne and living in a place where all the rest of the world has pushed pause. O! Oratorio! The most gorgeous song, rendered beautifully. An aria, she thinks, must be sung so that it reverberates off the tiled art where one bathes.

She is performing in the most bittersweet opera, wondering if it will end in a duet or a solo – the chambers of music torn open or sew’d shut. All the best opera are based in hope. The tragedies have no quarter when compared to the lifting of the soprano and alto, the tenor and bass of the spirit soaring above earthly cares.

Operetti, singing the songs of this life. These singers, they deserve happiness. She knows little, but she knows this: BEN şarkı şarkı sevgi. She sings the songs of this life.

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In December. Time moves fitfully and yes, there is still poetry. For those who find they cannot write because Creativity has other places it visits at Christmas time, there is still, thankfully, all the millions of verses that bring pleasure to the senses. Were it writ, or were it read, the poems and their beloved lines comfort. Time to revisit the poems that for years and years have sounded their beautiful swells.

e.e. cummings, one of her perennial favorites, gives us this gorgeous offering:

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Writing is breathing.

December 3, 2011

She will write. Prescription,  albuterol! Asthma pump against her lips…she can’t not write.

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