Melody's Musings

Stuff that catches my fancy and random, sorted thoughts from the inner scrambles of my mind.

What you may expect to find here are what I consider good taste and some of the best in photography, philosophy, humor, art, architecture, food, music, poetry, literature and dance. I hope you like some of the things I enjoy.

I like anything to do with good design such as interior design, architecture, photography, and art. I enjoy philosophy and psychology. I love to figure out what makes individuals tick. Music of most all types but particularly classical, world, pop, acoustic guitar is a big part of my life and add some dance to the music and my day is great! I like to write and occasionally I will write poetry and I really love to read it out loud and I even record it sometimes.

I'm a Myers-Briggs type ENFJ which means I love people and have a great interest in them.

I guess you could say I'm a humanities kind of person. :)







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    My recording of Anne Sexton’s poem, “Welcome Morning”. 





    Welcome Morning
     
    There is joy
    in all:
    in the hair I brush each morning,
    in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
    that I rub my body with each morning,
    in the chapel of eggs I cook
    each morning,
    in the outcry from the kettle
    that heats my coffee
    each morning,
    in the spoon and the chair
    that cry “hello there, Anne”
    each morning,
    in the godhead of the table
    that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
    each morning.
     
    All this is God,
    right here in my pea-green house
    each morning
    and I mean,
    though often forget,
    to give thanks,
    to faint down by the kitchen table
    in a prayer of rejoicing
    as the holy birds at the kitchen window
    peck into their marriage of seeds.
     
    So while I think of it,
    let me paint a thank-you on my palm
    for this God, this laughter of the morning,
    lest it go unspoken.
     
    The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
    dies young.
     
    ~ Anne Sexton ~
    Reblog

    Some short clips of the Pulitizer prize winning poet, Anne Sexton’s home movies.
    In this video, Anne reads from her poem, “Her Kind”, a deeply personal poem in which she compares herself to the female subject of the poem. ‘A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind.’ Irregardless, this poem delves deep into her psyche, and is the portrayal of the multiple nature of human personalities.  She writes of her inability to “fit” into the male-dominated society of the times.  No Mrs. Cleaver was she. 

    Her Kind

    I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

    http://melodysmuse.tumblr.com/
    Reblog

    Much of Anne Sexton’s poetry is autobiographical and concentrates on her deeply personal feelings, especially anguish. In particular, many of her poems record her battles with mental illness. She spent many years in psychoanalysis, including several long stays in mental hospitals. As she told Beatrice Berg, her writing began, in fact, as therapy: “My analyst told me to write between our sessions about what I was feeling and thinking and dreaming.”

    Music Swims Back to Me

    By Anne Sexton

    Wait Mister. Which way is home?   
    They turned the light out
    and the dark is moving in the corner.   
    There are no sign posts in this room,   
    four ladies, over eighty,
    in diapers every one of them.
    La la la, Oh music swims back to me   
    and I can feel the tune they played   
    the night they left me
    in this private institution on a hill.
    Imagine it. A radio playing
    and everyone here was crazy.
    I liked it and danced in a circle.   
    Music pours over the sense   
    and in a funny way
    music sees more than I.
    I mean it remembers better;
    remembers the first night here.
    It was the strangled cold of November;   
    even the stars were strapped in the sky   
    and that moon too bright
    forking through the bars to stick me   
    with a singing in the head.
    I have forgotten all the rest.
    They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.   
    and there are no signs to tell the way,   
    just the radio beating to itself   
    and the song that remembers   
    more than I. Oh, la la la,   
    this music swims back to me.   
    The night I came I danced a circle   
    and was not afraid.
    Mister?
    http://melodysmuse.tumblr.com/
    Reblog