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. :)

Posts tagged with “poetry”

Walt Whitman, a famous and much loved American poet, was born on this date in 1819. Here is one of his poems from his poetry collection, “Leaves of Grass” -

“These, I, Singing In Spring”

THESE, I, singing in spring, collect for lovers,
(For who but I should understand lovers, and all their sorrow and joy?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)
Collecting, I traverse the garden, the world—but soon I pass the gates,
Now along the pond-side—now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,
Now by the post-and-rail fences, where the old stones thrown there, pick’d from the fields, have accumulated,
(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones, and partly cover them—Beyond these I pass,)
Far, far in the forest, before I think where I go,
Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,
Alone I had thought—yet soon a troop gathers around me,
Some walk by my side, and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,
They, the spirits of dear friends, dead or alive—thicker they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle,
Collecting, dispensing, singing in spring, there I wander with them,
Plucking something for tokens—tossing toward whoever is near me;
Here! lilac, with a branch of pine,
Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull’d off a live-oak in Florida, as it hung trailing down,
Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,
And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pondside,
(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me—and returns again, never to separate from me,
And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades—this Calamus-root shall,
Interchange it, youths, with each other! Let none render it back!)
And twigs of maple, and a bunch of wild orange, and chestnut,
And stems of currants, and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar:
These, I, compass’d around by a thick cloud of spirits,
Wandering, point to, or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me,
Indicating to each one what he shall have—giving something to each;
But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,
I will give of it—but only to them that love, as I myself am capable of loving.

My recording and video of Andrea Gibson’s poem, “Maybe I Need You”

Love Poem Medley by Rudy Francisco

He’s terrific!


My poem, “Hanging the Moon”.   A poem about a special friendship

Maybe I Need You, a very emotional breakup poem by Andrea Gibson and recorded by me.

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe

amandaonwriting:

“so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.” 

~Pablo Neruda

(via effyeahpabloneruda)

"If You Forget Me" by Pablo Neruda   ~~recorded by me.  :)   
Photograph by Reinfried Marass at www.reinfriedmarass.tumblr.com




If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda

This is a chapter from Gibran’s book, “The Madman”. My interpretation of this is:

He is being sarcastic in this description of mankind’s “perfect world” which is riddled with hypocrisy. There is a set plan, a correct way, rules laid out, a perfect order, but when the “order” interferes, man forgets them with “a wash of his hands”. Gibran asks what an imperfect soul like himself is doing in this “perfect world”.

Of course, the world is not perfect by any means once we look beneath the masks of daily life. Still, the perceptions of the outcast, the stranger, the madman, stand in stark contrast to that inner layer of people’s motives: hypocrisy, greed, pride, sloth, ambition, vanity, conformity. These people do not really see anything wrong with the ways of the world.

The Perfect World

God of lost souls, thou who art lost amongst the gods, hear me:

Gentle Destiny that watchest over us, mad, wandering spirits, hear me:

I dwell in the midst of a perfect race, I the most imperfect.

I, a human chaos, a nebula of confused elements, I move amongst finished worlds — peoples of complete laws and pure order, whose thoughts are assorted, whose dreams are arranged, and whose visions are enrolled and registered.

Their virtues, O God, are measured, their sins are weighed, and even the countless things that pass in the dim twilight of neither sin nor virtue are recorded and catalogued.

Here days and nights are divided into seasons of conduct and governed by rules of blameless accuracy.

To eat, to drink, to sleep, to cover one’s nudity, and then to be weary in due time.

To work, to play, to sing, to dance, and then to lie still when the clock strikes the hour.

To think thus, to feel thus much, and then to cease thinking and feeling when a certain star rises above yonder horizon.

To rob a neighbour with a smile, to bestow gifts with a graceful wave of the hand, to praise prudently, to blame cautiously, to destroy a soul with a word, to burn a body with a breath, and then to wash the hands when the day’s work is done.

To love according to an established order, to entertain one’s best self in a pre-conceived manner, to worship the gods becomingly, to intrigue the devils artfully — and then to forget all as though memory were dead.

To fancy with a motive, to contemplate with consideration, to be happy sweetly, to suffer nobly — and then to empty the cup so that tomorrow may fill it again.

All these things, O God, are conceived with forethought, born with determination, nursed with exactness, governed by rules, directed by reason, and then slain and buried after a prescribed method. And even their silent graves that lie within the human soul are marked and numbered.

It is a perfect world, a world of consummate excellence, a world of supreme wonders, the ripest fruit in God’s garden, the master-thought of the universe.

But why should I be here, O God, I a green seed of unfulfilled passion, a mad tempest that seeketh neither east nor west, a bewildered fragment from a burnt planet?

Why am I here, O God of lost souls, thou who art lost amongst the gods?

theantidote:

The Confession of an Apricot
I love incorrectly
There is a solemnity in hands, the way a palm will curve in accordance to a contour of skin, the way it will release a story.
This should be the pilgrimage. The touching of a source. This is what sanctifies.
This pleading.  This mercy. I want to be a pilgrim to everyone, close to the inaccuracies, the astringent dislikes, the wayward peace, the private words.  I want to be close to the telling. I want to feel everyone whisper.
After the blossoming I hang. The encyclical that has come through the branches instructs us to root, to become the design encapsulated within.
Flesh helping stone turn tree.
I do not want to hold life at my extremities, see it prepare itself for my own perpetuation. I want to touch and be touched by things similar in this world.
I want to know a few secular days of perfection.  Late in this one great season the diffused morning light hides the horizon of sea.  Everything the color of slate, a soft tablet to press a philosophy to.
—Carl Adamshick, from Curses and Wishes (LSU Press, 2011).
(via apoetreflects:)

theantidote:

The Confession of an Apricot

I love incorrectly

There is a solemnity in hands,
the way a palm will curve in
accordance to a contour of skin,
the way it will release a story.

This should be the pilgrimage.
The touching of a source.
This is what sanctifies.

This pleading.  This mercy.
I want to be a pilgrim to everyone,
close to the inaccuracies, the astringent
dislikes, the wayward peace, the private
words.  I want to be close to the telling.
I want to feel everyone whisper.

After the blossoming I hang.
The encyclical that has come
through the branches
instructs us to root, to become
the design encapsulated within.

Flesh helping stone turn tree.

I do not want to hold life
at my extremities, see it prepare
itself for my own perpetuation.
I want to touch and be touched
by things similar in this world.

I want to know a few secular days
of perfection.  Late in this one great season
the diffused morning light
hides the horizon of sea.  Everything
the color of slate, a soft tablet
to press a philosophy to.

—Carl Adamshick, from Curses and Wishes (LSU Press, 2011).

(via apoetreflects:)

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 ~

My reading of her poem, “I Will Meet You Yet Again”.   This poem was written in her sickbed for her partner, the painter Imroz.




Amrita Pritam (August 31, 1919 — October 31, 2005) was an Indian writer and poet, considered the first prominent woman Punjabi poet, novelist, and essayist, and the leading 20th-century poet of the Punjabi language, who is equally loved on both the sides of the India-Pakistan border, with a career spanning over six decades, she produced over 100 books, of poetry, fiction, biographies, essays, a collection of Punjabi folk songs and an autobiography that were translated into several Indian and foreign languages.
~~Wikipedia

Running on The Default Network
by Boyce