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Creative Corner For sharing of poetry, artwork, verse and other creative things. |
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01-11-2018, 10:57 AM | #1 | ||
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About quality of experience and how every day, taken for granted activities can take on a ritualistic form that 'can' be to some rewarding. For example morning coffee, we can throw some freeze dried instant in a mug, add hot water and drink. Or we can grind the beans, get out the stove top Moka pot, boil the water, let it infuse and pour it into a favourite coffee cup (perhaps to the gentle sound of Chopin). The point is to derive as much pleasure as possible from a simple act. In this example one can smell the coffee more intensely, for longer, there is time to ponder ideas for a new poem, all is calmed and the more times such an act is performed the greater we derive pleasure from it.
I have lived well this day ignoring the hand offering me more time while it’s accomplice steals joy and experience in return. I seized the day ! But once in my grasp I cherished it, savouring it’s flavours, sensing every nuance, finding hidden treasures, gifts unwrapped, and it was glorious. Sonnet 19 That our today will so soon yester be does enrage those who prefer breeze to gale yet we who have weathered the savage sea fear not the Goodnight of a fading frail. We welcome the swift passage of the day and grasping the hours with a fervent hold live so fiercely that time enjoys no sway and the heavens smile at such burning bold. Choose not to wither slow upon the vine but blossom bright and reaching for the sky make demand that the sun will ever shine for those standing proud and yearning to fly. And when tired eyelids make that final meet our weary self will that sleep calmly greet. A long ago Boxing day midnight Sleet falls, revealed it’s glass tacks by the gleam of shop window lights, their passive hue, lying in wait, luring and taunting with their wares, their false promise of pleasure. Garbed in red flash heraldry stand plastic alabaster faces, lifeless, wearing the vacant stares of marketed beauty. Above, swing huge stars, ember dim, brazen under truth’s dark radiance, while santas cling to lamp posts as though nature itself is laughing at this, man’s frail crayon attempt to lift from the mire the concrete bland. Like a gutter metronome, a wine glass, rolls to and fro, smudges, ghosts of lips and fingers past, appear with each clink in a constant toast. Intact, it must have been carefully placed, yet stolen to drink in the street, now a monument to dichotomy. Half a cracker, hops and tumbles past, odd when not strewn among postprandial detritus. This empty crepe wrapped shell, in that moment, in that desolate street, symbolised all that Christmas had lost. |
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"Thanks for this!" says: |
10-20-2018, 10:36 AM | #2 | ||
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Thank you for posting this - I especially loved the last poem. And your introductory words made me think of a book from long ago, 'Chop Wood Carry Water'...holding the small acts and 'work' of life as sacred. Reading your words this morning changed my day.
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"Thanks for this!" says: | ger715 (10-20-2018) |
11-12-2018, 11:02 AM | #3 | |||
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Grand Magnate
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Niggs,
You make me stop and think. Thank you.
__________________
Kicker PPMS, DXed 2002 Queen of Maryland Wise Elder no matter what my count is. |
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09-12-2020, 01:09 AM | #4 | ||
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I saw a Charlie Kaufman film I'm Thinking of Ending Things on Netflix over two nights this week, I couldn't stomach one sitting. The dialogue in the drive to the parent's house is electrifying, and this poem is read, bleakly, beautifully, in full by the actress Jessie Buckley. It is worth watching the film just for the opening section or maybe the first hour.
Bonedog A poem by Eva H.D. [transcribed from its appearance in the film I’m Thinking of Ending Things (w/d Charlie Kaufman, 2020)] ___ Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything’s worse once you’re home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn. You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth’s gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of… Anyway… You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time… Well… Anyway… You’re back. The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness. You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone. |
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"Thanks for this!" says: | Wren (09-12-2020) |
09-12-2020, 01:26 AM | #5 | ||
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