Art and Earth

Because earth Without Art is Just "Eh."

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4 notes &

THE SACRAMENT (Erotic Poem by John-Arthur Ingram) How shall I worship you? With rosaries made from penitent Tears? A temple built of my breath and my limbs? Let us not pray that our hands do what lips do, for I dare not Touch that pale ripening flesh, smooth as alabaster, With hands that quiver with anxiety. Rather, let me Enter the temple, kneel at your thighs, so I may Become the object of the All Knowing Eye; The Pink Vessel of Time, pink as the virgin sky At dawn. May it transport me back to my clever And pious childhood; a treasure that eludes me now. For you are my religion, my chastisement, The judgement that awaits me in the end, For wanting too much the pleasures I dare not realize. ******************************************************************************************* Copyright 2013 by John-Arthur Ingram. Image: Titian’s Venus of Urbino 
THE SACRAMENT (Erotic Poem by John-Arthur Ingram)

How shall I worship you? With rosaries made from penitent

Tears? A temple built of my breath and my limbs?

Let us not pray that our hands do what lips do, for I dare not

Touch that pale ripening flesh, smooth as alabaster,

With hands that quiver with anxiety. Rather, let me

Enter the temple, kneel at your thighs, so I may

Become the object of the All Knowing Eye;

The Pink Vessel of Time, pink as the virgin sky

At dawn. May it transport me back to my clever

And pious childhood; a treasure that eludes me now.

For you are my religion, my chastisement,

The judgement that awaits me in the end,

For wanting too much the pleasures I dare not realize.



*******************************************************************************************

Copyright 2013 by John-Arthur Ingram.

Image: Titian’s Venus of Urbino 

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6 notes &

LULLABY ON A PTHALO BLUE SEA (Poem by David Wainland) Mammoth grey humped-back creatures stir breathing out warm clouds of steam dancing with their silver finned brothers Crustaceans scramble mid angels, scorpions stars, coral, drifting sea-grass, broken glass rusting metal, rotted timber, worn stone The sea pervades all, taking, seldom giving abiding, quiet, violent, rushing over sands breathing salt into the still air raining sulfur Corrupting, cleansing, cauterizing, tides washing through shoals, over endless reefs deeps to shallows, breaking on distant beaches Shorelines wither, die, are at once renewed continents collide, renting vast canyons beginnings become ends beckoning new ages` An overture of ocean music rebounds crooned by a chorus of water nymphs lullaby perspectives on a Phthalo Blue Sea Heard from ghostly ships sailing forever abroad with weathered plank covered promenades past empty barnacle incrusted lighthouses *********************************************************************************************************************************** Ann says:  I love the way David has captured the haunting nature of the sea, long a symbol for the human subconscious. Copyright 2013 by David Wainland Image: MermaidsArtworkWallpaper

LULLABY ON A PTHALO BLUE SEA (Poem by David Wainland)

Mammoth grey humped-back creatures stir

breathing out warm clouds of steam

dancing with their silver finned brothers


Crustaceans scramble mid angels, scorpions

stars, coral, drifting sea-grass, broken glass

rusting metal, rotted timber, worn stone


The sea pervades all, taking, seldom giving

abiding, quiet, violent, rushing over sands

breathing salt into the still air raining sulfur


Corrupting, cleansing, cauterizing, tides

washing through shoals, over endless reefs

deeps to shallows, breaking on distant beaches


Shorelines wither, die, are at once renewed

continents collide, renting vast canyons

beginnings become ends beckoning new ages`


An overture of ocean music rebounds

crooned by a chorus of water nymphs

lullaby perspectives on a Phthalo Blue Sea


Heard from ghostly ships sailing forever abroad

with weathered plank covered promenades

past empty barnacle incrusted lighthouses





***********************************************************************************************************************************

Ann says:  I love the way David has captured the haunting nature of the sea, long a symbol for the human subconscious.

Copyright 2013 by David Wainland

Image: MermaidsArtworkWallpaper

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1 note &

LOVES OF MY LIFE (Poem by Chris Brockman) Some were only in a catalog, Lovely, with no thorns pictured. Others but buds of potential beauty, To look, but otherwise strictured. A few opened and spread, Color a magnet, fragrance a drug, Then faded with the night, lost Color and perfume away on the frost Roses bloom and roses fade. But I’ve preserved the joy they made. I’ve kept some petals, essential part, Pressed in the pages of my heart. One, it’s true, just grew and grew Climbing trellis me, Spread from stalk strong and green, And blossomed repeatedly. She is my garden, my bouquet, But the loves of my life are a tiny part Of my heart for we both know That it’s love that makes love grow.   ******************************************************************************************************************************** Copyright 2013 by Chris Brockman Images: Octavio Ocampo

LOVES OF MY LIFE (Poem by Chris Brockman)

Some were only in a catalog,

Lovely, with no thorns pictured.

Others but buds of potential beauty,

To look, but otherwise strictured.


A few opened and spread,

Color a magnet, fragrance a drug,

Then faded with the night, lost

Color and perfume away on the frost


Roses bloom and roses fade.

But I’ve preserved the joy they made.

I’ve kept some petals, essential part,

Pressed in the pages of my heart.


One, it’s true, just grew and grew

Climbing trellis me,

Spread from stalk strong and green,

And blossomed repeatedly.


She is my garden, my bouquet,

But the loves of my life are a tiny part

Of my heart for we both know

That it’s love that makes love grow.


 

********************************************************************************************************************************

Copyright 2013 by Chris Brockman

Images: Octavio Ocampo

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3 notes &

Rain by Edward Thomas

image

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain 
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me 
Remembering again that I shall die 
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks 
For washing me cleaner than I have been 
Since I was born into this solitude. 
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon: 
But here I pray that none whom once I loved 
Is dying to-night or lying still awake 
Solitary, listening to the rain, 
Either in pain or thus in sympathy 
Helpless among the living and the dead, 
Like a cold water among broken reeds, 
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff, 
Like me who have no love which this wild rain 
Has not dissolved except the love of death, 
If love it be towards what is perfect and 
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint. 

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Image: wowscreenshots-net


Philip Edward Thomas (1878 – 1917) was an Anglo-Welsh poet. He is considered a war poet, although few of his poems deal directly with war experiences. Thomas began writing poetry in 1914. In 1915, he enlisted in the British Army to fight in the First World War and was killed in action in 1917.
 
The last lines in the poem may be a nod to Rumi, who was fond of referring to humans as reeds.

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1 note &

Hawk Roosting (Poem by Ted Hughes)

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I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. 
Inaction, no falsifying dream 
Between my hooked head and hooked feet: 
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat. 

The convenience of the high trees! 
The air’s buoyancy and the sun’s ray 
Are of advantage to me; 
And the earth’s face upward for my inspection. 

My feet are locked upon the rough bark. 
It took the whole of Creation 
To produce my foot, my each feather: 
Now I hold Creation in my foot 

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - 
I kill where I please because it is all mine. 
There is no sophistry in my body: 
My manners are tearing off heads - 

The allotment of death. 
For the one path of my flight is direct 
Through the bones of the living. 
No arguments assert my right: 

The sun is behind me. 
Nothing has changed since I began. 
My eye has permitted no change. 
I am going to keep things like this.

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Ann says:  I love stanza 3.  Predatory birds are some of the most highly evolved and specialized animals on this planet, and have long been considered noble in their manner.

Because raptors have the best visual acuity when looking at an object sideways, they dive in a spiral pattern in order to get the best view of their prey while keeping their head straight.

Image: by ForestWander from Wikimedia Commons

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33 notes &

Eagle (Golf Poem by Mike Ellwood)

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As when the tuning fork and string vibrate

As one, or eyes meet when first lovers realise

They are in love and cry in shared surprise,

Behold a harmony to celebrate.

 

Something of grace, perfection, effortless,

As flesh and muscle unleash without strain

And nerves fire pyrotechnics through the brain

Saluting both the power and the finesse.

 

See gravity’s parabola. Watch in awe

The rise and fall that passion brought to be,

The vectors of divine geometry,

The line none but an eagle’s quill could draw.

 

The vacant hollow gapes and fulfilment

Surprises like a fortune heaven-sent.

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Ann says:  I find this celebration of athleticism and physics quite as beautiful as the famous running sequences in Chariots of Fire.  

Mike’s book of golf poetry, Eighteen Holes, can be purchased here.  (Kindle format only).

Copyright 2013 by Mike Ellwood.

Image: gallerybandb.net

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1 note &

The Havens of The Lord (Kyrielle Poem by Mustafa Demiri)

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The sea is merciless and vast,

And though I find myself here cast

There is no gulf I can not ford,

Within the Havens of The Lord.

 

The world has harrowed me since birth,

Tried the full measure of my worth,

Though I’m a man, I’m but a ward,

Within the Havens of The Lord.

 

The tempest hath destroyed my craft

And as I turn my eyes abaft,

I shall not fear the gnashing horde,

Within the Havens of The Lord.

 

I sing as the muezzin sings,

My voice, a bird of faithful wings,

I know my prayers are not ignored

Within the Havens of The Lord.

 

And when this mortal body’s gone,

My soul shall live forever on,

All that I’ve lost will be restored

Within the Havens of The Lord.

 

For in my mind I shall record,

That even as the tempest roared,

I knew that I was safely moored,

Within the Havens of The Lord.

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 Copyright 2013 by Mustafa Demiri

Image: The Gulf Stream by Winslow Homer  (1899)

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5 notes &

I Pray It Will Not Break (Chant Poem by Mustafa Demiri)

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My pensive thought is of the broadest scope,

I pray it will not break.


My tortured heart endures with hope,

I pray it will not break.


The solace I find in prayers of peace,

I pray it will not break.


I think upon this sacred lease,

I pray it will not break.


The endeavour to which we are all consigned,

I pray it will not break.


God’s patience with humankind,

I pray it will not break


For our ourselves, our children and their children’s sake,

I pray it will not break


As a skater upon the ice clad lake,

I pray it will not break.

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Ann says:  This feel like a universal prayer.  I too hope the ground beneath our feet, this beautiful planet we inhabit, will not be broken due to our lack of foresight.

Copyright 2013 by Mustafa Demiri.

Image:  The Reverend Robert Walker Skating on Duddingston Loch  by Henry Raeburn.

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5 notes &

Reality or Virtual Reality? The Poetry of John F. Walter

John F. Walter is the founder of an avant-garde art and literature movement known as pre-Simulation.  His group explores the ever-thinning boundaries between reality and virtual reality.*  

Whether he’s writing about an on-screen lover, envisioning pixels in Spain’s Alhambra palace, or compelling his character to read their life in a book, John’s work is always startlingly creative, thought-provoking, and often humorous.  

I know of no other poet who writes like John. So, let us go tether to the simulant heather…

Virtual Thanatopsis

Let us go tether the simulant heather

Into latticed loveknots, my screen-saved lass!

Read more …

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6 notes &

The Calculus of Flight by Atticus

We board the plane and wait
for mechanical repairs, a fixed
point on the tarmac somewhere
along an x-axis near Boston.
For a good while “y” equals zero.
I always think of flying that way.
The captain informs us it might
be a rocky flight. The seatbelt light may
remain lit. We will intersect a powerful
front and turbulence could get tough.
The cowboy to my left is unsettled
by this news. I can tell he’s not a frequent flyer.
The cabin door now closed we are cleared for flight.
His nerves require a pinch of tobacco which
he tucks in his cheek. Outside the rain
has begun to bead like spittle on the edges
of the glass. I am bound for Texas again.
Soon we are climbing in a craggy spiral.
The sky below us has been broken,
then reassembled into a stuttering arc.
Unlike the cowboy who fidgets with his cup,
I am not afraid of flight. But I understand his fear.
I want to tell him it is only points on a line,

independent of time. Up here is perspective,
space to examine the area under the curve.
Time to look closely at the graphs we have drawn,

the partitions we obey, and the reasons we will leave
or remain. I wish to say this from outside the plane.
I wish to say it in the permeable voice of interpolating clouds.

Copyright 2012 by Dan Collins.  Image: Kesha Bruce Studio

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20 notes &

Hit by Pitch by James Ciriaco

For my son

the burning
indignity of it
no one to blame
just two souls going
      about their
business as best they may

bound together by rules
that say
you must throw hard
and fast you
must stand
in harm’s way

over and over
trying for
a hit and mostly
      fail
and then you get
hit and you cry

but

look up
already the pain
is less the sky
blue the grass
a level green

there is a game
to be played
the fresh earth makes
a path before you
don’t forget

the sting never forget
but get up
and take your base

image

Copyright 2012 by James Ciriaco.  Image: Stock Photo on Google

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23 notes &

Estuary by Barbary Chaapel

The tide at crest carries me
To the hard land of my ancestors,
Mountain glen, green onion meadow.

Ebb tide pulls me to open seastead,
Washes from me one poem at a time.

Swirled water teems with life
When the world tilts… falling-off words
Know laughter, salt tears.

There is no way to write this gently:
There may be a plant called
Dead man fingers in the slough, the bog,
The estuary, where my life begins or ends,
Bursting with an unshallow tongue.
Also, common birds of sudden flight,

Glorytime. In spite of all that
Slip under my womanwing…
Plunge like a gull from the infinite

To find harbor in the lee:
I offer contemplation
Of greenbunched daffodils,

Springing,
Or a rudderless leaf riding to the sea,
Home again.

Copyright 2011 by Barbary Chaapel.

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3 notes &

The Red Truck by Chris Brockman

He longed for a red truck,

primordial and bright

To make his life complete,

but his life was always blue.

He wanted a red shirt,

Audacious and assured

To reflect his deep set soul,

But his closet was always green.

He wanted a red hat

To wear to the fire in his mind,

But he only wore a black beret.

When he died, his friends

Buried him in a brown coffin

Holding a single red rose.


Poem copyright 2011 by Chris Brockman

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