Art and Earth

Because earth Without Art is Just "Eh."

Posts tagged poetry

1 note &

Waves (A Lesson in Sibilance by Albert Ahearn)

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Clear undulating waves play tag

with an omnipresent seashore;

each recurring breaker burbles

sounds from an ancient beginning

ebbing back to its salty self

with rhythmic perpetuity.

Subtle unvoiced fricative sounds

echo from sandy, shallow shoals

awash with vacant tiny shells

that once dwelled in this saline soup.

Gray and white gulls hover above

receding breakers scavenging

them opportunistically

in a cacophonous frenzy.

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Ann says: A word that produces a hissing sound is said to be sibilant.  Albert also uses onomatopoeias here— words that sound like the thing they are describing.

Copyright 2013 by Albert Ahearn.

Image: Byron Jojorian

Filed under poem poetry lit sibilance language wordplay oceans seashore onomatopoeia poems parents kids play memories childhood boomers greatest generation

1 note &

Conch (Poem by Albert Ahearn)

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A seashell was the greatest find

for an eight year old at the time.

A conch shell was the most prized sought

elusive more often than not.

But when its found the finder gains

a worth much more than Mary Janes

and bubblegum he could wish for

from any corner candy store.

Within its aperture is filled

with sounds of surf and sea that thrills

his mind when pressed against his ear

then shared among his childhood peers

this brightly colored spiral shell

where once a spineless mollusk dwelled.

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Copyright 2013 by Albert Ahearn

Image: flickrhivemind.net

Filed under poem poems poetry lit parent kids summer ocean seashells shelling memories homes growing up albert ahearn womb play greatest generation boomers

5 notes &

The Salt Witch (Poem Excerpt by Audrey Howitt)

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I am a child of brine and sea water,
a witch born
in the tidal push.

A soft foam gathers at my head,
the crust of salt flaking off the moonskin
of night’s dreaming—

the meeting of sun and moon at tide’s edge
pushing closer
in their wayward time.

Perched upon each wave,
pushing inward,
     a bit of women’s salt,
pulling away each current,
     a bit of man’s silt…



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Full version here.

Copyright 2013 by Audrey Howitt 

Image: Susan Seddon Boulet

Filed under poem poems poetry lit pagan wicca druid tides goddesses yinyang oceans audrey howitt

1 note &

Submission (The Blackening), A Poem by John-Arthur Ingram

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I’ll cover you with the night

And consume your seed and sin.

In willing prostration, I can swallow your shame;

Praising all that makes us Male.


You can change me from Priapus to Astarte;

While you rise and swell inside me.


Your god won’t find you here.


The pain is all mine and I welcome it

Like the explosion of life in the Phoenician desert.


I’ll color you with the night of my skin

And soak all your sins inside my Eden.

Then I’ll make them yield into Love;

Something your god dared to do with a single Man.

Maybe then you won’t need the night to cover you.


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Ann says: John-Arthur envisions the encounter of a black Pagan man and a white Christian man.  He points out that the creation of man (Adam) by a male God has homoerotic undertones.

Copyright 2013 by John-Arthur Ingram

Image: John Howard Griffen

Filed under poem poems poetry lit genesis erotica gay creation john-arthur ingram adam the fall lucifer glbt lgbt mythology

1 note &

Calcify (Poem by J. I. Keaton)

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We are carbon and vessels
calcium pillars pressed together
epidermal wars with 
limbs and fingers for soldiers
Each sigh like a line from
my favorite poem
your whispers unravel the bonds
keeping my flesh from yours
pressing these layers of keratin
into you with a desperate hunger
I breath you in 
a vacuum of ecstasy
consuming your words and gasps
and my name, my name, my name
letters on the dashed lines
of your soft lips
and my skin, my skin, my skin
clings to yours like that
formaldehyde formula 
on your fingertips

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Copyright 2013 by J.I. Keaton, Kitsunes on Tumblr.

Image: Reblogged on Tumblr, artist unknown.

Filed under poems poetry lit free verse confessional sex love ego biology physiology erotica kitsune J. I. Keaton tumblr poets

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.



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Copyright 2013 by John-Arthur Ingram.

Image: Titian’s Venus of Urbino 

Filed under poem poems poetry lit venus john-arthur ingram sex men worship erotica goddesses titian portrait womb life death goth pagan wicca

2 notes &

Coromandel Fishers (Poem by Sarojini Naidu) Rise, brothers, rise; the wakening skies pray to the morning light, The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night. Come, let us gather our nets from the shore and set our catamarans free, To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the kings of the sea! No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea gull’s call, The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all. What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives? He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast our lives. Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and the scent of the mango grove, And sweet are the sands at the full o’ the moon with the sound of the voices we love; But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam’s glee; Row, brothers, row to the edge of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea.  ******************************************************************************************* Ann says: The Coromandel Coast lies on the southeastern edge of India. Image: posterlounge.co.uk

Coromandel Fishers (Poem by Sarojini Naidu)

Rise, brothers, rise; the wakening skies pray to the morning light, 
The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night. 
Come, let us gather our nets from the shore and set our catamarans free, 
To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the kings of the sea! 

No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea gull’s call, 
The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all. 
What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives? 
He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast our lives. 

Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and the scent of the mango grove, 
And sweet are the sands at the full o’ the moon with the sound of the voices we love; 
But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam’s glee; 
Row, brothers, row to the edge of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea. 


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Ann says: The Coromandel Coast lies on the southeastern edge of India.
Image: posterlounge.co.uk

Filed under poem poems poetry fishing fishermen tropics catamaran boats sailing sailors nature pagan elements Sarojini Naidu coromandel lit india classic literature

7 notes &

31 Plays

BONE OF SONG (The Muse of Compulsive Creativity)

Just where it now lies I can no longer say
I found it on a cold and November day
In the roots of a sycamore tree where it had hid so long
In a box made out of myrtle lay the bone of song

The bone of song was a jawbone old and bruised
And worn out in the service of the muse
And along its sides and teeth were written words
I ran my palm along them and I heard

“Lucky are you who finds me in the wilderness
I am the only unquiet ghost that does not seek rest.”
The words on the bone of song were close and small
And though their tongues were dead I found I knew them all

In the hieroglyphs of quills and quatrain lines
Osiris, the fall of Troy, Auld Lang Syne
Kathleen Mauvoreen Magnificat, your cheatin’ heart
The chords of a covenant king singing for the ark
Then I saw on a white space that was left
A blessing written older than the rest

It said “Leave me here, I care not for wealth or fame.
I’ll remember your song but I’ll forget your name.”
The words that I sang blew off like the leaves in the wind
And perched like birds in the branches before landing on the bone again

Then the bone was quiet it said no more to me
So I wrapped it in the ribbons of a sycamore tree
And as night had come I turned around and headed home
With a lightness in my step and a song in my bones


“Lucky are you who finds me in the wilderness.
I am the only unquiet ghost that does not seek rest.”

 

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Ann says:  Many artists, writers and musicians find themselves under a sort of compulsion, unable to pursue any other profession.  They have met The Bone of Song.

Written and performed by Josh Ritter

Image: Bone of Song by Pat Sollows

Filed under poem lit folk music ballad josh ritter muse writers authors writing addiction musicians music compulsion poetry artists

9 notes &

The Peace of Wild Things (Poem by Wendell Berry)

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When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. 



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Images: 1. Randall David Tipton  2. Michael S. Quinton

Filed under poem poems poetry nature pagan wildlife nature deficit disorder wetlands conservation ducksunlimited hunters lit wendell berry classic poems eco meditation buddhism

8 notes &

29 Plays

WISTERIA (Click on arrow to play song)

Let’s not drive away just yet 
Give me a moment more 
To walk through those rooms again 
To walk through that door 

If we turn off the radio 
I’ve only to close my eyes 
And the wind in the sycamores 
Will carry me home 

The vine of my memory 
Is blooming around those eaves 
It’s true it’s a chore to tame wisteria 

I’m tempted to ring the bell 
Maybe they’d ask me in 
Or maybe it’s just as well 
To let it all be 

Remember the price we paid? 
It seemed like a lot back then 
Remember the love we made 
The day we moved in? 

It did need some pruning back 
I know it’s not my place 
How could they just cut it down 
And leave not a trace?

Let’s not drive away just yet 
Give me a moment more 
To walk through those dreams again 
To walk through that door 

The vine of my memory 
Still blooms all around those eaves 
It’s true it’s a chore to tame wisteria 

 

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Ann says: The image of wisteria as the twining vine of emotional memories is exquisite. I love the way the violin, which seems to represent the vine, isn’t heard until the third-to-last stanza. 

Click here to discuss this song.

Written and performed by Richard Shindell

Image: lovleigh.tumblr.com

Filed under music ballads flowers gardeners houses home richard shindell folk music wisteria poetry memories couples love

3 notes &

ARS POETICA (Poem by Archibald MacLeish)   A poem should be palpable and muteAs a globed fruitDumbAs old medallions to the thumbSilent as the sleeve-worn stoneOf casement ledges where the moss has grown -A poem should be wordlessAs the flight of birdsA poem should be motionless in timeAs the moon climbsLeaving, as the moon releasesTwig by twig the night-entangled trees,Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,Memory by memory the mind -A poem should be motionless in timeAs the moon climbsA poem should be equal to:Not trueFor all the history of griefAn empty doorway and a maple leafFor loveThe leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -A poem should not meanBut be ********************************************************************************************************************* Ann says:  I share MacLeish’s sentiments.  I’d much rather have a poem make me feel or think something than tell me what to feel or think. Image: Stock Image from Google Images

ARS POETICA (Poem by Archibald MacLeish)

 

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind -

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

A poem should be equal to:
Not true

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -

A poem should not mean
But be

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Ann says:  I share MacLeish’s sentiments.  I’d much rather have a poem make me feel or think something than tell me what to feel or think.

Image: Stock Image from Google Images

Filed under poem poems poetry lit writers poets Archibald MacLeish writing silence symbolism classic poetry classic literature

9 notes &

Night Blooms (Poem by Laurie Corzett) Come, say I Enjoy the desert night blooms — rare, exquisite, alive. Quiet, the primeval cold, parched, freeze-dried. No purposeful future divined. The stories I spin … Old, alien unmarked steps upon the Earth. no meaning no warmth I walk primeval, exquisite landscape dry, old, eternal to enjoy the blooming. ****************************************************************************************************************************************** Copyright 2013 by Laurie Corzett. Image: Victorian lithograph, artist unknown.
Night Blooms (Poem by Laurie Corzett)


Come, say I

Enjoy the desert night blooms —

rare, exquisite, alive.

Quiet, the primeval cold,

parched, freeze-dried.

No purposeful future

divined.

The stories I spin …

Old, alien

unmarked steps upon the Earth.

no meaning

no warmth

I walk primeval, exquisite landscape

dry, old, eternal

to enjoy the blooming.

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Copyright 2013 by Laurie Corzett.

Image: Victorian lithograph, artist unknown.

Filed under poem poems poetry lit laurie corzett desert ecology ancient night-blooming cereus flowers gardeners cactus nature gaia pagan eco