Posts tagged writers
8 notes &
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.”
*******************************************************************************************
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
3 notes &
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
*********************************************************************************************************************
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
47 notes &
Each of us like you
has felt this surge
the rolling tide
in ceaseless cycle;
it demands we spill
jellied hearts
tangled fronds
sea-picked spines
upon an unforgiving shore.
Ann says: Among her many talents, Corinna Parr is a writer of literary erotica par excellance. You can find her work here.
Copyright 2013 by Corinna Parr.
Image: ILoveShelling.com
4 notes &
I meet the mirrored man’s appraising gaze
And focus on the pupils. In return
They peer as if attempting to discern
The nature of the soul behind the maze
Of optic nerves. I frown as if to warn
Those earnest eyes their searching is in vain,
But when I look a smile of cool disdain
Surveys me from the image I have drawn.
The mirrored man is all too well aware
(Enjoying this he sneers at me in scorn)
I see flat glass no matter how I stare,
No secret depths. And now the page is torn.
As if afraid that nothing will remain,
Despite myself I pose and try again.
Ann says: Mike Ellwood one of my favorite poets. He has recently published an awesome book of poems (golf-themed, no less!) which can be purchased here.
Copyright 2013 by Mike Ellwood,
Image: TodayCreate on Tumblr
7 notes &
THE FALL OF A POET (RAGLAN ROAD)
(Please click on arrow above to play song).
On Raglan Road on an autumn day,
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue.
I saw the danger and yet I passed
Along the enchanted way
And I said let grief be a falling leaf
At the dawning of the day.
On Grafton street in November,
We stepped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worlds of passions pledged.
The queen of hearts still baking tarts
And I not making hay,
For I loved too much; by such, by such
Is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind.
I gave her secret signs
That’s known to artists who have known
the gods of sound and rhyme
But words and tint without stint
I gave her poems to say
With her own name there and her own dark hair
Like the clouds over fields of May.
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet,
I see her walking now. Away from me,
so hurriedly. My reason must allow,
for I have wooed, not as I should
A creature made of clay.
When the angel woos the clay, he’ll lose
His wings at the dawn of the day.
On Raglan Road on an autumn day,
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue.
I saw the danger and I passed
Along the enchanted way
And I said let grief be a falling leaf
At the dawning of the day.
*******************************************************************************************
Ann says: Wow. I read this as a romance between an intuitive (the poet) and a sensor (the woman) which is doomed due to her inability to appreciate poetry. Not having their work appreciated might serve as a mortal blow to any artist.
Raglan Road written by Patrick Kavanaugh, performed by The Twilight Lords. Image: Cobalt Blue and Heavenly Ambiance by Nik Helbig.
10 notes &
There’s a story we all love. It’s been told a million times. It’s in our fiction, like Star Wars and Lord of The Rings. It’s in the myths of Osirus and Prometheus, and in the life stories of Moses, Buddha, and Jesus Christ. It’s also in the stories told about the men and women on Flight 93 on September 11, 2001.
