Paper Follies ~ A Bit of Whimsy

Stop. Breathe.

Writing on Not Writing

~Jack Myers

I can feel my ship about to come in.

A white ship in a snowstorm

moving in.

 

The ship is made of gulls

huddled together

in the shape of a ship.

 

When it arrives, they will fly out into the storm,

leaving a space inside it

clear as reason.

 

I can tell there's going to be a blizzard

of being somewhere else

any minute

 

because of time's noise eating itself up

that is the noise of listening

that looks like a seething, florid whiteout of wings.

 

{I miss you. I miss me. I miss this.}

 

{moments of clarity?}

 

{note 1: i really thought i would blog every day in july. i think i might be a committment-phob. its just not for me. i don't want to post just because i said i would. there is something very organic about this whole process and a post a day, as much as i WANT to be able to do it, just doesn't exist in the heart of who i am, how i process life. so...}

{note 2: i am wondering if blogging is really for me. i love that it is a space where i can share my thinking, my wanderings, my highs and lows. but there's something in me that WANTS to have comments and friendships that i read about in Artful Blogging and feels competitive. hmph. i don't like that part of me. i keep trying to banish her ~ she keeps coming back ~ kind of like that creepy chick in The Ring movies ~ you know the drippy, wet, slimy girl that comes through the t.v.?

note 2 1/2: i LOVE the folks that come by...LOOOVEEE you, but i love visiting you just as much. maybe i'm just meant to be a commenter?}

{note 3: i think, perhaps, my blog is a little unfocused. i keep thinking that structure is the key. that if only i kept to a structure for each day of the week, i would be better (?) at this ~ "go away creepy girl" ~ see i just can't seem to get her to go away.}

{question: your thoughts? your experiences? please, please i want to hear from you...if you're out there}

 

and a poem, for creepy girl:

Dilemma

I want to be

     famous

so I can be

     humble

about being

     famous.

What good is my

     humility

when I am

     stuck

in this

     obscurity?

          ~David Budbill

 

 

 

 

 

pearl forming {mosaic monday}

 

{teenagers}

One day they disappear

into their rooms.

Doors and lips shut

and we become strangers

in our own home.

 

I pace the hall, hear whispers,

a code I knew but can't remember,

mouthed by mouths I taught to speak.

 

Years later the door opens.

I see faces I once held,

open as sunflowers in my hands. I see

familiar skin now stretched on long bodies

that move past me

glowing almost like pearls.

 

{pat mora}  

***mosaic monday inspired by this lovely one: curious girl***                                                                                          

 

It's Black and White

 

 

Creo que el mundo es bello, que la poesia es como el pan, de todos.

{I believe that the world is beautiful and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.}

Roque Dalton

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We are so fortunate to live where we live. To be entitled to a fair election. To have more than enough of anything our hearts desire. Its easy to forget ~ to take these things for granted: sweet landscapes, heartache that is temporary ~fleeting even~, abundance of poetry and bread. Its easy to overlook the simple blessings of life, until you watch the news.

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"Like You"

Like you I

love love, life, the sweet smell

of things, the sky-blue

landscape of January days.

 

And my blood boils up

and I laugh through eyes

that have known the buds of tears.

 

I believe the world is beautiful

and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.

 

And that my veins don't end in me

but in the unaminous blood

of those who struggle for life,

love,

little things,

landscape and bread,

the poetry of everyone.

~Roque Dalton

{translated by Jack Hirschman}

 

xoxo Sweet Loyalty xoxo

 

{I remember so well the day I went to the pound to pick out a puppy for our boy, our little family. You were the first puppy I asked to take out for a walk. They put a leash on you and handed you over to me. And you took off ~ down the dim concrete corridor, past the chain link gates, out into the sunshine of the courtyard, past the sunshine of the courtyard, straight to the exit sign. And I only stopped long enough to pay the fees and sign the paperwork. You had chosen me, us. And you have been a loyal girl for 14 years. You stand by me, us. A daily lesson in sweet loyalty and unconditional love.}

{{and a poem}}

*note to self: these sweet feet need a pedicure, both sets. *smile*

The Bees Know Where the Answers Are

 

All night

the dark buds of dreams

open

richly

 

In the center

of every petal

is a letter,

and you imagine

 

if you could only remember

and string them all together

they would spell the answer.

 

(excerpted from "Dreams" by Mary Oliver)

 

Sweet dreams. Wherever you are, may the answers find you, and may you recognize them when they come.

 

 

 

 

 

And After the Gray Came Green

 

i shall imagine life

i shall imagine life
is not worth dying, if
(and when) roses complain
their beauties are in vain

but though mankind persuades
itself that every weed's
a rose, roses (you feel
certain) will only smile

~ ee cummings

Growing Pains

 

He gives me so much joy. So many things to be proud of, but, at fifteen and 360 days, he pushes and pulls until that joy is squished and stuffed deep down inside and then I have to find it again. It's never too hard. It's always there in my heart, which he holds in his now strong hands, his fierce blue eyes, and his independent spirit.

Day 4: Forgiveness...forgiving myself for losing my cool, forgiving him for doing what he's supposed to be doing ~ growing up, pushing away, finding himself.

"The Summer-Camp Bus Pulls Away from the Curb"

Whatever he needs, he has or doesn't

have by now.

Whatever the world is going to do to him

it has started to do. With a pencil and two

Hardy Boys and a peanut butter sandwich and

grapes he is on his way, there is nothing

more we can do for him. whatever is

stored in his heart, he can use, now.

Whatever he has laid up in his mind

he can call on. What he does not have

he can lack. The bus gets smaller and smaller, as one

folds a flag at the end of a ceremony,

onto itself, and onto istdelf, until

only a heavy wedge remains.

Whatever his exuberant soul

can do for him, it is doing right now.

Whatever his arrogance can do

it is doing to him. Everything

that's been done to him, he will now do.

Everything that's been placed in him

will come out, now, the contents of a trunk

unpacked and lined up on a bunk in the underpine light.

~Sharon Olds

Turn Not Pale, Beloved Snail, But Come and Join the Dance

Slowly, slowly, I am learning to listen to that voice inside of me. You know the voice, the one that whispers to you when everything is quiet and still, " Do this. Don't worry about 'the odds'. Don't worry about what other people 'might think'. Don't worry about the 'what ifs'. Just do this."

Slowly, slowly,  I am learning to pay attention to the signs. You know the signs, the ones that say, "This is for you. This will 'grow you'. This will 'stretch you'. This will 'change you'. This is for you."

That voice inside of me has been telling me that I need to explore the world. To step out, unafraid of being accepted and liked. To venture out, open-eyed and curious. To seek out the opportunities that will guide me in the direction I want to go creatively.

And those signs? They were everywhere I looked in one day: here, where the soulful Nina Bagley shares her musings on nature, life and art, here, where the reflectively peaceful Misty Mawn delights with paintings, poetry, music and wonder and here, where the possibilitarian (her word), Kelly Rae Roberts, uncovers the wonders, worries and whisperings along the  journey of being an artist . Three admired artists. Three admired women. All pointing me in a direction, seeming to say, "Come along with us. Come find another piece of the puzzle of you. Come let your creative spirit dance."

And so, I'm headed to the dance! Squam Art Workshops. An early birthday present from my family. A wonderful space to contemplate turning 40, turning a corner, heading down a new path dance, dance, dancing along the way. (Thank you, Rachel, for introducing me to Lykke Li!)

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"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,
"There's a porpoise close behind us and he's standing on my tail."
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance?
Will you, wo'n't you, will you, wo'n't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, wo'n't you, will you, wo'n't you, will you join the dance?

"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"
But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance—
Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.

"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
"There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The further off from England the nearer is to France—Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance."
Will you, wo'n't you, will you, wo'n't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, wo'n't you, will you, wo'n't you, will you join the dance?

~Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Movement Outward

something has been stirring, deep in my heart of hearts.

whispering to me,

inviting me,

to do more than stand transfixed.

to seek out the true me,

the one that watches,

on the outside looking in.

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'Love After Love'

The time will come

When, with elation,

You will greet yourself arriving

At your own door, in your own mirror,

And each will smile at the other's welcome,

And say, sit here, Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

To itself, to the stranter who has loved you

All your life, whom you ignored

For another, who knows you be heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

The photographs, the desperate notes,

Peel your image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

~Derek Walcott