Category: mixed media


keep walking

Keep walking,

Though there is no place to get to.

Don’t try to see through the distances.

That’s not for human beings.

Move within,

But don’t move

The way fear makes you move.

~ Rumi ~

Advertisements

sonnet xvii

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

 

~Pablo Neruda~

 

Kallisti Muse lives in a cavern beneath the Aegean Sea

Poetry by Kate58

although dimly lit
the cavern rings with sound
& her creative urges flourish
in this dwelling underground

she delights in company
yet is happy to live alone
in splendid isolation
in this cavern made of stone

in the cavern of Kallisti Muse
stalagmites shine in riotous hues
& nobody has the blues
in the cavern of Kallisti Muse

just outside the cavern
is a swift-running stream
where she catches the fishes that she eats
who’ve seen their deaths in a dream

it’s here she lives in secret
happy against all the odds
transcribing her thoughts on yellowed scrolls
propitiation to the gods

in the cavern of Kallisti Muse
you must show proof you’ve paid your dues
& after that you’re welcome to do as you choose
in the cavern of Kallisti Muse

~~~
For more of Kate58’s Kallisti Muse poems and poetry
please visit her blog  Poetry and Persistance
Thank you, Kate, for inspiring.

Goethe

XXIV

“But since the end of all poetic art

Is the improvement of the reader’s mind

(Or so we’re told), my verses for their part

Shall point the usual moral of their kind:

This life’s a crazy journey, and our heart

May stumble, but two mighty powers, we’ll find,

Can move the world and help us as we go:

To Duty much, to Love far more we owe.

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe [The Diary]


thought of you

Alone with myself

The trees bend to caress

The shade hugs my heart.

~ Candy Polgar ~


The piano was dead. She did not know what would blow life back into the sockets of its eyes or bring music back into its body. On any other day, Saudade’s fingers would have played for her and she for them, but this day she was unable to will herself into motion.  Not even the tips of her fingers wanted to move. Yet, she sat at her piano ~ silent and numb. Everything about her was heavy, exactly how her piano looked, dark and colossal.

‘What a purposeless place,’ Saudade thought to herself. She was not able to play her music nor could she caress her keys with the same depth of feeling. She glared at her hands and her fingers. They started to wiggle, a little.  She noticed how dry and wrinkled they looked. Two worn worlds staring back at her lifelessly. She waited patiently to see if her muscles would move. They did. Her fingers tightened, cramped downward, and inward until her hands formed two fists.

Suddenly, with a force that seemed to escape from a dungeon, her fists moved skyward and then came crashing back down to earth like a comet. Her beloved keys, she crushed them with the bones inside her flesh mercilessly. Like a rock rolling off a mountain, Saudade’s head dropped. Her eyes shut. Darkness. Dragons.

Beneath her now quiet tears, it was a still small voice that woke her. “Deep heart, lift up your eyes and rise.”

The voice of the trees.

Saudade lifted her head and moved towards the window. ‘See my heart and undream my dream.’ She pressed her fingers against her mouth where he had left memories of unforgettable intensities, and continued to trace her lips. Then with those same fingers she touched the window and spread them like a fan against the glass, remembering how he would mirror his against hers. In that long wide moment, her whole world spread out before her ~ the all, the everything, the nothing. ‘Perhaps, existence is our exile and nothingness our home.’ Her heart dissolved, vanished into sky, and died.

This time, it was a sharp light that struck her feathers and woke her. As she looked outward, she looked inward, and in that space in between Saudade heard the still soft voice of the deep. It whispered, ‘the sea of your faith you will not find in the soul of your music, but in the music inside the heart of your trees.’

As Saudade continued to examine the leaves and branches dancing to the notes of existence, her dead hands heard her deep heart say, ‘stand in awe of the trees ~ and nature will tell you ~ calmly how to continue.’

~~~

*Saudade and the voice of the trees :: my mixed media collage for Trees for Life Charity Exhibition organized by artist Trevor Jones, featured at one of my favorite artist websites Skinny Artist Live Your Art by Drew @SkinnyArtist

~~~

*explanation of saudade – it is a Portuguese language word…, which describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic longing for something or someone that one was fond of and which is lost. Saudade was once described as “the love that remains” or “the love that stays” after someone is gone.

fields of gold

deep in my heart

I become what the song is

fields of gold :: eva cassidy 

mixed media on wood

29 x 42 cm

opus 69

from the book my soul is writing…

Waltz Op. 69 No. 1 Chopin

Frédéric François Chopin ::

the poet of the piano

mixed media on wood

42 x 29 cm

“Words are for meaning: when you’ve got the meaning, you can forget the words”

~ Zhuangzi~

But, Zhuangzi, certain words are meant for remembrance. They rest upon my soul, hover over my spirit, and enter into the chrysalis part of my heart.

There, where black ink transforms into white butterflies I become an Athena. I wear words like an ancient and ageless aegis. My body will tell you how the butterflies quietly return and always revisit with secret silent melodies for my temple of reflections.

White wings fly. White wings float. When I’ve got the meaning that is when I cannot forget the words.

Butterflies, Zhuangzi. White butterflies changing colours like in a dream.

I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t,

when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.

~ Anna Kamieńska ~

 

Inside my womb     I hear voices crying     yours – mine – ours     execrable sounds

exterminate – irradicate – annihilate – mutilate – liquidate – deface – butcher – extinguish – terror

I turned my attention to – our vocabulary – flooded with words to crystalise only one word:

HATRED

 

black – white – yellow deaths – a child screams – a blood stream of images –

we are the problem of our own humanity

 

what am I here for?

to create art and worship poetry?

to make love to love?

to dream the Great Dream inside a dream?

to infect you with a smile?

to whisper to the sea my endless tales of human sufferings?

 

I no longer pray  – I scream – howl – cry

for a solution to the problems of humanity

 

– fiercely –

I wonder about our self-understandings

our essential sensibilities

our capacity to create and then to destroy

EVERYTHING

 

inside my womb I hear voices crying

for peace to illuminate every person,

cell, vein, artery,

for wars to end for the sake of our

children’s children – our children – ourselves

and ~ for my knowing what to live for.

 

 

image 1: inside my womb [mixed media on wood]

image 2: execrable sounds [digital dialectics]