Finding cheer in the world can often be difficult when looking at current events. People tend to complicate matters further resulting in a distorted view of things. Many people allow themselves to be overwhelmed by all the negatives in the world and then ultimately only add on to that negativity. But this is not so much a post about people. I thought of this because there’s a lot of beauty in the world, but some of it you really have to look for. Some beauty needs to be searched for, and some are only revealed fleetingly, to a random observant passer-by, merely finding it in the right moment or a specific time of day or within a certain context. Some paintings can be intriguing and beautiful in their own way even if you can’t explain why, it may not be pretty, but it somehow carries its own haunting beauty that can often resonate deeper than the ‘louder’ more outwardly captivating piece. Sometimes the beauty can be an act of defiance, or even an inaction amidst chaos. It can be a glimpse of what once was – that unique air of ancient glory, now long gone, or it can be quietness of abandon – a place; beautiful simply because it was left alone, and in its solitude, nature and anonymity gave it a different message, a place with no purpose – a forgotten purpose or one that had been served, long since finished. One man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure – it applies greatly to art. Then again one man’s labour and ingenuity can mean another man’s woe, pain and death. Take weapons for instance, the craftsmanship, elegance, discipline and dedication behind sword making – there is a beauty there, in the craft as well in the result – the instrument itself is a thing of beauty, if only for man to complicate matters, for its purpose is ultimately a tool of death. Although some might bestow greater nobility in it, claiming it as a tool of defense, virtue and honour in servitude. Perhaps even something of an heirloom, something to be earned. For me, the concept or existence of beauty, that can be construed as ugly, is in many ways a symbolism of hope. A hope that can transcend place and time and purpose… for what would the world be like without beauty? So when one can see it, or read it, in the most improbable of places, it instils that inherent hope, that there is light even in the darkest of places. That there is life, even when all you see is desolation. Here’s an assorted gallery of examples of portraits of ‘Ugly’ beauty, just exemplifying the different faces of it, of how we perceive it, how we pursue it, because it is so changeable, so diverse – whether in a subtle message, a whisper, an arid landscape, or a fear and awe inspiring act of nature – beauty is something that cannot be harnessed or quantified, because it is not one thing – not in this natural and finite world. It is perhaps the one true signature of something beyond the natural, something elemental, but yet, something otherworldly, the signatures in this world that speaks vividly and subtly of a link, long ago severed, with perhaps a heavenly place... that this now is a distant shadowy relative of that place called Eden. ... I will never be their kind of pretty My pretty is like a sad song with lyrics that make you cry and a haunting melody. --- poem extract "My Pretty", poem by Blankpages on Allpoetry.com Until the end of the 19th century the goals of art were beauty and originality… The new theme was: Art must be a quest for truth, however brutal, and not a quest for beauty. So the question became: What is the truth of art? Upon the Arid Lakes Poem by Mark R Slaughter Someplace A field of flowers Rousing under remnants of the dawn: Out there! from death, I rose Above the silent many – A distant will-o'-the-wisp Reflecting under airs of minor ninths – How rich the ambience they threw! What theme of prosody Had rendered me? – Tho’ silent were its words: A broken soul in pulsing pain – Thou mustn’t guess what goes behind The sick and ghostly screen of war! In sallow-grey and other ashen hues, Disrobed of warming flesh That reassures the bones, A twisted pose Portrayed my physicality – Not unlike the carcass of a prey; --- read more... What would be ugly in a garden constitutes beauty in a mountain. Nothing is beautiful, only man: on this piece of naivete rests all aesthetics, it is the first truth of aesthetics. Let us immediately add its second: nothing is ugly but degenerate man - the domain of aesthetic judgment is therewith defined. [Image credits: 2summers.files.wordpress.com, northlandknives.se, pinterest,com, staticflickr.com, paintingsIlove.com, wandurlust.co.uk, wallmay.net, hotelclub.com, slimbolala.blogspot.com, business.mega.mu, Royalarmouries.org, blightly.co.za, lugaresesquecidos.com.br, talesfromfarpoint.blogspot.com, samouel.deviantart.com, osnatfineart.com, stories.namibiatourism.com.na, Orbiscatholicussecundus.blogspot.com, AviationIntel.com, inspirefirst.com, tactical-life.com, graffuturism.com, static.panoramio.com, buzzfeed.com] Interesting link: take a look at Chernobyl, 25 years after the Fallout...
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Story of remoteness, 7. Who will the poet fight for? Poem by David Martinez Romero Who shall fight, if not the poet. Those who do not sing, perhaps? Or maybe those who do not laugh, those who do not dance? No. Not them. But the poet has returned to fight for us, for all of us who feel the tide rising from within, for all of us who make a gift out of happiness and, with balanced patience, retire ourselves always into a hidden palace, into a woman, a landscape, a book. The poet came back in the name of love for the few, at last detached from the eternal hatred that flows too fast, and in the slowness of these words, words reborn into the cup of the New Hope, he shall gently reveal to anyone what is theirs. He will give to each what belongs to each one as he will take away from the void what was never his to have. With the same love that only the afternoon understands in its warm light he will bathe our hands tainted in ash, he will clean our neglected memories, he will grant time to what demands reproduction and needs of the future. The poet came to stay, he came like the sea, like the resting death, valiantly struggling to introduce Poetry into the city, into the lighted night, the last chance for men to exit from between two worlds. He shall fight, he will – he is already fighting –, for those who do not lament the infinite sound of the birds, for those who love without fear, without limit, and shout their love beyond the black corners and the deep moorlands. For the light when slowly softens, for the sheer pleasure of recreating the word, for the sole reason of blurring destinies, for the love and only the love to all that shimmers, for everything that drifts into its own light. And the day will come when everyone knows they live because someone fought for them. The day will come, I can feel it, when no one, not even the stones, are entitled to doubt the meaning of his existence. And all of them will also posses the proper words. >>> For more from David M.R., this poem and many others, including short films and scripts, visit his website HERE. [Image credits: Warrior4ancientzoanphotos.blogspot.com, digitalartgallery.com] Images added simply for symbolism - for the valor and fortitude of the ancient and old times are seemingly no longer required, but there are many ways to fight... The warrior and the poet have always entertained an entwined existence through the ages, and though warriors, as we know and remember them, have long since passed from time, their echoes of strength are felt and heard through the derivative voice and writings of these souls who see beyond the natural, both past, future and present... the soldier dies, but their spirit remains with the poet. I thought of posting this video/song simply because its cool, but as so often happens, it does tie in well with a broader message and theme permeating in South Africa today, Madiba has been laid to a much deserved rest, but a huge part of his legacy remains within us - a part he fought and was prepared to die for: FREEDOM. Additionally, mandela always said that music and Dancing put him at peace with the world... The 'free' sung about in this video (by Rudimental featuring Emeli Sande) is complete in its openness - its the freedom we yearn for but so seldom exercise. We have been liberated, so don't live like you're still oppressed... it all starts in the mind. An African Myth A poem by Steven Benjamin From humble hills A heart starts to beat Walking begins From humble teachings Breaking a branch “Troublemaker” is born A mind grows No boundaries found, but what he sees. A man of blood and bone, and of the earth. A tormented land, thirsty Quenched, only with the blood of its own people. Within the division, He grows He is armed The land knows his name Shackles now, and resolve In the dungeons kept Land and frigid sea, between His blood, from youth, and love Reformed in the cold of night and blinding heat of day Behind high walls and in rocky quarries A brotherhood is sealed. And through the wire and the stone, his voice grows His spirit remains. But the body withers His name is known Bullets fly, bodies fall A nation walks to the edge The bloodied hand of the Abyss beckons The gates open with the chant of the people for the cage must be unlocked The man steps forth The world takes a breath. One last brother falls The Abyss steps closer... But, the boundaries seen are broken, My heart beats as yours To kill you, is to kill me His heart beats For his people, and rampant land. Peace He broke a branch once Perhaps from an Olive tree And extended his hand gracefully, To his fearful enemy ... - Years pass That fearful day nears When the land will reclaim a man The people will cry tears to soak the once bloodied ground And the heavens will cry too An old man’s heart stops beating... And the world stops, for a moment. He is sent back His body taken, Back into those humble hills - This is the story of a boy, a man, a husband, a father, a Chief, a lawyer, a leader, a soldier, a freedom fighter, a prisoner, a peacemaker, a reconciler, a liberator, a president, a humanitarian, a King, a legend, a hero, an icon… the father of a democratic nation, the son of an African land... the closest incarnation of that ancient African myth, where all hope, is in but one, an incorruptible one. Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela 1918 - 2013 ... [God Bless all, 2013 is marks the first full year of publication of this blog, here's to a waaay bigger 2014. I'll be a little preoccupied in this end of year festivities and travels. Be safe, be blessed, hug your family and friends, and keep on reading and writing. thanks to all my first time visitors as well as dedicated loyalists, Cheers - I take my proverbial hat off to you!] South Africa stands still, because in the face of death, nothing else matters. With Nelson Mandela gone, it was imperative that I write… something, anything. This after all, was a man who inspired such things, and much more. The title of this post comes from a line in an article on The Daily Maverick entitled: "With Madiba gone, who do we become?" - and it quite perfectly sums up modern South Africa... a miracle country with many problems and deep flaws. But, with the death of our nations father, we are able to take a moment to step back and reflect, getting out of our own way to look at our current circumstance with a fresh gaze, and realize that we as a country still don't know who we are. We're exiting our difficult teenage years, and now the time has come for us to really show our maturity - or to grasp it very quickly, because that's what needs to happen. This moment of reflection and honoring our great leader was desperately needed, and so, even in death, Nelson Mandela continues to serve South Africa. I was 19 when my father died, but still it has taken a few years to truly become a man – the one I know he and God can look on with something vaguely approaching satisfaction; that I can at least claim to be on the right path toward that beacon, wherever it may be. The years since his death have been an education, the deepest of my young life. South Africa is 19 years into democracy, still just a teenager, and our country’s father has just died. They say the best stories surround a great hero overcoming a mighty foe, and though Madiba was by no means alone, he was the head of the army, the accepted and acknowledged leader in the fight. Apartheid – the great scourge of our nation’s past, and during its existence, the stain on the world map. The stakes could not have been higher. We’ve seen and read about such tales of heroism, endurance and fortitude amid bloodshed, no, blood-flow, and death, strife, unimaginable pain and anguish. We, South Africa were born out of a tormented and warped past, one still haunting us today, though more so the older generations. But now that that demonic system of oppression lay like a vanquished enemy in the dust of history, the great hero who spear-headed the campaign, has taken his final bow. Apartheid called for a great leader to arise, and, in quiet calm dignity, he, Mandela, answered that call. Now, when there are no more such evil enemies holding us captive, and no more heroes of Mandela's caliber left or required (stealing a glance at the fallen or slain greats like Walter Sisulu, Oliver Tambo, Goven Mbeki, Chris Hani and Steve Biko et al.), we are left, to ponder our own devices, to find our path, alone… and together. This is the season, potentially the realization of that dream a good few have spoken of; this great man will forever be a bastion of reference, his legacy a guiding light toward that dream we like to call, the African Renaissance. I believe I speak for the vast majority of SA when saying that we all felt it deeply, even though we saw it coming (nothing can prepare you for that hollow chasm of grief)… it’s that sudden alarm, vague shock when your guiding light, the same light which was so strong in leading you out of the dark, even when hidden in a island dungeon - simply because we knew it remained... is then extinguished. And now we stand still, taking a moment to honour him, before we take those first steps into the unknown, in all our youth and vulnerability. Madiba, you were among the best of us, and stamped the seal as our example, "We South Africans have had the uncommon luxury of outsourcing our morality to one of history’s giants, a man who was simply unable to disappoint." (from the article alluded to earlier)... but now, more than ever, is the time to live by those same morals, and hold one another accountable. I salute you, Tata Till we meet again “The implication of that was if any of us take the witness box, we should take our cue (from Mandela’s speech)… Proclaim your political beliefs, don’t apologise, don’t ask for mercy. If there’s a death sentence, we will not appeal. That’s how Madiba was exemplary in whatever he did. He led from the front. No matter what the risks, he was right in front,” -- Ahmed Kathrada, struggle icon and fellow political Prisoner on Robben Island. This in reference to Mandela’s famous four and a half hour speech at the Rivonia trial, pledging to fight against black and white domination, and saying he was prepared to die for his convictions. “He was, and by the time of his death, universally held to be a great man; he may well be the last of the great men as the concept of greatness retires into the historical shadows.” – JM Coetzee, novelist & recipient of the 2003 Nobel Prize in Literature. Invictus - William Ernest Henley Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. --- Ulysses (extract) - Alfred Lord Tennyson [...] ... Come, my friends. 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,-- One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. --- “… we must also ask ourselves a question: What about the future? I think as we celebrate the life of Nelson Mandela, this becomes a central task, to ensure we do not betray what he and others sacrificed for.” – Former SA Pres. Thabo Mbeki Still on my reading wish list, so this is more of a Book preview; "Stand Still like the Hummingbird": a book-of-essays/anthology. I'm giving it a look-see even though I don't yet own it. However, curiosity got the better of me, so here are some extracts and quotes from an unconventional writer. Some of Henry Miller's early works were banned in his home country of the US for their controversial content involving religion, sex, social criticism, philosophy and explicit language. Six books of his written between 1934-59 were all banned. Here in my opinion is the only imaginative prose-writer of the slightest value who has appeared among the English-speaking races for some years past. Even if that is objected to as an overstatement, it will probably be admitted that Miller is a writer out of the ordinary, worth more than a single glance; and after all, he is a completely negative, unconstructive, amoral writer, a mere Jonah, a passive acceptor of evil, a sort of Whitman among the corpses. - George Orwell acknowledging Henry Miller in his Essay: "Inside the Whale" (1940) “I see myself forever and ever as the ridiculous man, the lonely soul, the wanderer, the restless frustrated artist, the man in love with love, always in search of the absolute, always seeking the unattainable.” “ our needs … what is it that we need? certainly the more liberated one feels the less one needs. the sage demonstrates it daily, and the idiot too. just to breathe, to know that you are alive, isn’t it marvelous. “ Extracts from the book - "Stand Still Like the Hummingbird" - a collection of essays from Henry Miller. -- And your way, is it really your way? "There is no salvation in becoming adapted to a world which is crazy." Some further quotes by other writers to continue the theme... ... We look at him through the wrong end of the telescope of Time, This is an official announcement that my book (formerly known as 'The Quiet Days') has since been renamed "Peacekeeper". It took me a while to make the decision, but slowly the new one won me over. I've also decided to name the sequel The Quiet Days, it feels only right that I do, whilst a possible prequel will be named 'The Dark Days'. There is a deeper relevance to these names of course and not just a morbid fascination with "Days", or the days of our lives Lol. For a brief Synopsis, keep reading... (its still the same book, albeit on the cusp of the 4th draft with some back end rewrites.) 'Peacekeeper' blurb: There are always so many questions; some remaining forever unanswered, and those with answers few are willing to face. For Michael, that’s hardly the beginning. In Israel investigating a terrorist threat, during a ceasefire after Operation Cast Lead on Gaza and the West Bank, he faces the questions that most are afraid of. An experienced former soldier, now trained in the art of conflict resolution, he discovers his true place, once again learning the art of survival, even when there’s no escaping a bullet. On borrowed time, in the shadow of Interpol and the UN, through blood and dirt, his greatest enemy in the fight to maintain peace, remains the man in the mirror, taunting him with that one fateful question: how much difference can one good man really make? "For whose cause, if not your own, are you willing to die?" Peacekeeper poem: (this appears at the very beginning of the book, it's also the one and only poem I've written in some years, and I continue to tinker with it...) … a faint whisper stirs, within, growing, piercing the inner walls; Another I, revealing …the fear, of the quiet days, the dark days when I’m dead but still living. My spent blood runs slow, my trembling hands, my frozen eyes in these cold, peaceful times. That fear of the slight of me . . . the far away man in the mirror, dark of the deep of the still waters in those eyes . . . my quiet days, creeping, nearer… [I may write a part 2 of this poem that may/will appear at the end of my book...] "You don’t expect to be shot during a ceasefire, or to see a peacekeeper break protocol, but anything goes in the pursuit to maintain the status quo, even if that means sacrificing a good man." - “The reward of sin is death.” That’s hard. If we say that we have no sin, We deceive ourselves, and there’s no truth in us.”... – Doctor Faustus, Goethe’s Faust. - If you like what you see, please feel free to rate it below, but if you have some constructive criticism or words of support then leave your comments - I always appreciate the feedback. Writing is of course a largely solitary profession and even just feeding some breadcrumbs for readers can elicit some angst on my part. I just hope you're as excited as I am, it's going to be big. Many Blessings Ciao Story of Remoteness, 2. "Words" by David Martinez Romero Sometimes, I do fall into long monologues, and words move me as if they were good, good mothers, unconditional friends, comrades. Just talking I sometimes heal from every evil that boils in the dead city, it cures me of all the sickness and all the sadness. Sometimes a talk is like letting the music play, and a voice that imposes with its brief strings is also peace, love, every thing that is worthy and comes back to claim its name allowing itself to be named by the same voice that unties it. Happiness could very well be just a word but it is mine in any case, it is in any case my truth, my ardent breath that happily becomes verb and resets my pain, my suffering and my agony shaping a tremendous smile that compares the moon with its beauty and in the end is mine, and only mine, and I give it away to those who have an ear for music. To talk, talking about anything, just saying beautiful things, not being afraid of the vacuum nor the sea of futility, loosing talk, saying yes, no, sometimes, saying that I love you, I’m out of here, so long, and then shutting up at the right time, walking and redecorating words when indiscriminately giving away phrases, texts, strokes, smiling to the stranger, to the walking woman, to the child that’s always playing. And just listening with unusual care to what they say. If they’re happy, the words are not only words. They are bridges lying between two shadows, they are lights in the starless night, they are huge windows through which the air passes and sometimes so do the spirits. Saying yes, when everybody else denies, is a cardinal virtue. To those who affirm with their voice, with their gesture, with their elegance should be granted the rank of Prince since their gallantry means highness. And talking with your own life, saying pretty things by just living, with the only air that you breathe, setting the example of laughing… that also justifies our existence. Because being is a problem and the very solution, just a word. Whether it has meaning or not, whether it is new or made up, the word, said in the appropriate space and time, lasts. It is stronger than stone. Children are always learning to speak: and so am I, for I am a child born of the heart of speech. And like a newborn to language I’m always looking for happy findings, I jump from complexity to simplicity, I lie, discover, celebrate, certify, extend grubby checks and introduce documents sealed with a carmine kiss that I always steal from a beautiful woman. I speak as well, for not only does the poet, other men speak too when they do not fear the nothingness, those happy flukes that take joyfulness as their own. Many believe they are talking, but they should just keep quiet. We, the happy, even in silence say tricks. Happiness: believe me, it is not only a word, but well spoken, it could also be true. -- Following on from last years "Artist Feature" spot on David Romero, he and I have since sparked something of a collaboration. Here's a new poem from him, translated into from Spanish to English - My role involved assisting with the latter part, that of streamlining the English version. This will not be the last of David's poems to feature on this site. For more on the poet, click on the link in the Blogroll to connect to his personal site. -- |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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