Poem: "The Mountain Kites" by Steven Benjamin To the quietude I was led, To my knees I sank In the deep I drank In the grit my nails scratched A roar from my lungs found escape in the dark I saw a face, in their eyes the night sky flickering Into those pools my gaze did reach Each crest mine or not to take To breathe until I break To wait for my chest to quake By a figure behind the lace and in that dark, a familiar face The twitching of my heart. Softly the mountain spoke Quietly dying in my path Not mine to take As the peak sank from sight The trail lost to unknown fate Forever knocking at my mind Like a taunting dancing distant kite. Not mine to hold Nor to summit A path held from me By arcane hands And a sleight voice whispering Some paths are not meant to be took Keep climbing, from your knees Beholding my familiar face In our quiet dark home go where I go Keep going, till you’re gone *** [Image credit: from PoemHunter.com]
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Poem: * "My bones in the road" by Steven Benjamin 'Thousands of years of rolling and crashing, smoothed the stones', I heard him say. Buildings still abound, much older than I will ever be. When did I gain this voice When did it fade Young we are to the elements, and will always be Blooming flowers to nature we are, and will always be, and then gone What is this effort? To catch my voice in a jar? I hum, clear my throat, and when my lips part, sounds come out, a head inclines and then I turn the page and see some figures on that paper, lines that came from me. I held a pen and moved it. Rearranged some letters, with fingers and breath, whispers and tones. My heart beats; I know. My red blood I’ve seen, and my veins. Shared some space I did, and thought some thoughts, and then quietened my mind. Beating is my heart, and not much more is happening. . . Hushed Until another hour, when again the voice quakes, and a sound, as inspiration steers. the blood pumps on, ink shall be laid, lips to be parted Bones shall move and a faint echo will let loose in this, our dying maze of time. Let the bones of my ribs rise and fall a cage, the jar for my voice holding it like a gloved claw, keeping some air in, until it slips out, and is no more. Just long enough for that breath that it holds, that small voice within that cage, to nudge the blood, to itch the muscle, to crinkle the flesh, to move the fingers. Just long enough for the echo to spill and dent the page and fill the dents with ink. Just long enough it holds, until it is no more. Good intentions are all I am, and all we are, then let the road be paved with me, that narrow path Home to us all that road will be, in the maze of time. And that road - where shall it lead? until time closes, lost, to the red place but for the tether a pinch from that place without time to make the way straight to make the bones move, and that which placed within those bones that air, that breath, that voice it speaks, it moves, it saves and makes the bones live again without time, this time * [Image credit: photo by Frank Robert --- Video credit: Music by Max Richter ( From the Art of Mirrors) Filmed, directed and produced by Montserrat Rubio Sound effects by Romain Olivieri] The Fall of man - 'Moving in the darkness' - Poem by Steven Benjamin The darkness covers us all the same
Rich and poor Strong and weak Good and evil. All existing in this same place Distant Removed. living and dying, we share it all, until One Or a few of us, reaches out to where we came from Before we walked Before we breathed Before we saw, and heard, and tasted and felt This world. To act here, in this place of darkness and absence exiled We exist and are forever lost. Until a heart reaches for the light. The light to illuminate our life, our path, our flaws. But we are still painted by the same brush, Moving in the darkness The same abandon that many love to bathe in, That some question, Searching the dim depths, for tenor, to whisper faint philosophy Reasoning in anonymity, As this shade, hides our actions, bolstering confidence, Justifying ignorance, for the lesser mind. All of it, echoes in obscurity. Without the gift of light - to shine on us, until then, once ignited, to shine from within – without this light what are we? shadows, playing, pretending on the dark stage, until the absent curtain falls, ... and time swallows the memory of us. It is the light that colors us, illuminating purpose and path. But in the darkness, all meaning is forsaken. Light needs only light to be… for darkness is merely the absence of it. For we only know what darkness is, because of light. We know the light, we recognize it, the form of our shadows, A hint, We recognize it because we came from it, We were made to reflect it. Once, In a distant memory, half forgotten, a remnant in us, of a garden and a past, swept away. We came from it. Before we learned what darkness was. Before we fell, Before we walked, Before we breathed Before we were born… Once there was a time when it breathed in us, there was a time when we were painted with light. ***** Evolution and decay Poem by Steven Benjamin Walking through the infield, I hear the whistling trees The howling wind, and the rustling reeds. Listen to the silence. As the sun dawn’s, over the lonely racetrack Secretly. There was a time when championships were run here, Emotions too. The track is clear now, the crowd long silent, passed on even. I still hear their roar, or is it the engines An echo of memories, or imagined. Here, the earth moved once, The chequered flag was there, raised, waiting… breaths were held heroes were made and lives were claimed. With weeds glancing my shins I stride through the beautiful decay, A monument to past untamed passion. Abandoned, ever waiting Whispers of her past on the backs of leaves tumbling down the embankment over cracked tarmac. A past of danger, and of glory. She dared men. A different time, a different world. And in the minds of a brave few, long gone This patch of brokenness, was a frightening and daunting giant of chance. The world evolved around her. She remained, now Half claimed by time Waiting for death, or an odd few wanderers Willing to linger, and listen, to her soft whisper, that was once an old taunting song of vigor, once vibrant and wild, now just a cold, distant hum *** The original host of the 1950's French Grand Prix at Riems, the circuit is abandoned, but the main pit straight with Grand stand opposite, is part of a main road. Authorities have left it as a monument - tourists are free to roam and investigate, but asked to respect the place, hence no graffiti or demolition. I would’ve brought this post to you yesterday but it took me a while to actually look for the original poem in uh, shall we call it my ‘personal archives’. The thing is that the original version of this poem is one of the first I ever wrote – I was around 14 at the time and it was for a school project… so I wrote about something that I loved, but with a slight twist. The original had to do specifically with the first Formula 1 race in 1950, entitled ‘Evolution’, and I wrote it as though I was actually there, living the experience through the ‘memories’ and pictures of others – a fabricated memory so to speak. I went looking for it again because I was reminded of it after watching the film ‘Rush’. I reviewed it last year for ‘In The Kan’, and I recently bought the DVD… I highly recommend it. The feelings of nostalgia I felt prompted me to have another look at this piece. The changes I made (call it the 'decay' portion) were simply to reflect a lifelong desire of mine to visit some of the old racetracks of the world – something I imagine only aficionado’s dream about. You see, the old tracks weren’t governed by how many spectators could be seated in the stands (some didn’t even have stands) or which corners could best be captured on TV to cater for the massive audience and commercial rights… no, the best tracks were carved or laid out on unforgiving landscapes – a niche sport that was half banished to rural back countrysides, mountains and forests, well outside city limits (barring Monte Carlo of course, the first anomaly and part of what made it the jewel in the F1 crown, because it was and still is – 100 years on – the center stage filled with glitz, glamour and not to mention royalty - the first street circuit). Tracks like the old Nurburgring around the Medieval castle from where it got its name, the old Monza Oval, Spa Francorchamps – the original was a 15km monster track in a rough triangle connecting 3 towns, the original Osterreichring in the Styrian Mountains, the beautiful Charade Circuit in central France – and those are just the famous ones… there are so many that lay forgotten, overrun with weeds, half demolished, like forgotten cities of yore. Just like the Roman Colosseum and other such ruins, these tracks are ruins with less age but a folklore all their own. It says something about time – something like the automobile, that has captured the hearts of so many men, yet as it has evolved and outgrown eras and arenas, so we can see how fleeting it all is, just like the moment when one of those cars speeds past – it’s all recorded by time… one race after another, trying to beat the next man or just the clock, and that, as it turns out, is ultimately what always wins. --- Here's a short story I wrote with similar nostalgia "Black Velvet Ring"... Days of Glory [Image credits: silodrome.com, tumblr, pinterest, basementgeographer.com, wikipedia.org, retrorides.proboards.com] 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... 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. The problem with being a writer, is that we see things a little differently. It’s not as though we’re trying that hard, but the more you write, the more you look, and whether it be for inspiration for a story, or just where to fit ourselves into the picture (because sometimes we need to be chameleon-like), our odd angle on life, just happens . It’s a bit like those poetic lyrics by Kris Kristofferson: “He's a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction (- a little random I know, but I’ve really been looking for moment to use those lines, and FYI, you don't have to be a writer to see the world in a different light) Truth is, we’re always looking for an avenue to explore. Sometimes it doesn’t feel natural, (or foreboding even) and usually that’s exactly what persuades us to take that route. We live in our heads, conjuring worlds and characters, and sometimes, or most times, it can get quite cluttered… so a little downtime is always in order. A far as strolls on the beachfront goes, well, it is kind of clichéd, but it only became so because it works, otherwise, there’s the mountain and Cliff side hike, for some real fresh air. Keeping with mountains, there’s real value to it you know… The clean air begins to invigorate you as you fill your lungs, then you start to climb and your muscles really start to work, forcing you to suck even more oxygen. Then you get higher and the oxygen levels decrease and your body starts to burn more energy to compensate. And the reality is, you haven’t even gone that far yet – its only just begun. That feeling you’re feeling; your muscles, your lungs, quickening breath and all… that is the feeling of literally being, more alive! Seriously though, you literally ARE using more of your body - awakening many particles and molecules that were sleeping. And as luck would have it, being alive kind of helps to tell better stories too, that’s generally how these things work. Anyway, on this recent trip, I may not have learned anything especially new (or gone on a hike), but certain things were clarified a bit more, with regard to my life as well as my storytelling… Most times it’s not about what or how much you know, but rather the way in which you apply the knowledge already amassed, and asking yourself the right – difficult to answer – questions. Both obviously and primarily apply to your life, and that will automatically filter into your work. Its all there or in front of your face, we just need (as is so often the case) to be reminded how to use it, or illustrate it, like the way a photographer uses light, or a master-chef brings certain flavors to the fore . Have a great weekend! Ciao - All pics by me... location: Durban promenade, with the World Cup Stadium arch featuring in the last two images. It was a little breezy, but not too chilly.- |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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