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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Story of remoteness, 8. Voice in the Distance Poem by David Martinez Romero I always return from the far land to where I always head for. And each time, my hands, delicately hardened by time, quiver just with the presence of the sparse memory of a past that never was, that only happened because we dreamed, and inside our dreams the lies also disappear, already lost the right to cling onto what we know is not true. That’s why I speak from remoteness, because lying down here, beside you, I prefer to remain in silence, I choose not to take the floor, but your hands in mine. I choose to die in the quietness and to be reborn in the sense of touch, into the inhospitable region of the very lamenting creatures which sinuously crawl into the chrysalis, the future, the enormous wall, made of sky and music, that descends over the sea and generates horizons, frontiers, distances. The remoteness amongst one and another man: behold the Eternity. Read more at David Martinez Romero's blogspot... "I brought you another poem by David Martinez Romero, included here because despite its humble length, he and I did wrestle a bit with it, such that it may have taken on new or added meaning in the translation from Spanish to English. But, such is the nature of poetry and writing, when even the poet himself sees that his creation may speak its own language. Personally, I see it as quite a vague piece, that communicates the same message as reflected in the title, because it feels wispy, faint and subtle, even in the actions, which are sleight; the voice, a voice, the echoes of small gestures. Ultimately, I also needed something a little lighter compared to heavy content I've shared recently, so in effect it feels rather relevant that the poem communicates a soft message of purity, something which one needs to remember, especially in these chaotic times..." [Image credits: devpolicy.org, photosof.org, dejavouz.files.wordpress.org, deviantart.net, media.massal.net] 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. |
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