| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/10/2007 7:52:24 PM | | OH I missed your B'Day! Glad it was happy then, and I will wish you a blessed year, of fun and passion, poetry and bliss. Like you make here on the pond! | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/10/2007 8:02:39 PM | Thanks Woobs and Ravin...it's been a real blast. Gonna share what Mr. Poetry himself said standing on the most north western tip of Washington State on a cliff overlooking the majestic Pacific Ocean....
"Baby, I can understand sunsets and all that crap but can't we just ..." LMAO
That's my Mary!!!!!!! | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/10/2007 8:15:44 PM | | Now don't you guys fall for this...no not at all...it's pure woman propaganda...how conveniently she leaves off the part how I coaxed a pod of whales out of the marine depths, along with several eagles out of the sky and three bears from the forest...and together we sang out a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday in Spanish as the sun changed through a veritable kaleidoscope of smiles...I tell you its no walk in the park trying to get these bears to sing in Italian. | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/13/2007 11:25:03 PM | I have to confess Wooby...
not only did he charm the whales and eagles and bears into a Lorca serenade, he gathered up a bouquet of starlight and brightened my life.
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/15/2007 1:02:12 AM | Five Nights
My photographic memory
records time yet pales
in the wonder of the collision.
Too swift the moon phases.
In my heart
I swell the moments
like the pregnant belly
of an ocean birthing a wave.
A fat tire tango in blue
with you. | |
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| Sidebar - because Surrealists are Realists in disguise
Posted: 11/17/2007 12:59:58 AM | What Is A Woman…….Leonora Carrington
Fifty three years ago I was born a female human animal. This, I was told, meant that I was a “Woman”.
But I never knew what they meant.
Fall in love with a man and you will see….I fell (several times), but saw not.
Give birth and you will see...I gave birth and did not know, who am I? Am I? Who?
Am I that which observes or that which observes me?
I am that I am God the Father told Moses on the Mountain. This means nothing to me. I am may have been a dishonest invention meaning multitude.
Je pense donc je suis [I think, therefore I am], but why? Some kind of pretension of Monsieur Descartes?
If I am my thoughts, then I could be anything from chicken soup to a pair of scissors, a crocodile, a corpse, a leopard or a pint of beer.
If I am my feelings, then I am love, hate, irritation, boredom, happiness, pride, humility, pain, pleasure, and so on and so forth.
If I am my body, then I am a foetus to a middle aged woman changing every second..
If there is a true individual identity, I would like to find it, because like truth on discovery it has already gone.
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(BM...love you for always encouraging me to be me) | |
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| Sidebar - because Surrealists are Realists in disguise
Posted: 11/17/2007 5:57:15 AM | sofia....
we are the memories we leave in the minds of others.....for internal realization can never justify the presence of ourselves...the only truth we have is that which we leave with others...memories and emotions....to touch the soul of another is to reiterate our own presence..... | |
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| Sidebar - because Surrealists are Realists in disguise
Posted: 11/17/2007 7:40:55 AM | | Hi Shadow. Perhaps I should clarify...I did not write that piece. I am reading an anthology of women surrealist painters and that was written by Leonora Carrington. I posted it because I thought it was powerful statement regarding her state of mind and art. I don't disagree with your philosophy regarding "self" realization. Thanks for stopping by! | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/17/2007 10:51:17 AM |
A painter's eye with a poet's voice. Boy, oh, boy, what a combo!
got that right, woob.
and on that note of inspiration. *dips into that try jar...
be back...
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/17/2007 11:47:52 AM | To Not Say?
Today, I should lend my eyes to my hands
To let go of the morrows
Ignore the clichés
And simply try
To gaze into the myth
Some, more fortunate
With architectural eyes
Fly through needles that birth
Multitudes of hues
I need to touch the hues
Feel the leaves
And not resist the swells
Of a good climb
Yet the price
The price of balance
The price the eyes
Struggle to frame
Shape themselves like buildings
And windows
Like a sky that whispers
“There is no end” | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/17/2007 12:09:19 PM | As I shut the door
My voice no longer needed becomes a void
The day closes her colours
Into black obscure shapes of darkness
The world is gone
I have willed it away
Hiding in the emptiness of blindness
And dreams
Burning into a transparent mass
Of transient street noises
One light flickers sulfur upon wick
Candles moistening their lips
Blessed darkness
The blind see through their fingers
Unconscious thought expanding touch
Into a tactile paradise
Where lovers wait
To paint their hearts
On an empty page. | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/17/2007 12:20:50 PM | I need to touch the hues
Feel the leaves
And not resist the swells
Of a good climb
This isn't too shabby Om and methinks you are on a roll yourself *grin* Game of scrabble or chess? | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/17/2007 12:43:34 PM | Om my friend...I do believe this is one of your very finest. I would quote box but I can't decide which line or stanza I like best. Each leads straight to the next. This was not a "try", this is a symphony. Thank you for posting it here!
And Autumn...I wish I had written this! One of your best poems too I think! (ps...love your new pics!!!)
One light flickers sulfur upon wick
Candles moistening their lips
Blessed darkness
The blind see through their fingers | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/17/2007 6:22:16 PM | this is still a work in progress.....
arc eye
you are dangerously beautiful
like knife edges
like broken shards of glass
like stretched wires
that sing with tension
a blinding smile
like sparks from
a too bright fire
desperately happy
discordant laughter
burning the candle
at both ends
blazing comet
streaking through
mother's milk
LS 11/17/07 | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/17/2007 6:46:50 PM | | Brizo....you are a poet. I don't really know what more to write other than...you are a beautiful poet (inside and out) and, I love when you hang your masterpieces here. THANK YOU! | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/17/2007 6:48:05 PM | A Waltz With Mary
You are not black.
At least not black in the way
that some fear the dark.
You are the blue black
of an orchestra pit
instruments floating,
the underscore
Blue black as
the split second the sun
infiltrates the night
dawning
Blue black like
the fine lace of my bustier
revealing without exposing
charred like Creole spice
Dark blue as
the Danube that flows
through the Black Forest
and the rivers of my heart | |
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| Blue Shirt Diaries (for Maria Negra)
Posted: 11/22/2007 1:57:47 PM | OK Babe you'll have to teach me how to waltz but I'll do it if I have to but couldn't we just....
Oh well better blue-black than black & blue
Here's the poem you requested. I expanded the references. | |
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| Poem Of Four Clocks
Posted: 11/22/2007 1:58:31 PM | I. Clock Of Sadness & Anger
Mathematics
Little southern heart
Sojourn clock
And a ruined face
You touched me bittersweet
Threshold of white across winter’s forbearance
A gloved hand gliding the wounded air
Accompanying black leather
A breath of uniforms
Like you I’ve grown so weary of
All these weeping saints
Watching cross signs genuflected
Through the stained glass forest
I grow two independent hands
One yields
One flies
I am telling you my love
I refuse and deny this city, which exists
Sleeping under invisible suns
This temporary city with its lucrative commissaries
And its dull head flat as medieval maps
This city of indigent coughing
That coughs itself up
Barely lifting its shaggy shadowed head
Consumptive
In doorways and rotted porch steps
In flophouse gray shadows and
Daily porno neon gruel
The decaying suns
I am not here
Not in this place
Where the choir sings with a single voice
Dead with dead air and dead notes
Rolling out of one throat and hollow bones
All the moments rigged
Inverted vortices built of boot heels
Cinders / the dark and sour rain
This endurance
Of boredom and sterile brick
Of laws
Creeping like vines of pissing dogs
This city where I lost myself
In a silence
Strung out like a rope of green light
Where I came to myself
Through a bright new theory of darkness
I am not here
II. Clock Of Your Duende
On an island of northern streets
There is everywhere
The loneliness of a young girl
And a woman’s body
So many things
The dawn oscine with
Ten-thousand Garcia Lorcas to smile
Upon the pillared seasons
I am floating now
Upward within a clock of future skies
Through rains
The ancient madrigals and stones of historic water
And the stones
Of solitude
And of silhouette
Beneath blonde fields of summer wheat
Tomorrow is naked…
Beneath the thick-bedded suns
This is the poem that loves you
In the time that stands outside of time
Where the wind continues the sea
And the sea continues the wind
System of twinned topaz & amber light
Proportion Of Air / Sanctuary
My voice empties into the river that retrieves me
And so I dream of you as I dream of
Forever-obsessed skies
Where your bedroom has no ceiling
Only blue forests of blue
Where your body flies open
Releasing blue lonely girls
Into the night-soaked eagle
System of double suns & double moons
The hibiscus glows red within the lost centuries
In the time it takes to rebuild a horse
There is a wind across the high trees
This is the time of eternity
This is the right now
The set aside place
Forever
Listening
To the deep song
That covers your body
With a hymn of yellow loveliness
With flowers pollinated in the scent of fables
Above the expanse of quilted earth
I am made calm
Made holy
From the feathers
Of the last birds of dawn
All of love continues itself
In the sacred wood, in the topaz systems
All of love asks the simplest prayers
What full kiss…what full mouth awaits us my love?
III. Clock Of Rains
From a house of clouds
From scarlet skies to bluing night
Down to a sea of songs
The Seattle rain was gentle
Gentle is the only way to say it
On the streets I sensed the sound
The watery spaces that held the
Shadows and forms of cetaceans
Now absent still present
In the blue-black faith of
Seasons the rain always like a dream
Of wet powdered light
We walked through it
Untouched only touched
By an infinitude
Pocketed as five days
Which began with my long walking
Through Sea-Tac halls
My eyes of salmon swimming back
On the first night I danced with you
Outside the Frontier Room
Santana Samba Pa Ti
"We stood before it and began to freeze inside from the exertion. We questioned the painting, berated it, made love to it, prayed to it: We called it mother, called it whore and slut, called it our beloved, called it Abraxas..." [1]
And here
In this part of the poem
I warn you
I could build you a lie
Could tell you of how as we danced
I thought of those lines of Hesse
But I was only receiving
The music and the street
The words only occurring now as
I build you the poem
Writing…
“On the first night I danced with…”
You…knowing
How I hate to dance in poems
How I loved
Dancing with you without language
When the rain was as gentle as
Samba Pa Ti
Now my words go laughing
Across the street
Where we were as fancy as flying fish
The silver stores were closed
The sterling was on the street
And the street was
Everywhere
A second day carnival
Laid out pure among cold fruit and
Silver slabs of salmon
Headless
I became in promised pink
In Pike’s Market
In labyrinth
Flying among colored fish / colored scarves
The fifty-cent fortunetellers
Took a buck
Below us in the hallways
Chinese music
Laced the dampness and sea salt
Its full airs hypnotic
Harboring strange & beautiful ghosts
There we wandered ourselves to another street
Its people rivered along the un-gray shores
All day long
The sun walked in shadows behind
A flightless flight of cranes towering metallic legs
And the street placed a piano player on a corner
Hair bible daddy white
We watched it all, listened
And bravo-ed with the construction workers
As they called down the scaffold
Canon in D
Minor if you please
Two pigeons pressed upon us
A begging purple
Iridescent
Two cops only two
Spoke gently in the gentle rain
To the homeless of William James
“…man must die to an unreal life
before he can be born into the real life…” [2]
Baby, I tell you
“Twice-born”
I’ve always been
IV. Clock Of Conspiracies
Our journey has
No external witness
The loamy earth knows our feet
And does not care
In the morning you want to worry
Saying we’ll be late for the sea
Though the tides already have come
We board the ferry to Bainbridge Island
The ATM hands you an extra twenty
And I’m thinking if Bobby Long [3]
Had ever needed to leave the south
He might have been happy here
Drinking with natives like
The elderly Puyallup couple
Whose portrait on the ferry cabin wall
Says Burnt Face Charley [4]
His wife hooks her arm through his
Her eyes looking camera left
His one good eye looking down
Solidly refusing the camera’s larceny
A pair of little dolls
Conspiracy circa 1900
I say
I love his name
And you say
I doubt he loves the way he got it
By the forward window
Two young boys
They are brothers trading punches…
Outside in the bow wind
A prepubescent girl stretches out her arms
Sails her body’s kite like a girl-Christ in the sun
In two hours we’ll be in Port Angeles
Honking at the STOP WAR signs of vets
Where I’ll be thinking
How strange and beautifully alien
This place where everything
Seems as it should / your world is wonderful…
…A heart of old songs and something new…
State Road 112 loses to 101
These are the hours of mountains
Stacked in evergreen
They drop to their knees
Before black glass
Lake of cold watered depths and light
Sun-greening down the lengths of submerged trees
Center of gravity
These are the first and second moments of ellipsis:
…A circling shade
…The opening air
By the coast again on 112
There are shadows around us
The Strait of Juan de Fuca
Almost breaks you down when you tell me
About flying crows…
One day…
We’ll settle that score on the border
The Makan Nation at the end of the road
Keeps the voice of the sea forever
Never rising or falling
There’s a silence embedded in the low roaring waves
But you have to listen for it
You only hear it later as you come up for air
Separating yourself on the loamy earth
Where are the birds I wonder?
And wonder other things
Perhaps
The way the weather was in 1897
On the day Jack London’s ship
Sailed off these shores
Tomorrow you are getting us lost
All the way down to Bremerton
We move through the mountains with
Lennon’s voice and a bird in flight
Singing
Hey… you’ve got to hide your love away…
I want to tell you Baby…I’ve been lost in that song for years
But you already know…
On the return ferry
The rain comes back with seagulls
The windshield films up
The waves outside / inside
I watch your singular eyes
Your fingers turn the tide
The truth is the moment is not poetic
As the blush of a rose [5]
The waves outside
It’s your eyes and mouth
The waves across you
This is the moment
You come down pure
Rain & thunder
Blue shirt woman
No rose blush / Conspiracy circa 2007
[1] Herman Hesse Demian
[2] William James The Varieties Of Religious Experience
[3] A Love Song For Bobby Long (film based on the novel Off Magazine Street by Ronald Everett Capps)
[4] Washington State Historical Society Digital Collections - to see Burnt Face Charley go to:
http://digitum.washingtonhistory.org/cdm4/browse.php?CISOROOT=%2Findian
[5] Sophia Risen Blue Shirt | |
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| Poem Of Four Clocks
Posted: 11/24/2007 7:13:31 PM | | Baby...you choose the dance. I'm just happy in your arms. Thank you for posting Four Clocks here.......... | |
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| Fingerpainting (Blue Shirt)
Posted: 11/24/2007 7:14:06 PM | Indigo
Today I saw a frightened bird
furiously strum the air
tremolo totem offerings
to an angry Overlord Sun
banished
Once absolute, now hung
like signerie wallpaper
of monkey moons
and harlequin stars fading
in a forgotten Versailles
Be still little one. Look.
This sapphire sun soft lit,
warm as a cashmere feathered skin
never sets. Like you and I,
the newborn moon and stars
alive in his infinite dawn. | |
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| Fingerpainting (Blue Shirt)
Posted: 11/24/2007 8:39:05 PM | Be still little one. Look.
I have always thought a person could be defined by what they write...or the thought behind what they try to convey...The depth of that statement, IMHO, is profound...
Pure writes here ~L~.....and BM, wow, you leave little question.....tho wasn't it you that said something about love?.....ya I know....*grins.
Edit: Well said BM, I wish you both the very best, tho I see you have found it....it is a gift that we are here to witness the words that bind it closer.... | |
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| Fingerpainting (Blue Shirt)
Posted: 11/24/2007 8:57:53 PM | | Well Truth if I leave little question it's because I'm sure....I love her and I love her poetry, her paintings, and a thousand other things... | |
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