Monday, 5 December 2011
The Starred Coverlet
A difficult achievement for true lovers
Is to lie mute, without embrace or kiss,
Without a rustle or a sigh,
Basking in the other's glory.
Is to lie mute, without embrace or kiss,
Without a rustle or a sigh,
Basking in the other's glory.
Polarities
Sometimes she is like sherry, like the sun through a vessel of glass,
Like light through an oriel window in a room of yellow wood;
Sometimes she is the colour of lions, of sand in the fire of noon,
Sometimes as bruised with shadows as the afternoon.
Like light through an oriel window in a room of yellow wood;
Sometimes she is the colour of lions, of sand in the fire of noon,
Sometimes as bruised with shadows as the afternoon.
Nice Poerty About LOve
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
- e.e. cummings
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
- e.e. cummings
night song
late at night
when the fire in my belly
becomes unbearable
i invite you
into that secret space
where essence of desire
is distilled into brilliant form
of taste and touch
and fluid layers
and currents of lust
vibrating
pulsating
in rhythmic tides
when the fire in my belly
becomes unbearable
i invite you
into that secret space
where essence of desire
is distilled into brilliant form
of taste and touch
and fluid layers
and currents of lust
vibrating
pulsating
in rhythmic tides
The Best Love Poems
The great love poets such as e.e. cummings know how to challenge and delight us with the psychological insight, sorrow, joy and overall brilliance in their love poetry, yet the best love poems' splendour is hidden in their exquisite simplicity. Consider this:
The Biology of Infatuation
As much as we'd like to believe that love is a matter of the heart, it's in fact very much a matter of the brain.
In a report that was published late in 2010, The Neuroimaging of Love, some interesting facts were noted:
* You can fall in love in one-fifth of a second;
* As you fall in love, 12 areas of the brain work together to form a biochemical torrent that sweeps you away in euphoria-inducing chemicals, including dopamine, oxytocin, adrenalin and aldosterone;
* Falling in love activates similar areas of the brain to cocaine and elicits the same euphoric feelings;
In a report that was published late in 2010, The Neuroimaging of Love, some interesting facts were noted:
* You can fall in love in one-fifth of a second;
* As you fall in love, 12 areas of the brain work together to form a biochemical torrent that sweeps you away in euphoria-inducing chemicals, including dopamine, oxytocin, adrenalin and aldosterone;
* Falling in love activates similar areas of the brain to cocaine and elicits the same euphoric feelings;
10 Things Writers Can Learn from a Brick
All those “list” posts for writers annoy me. Especially the ones I’ve written. Most especially, this one:
1. A brick is skilled at staying on task. Put one in front of a computer, it will sit there for hours.
2. A brick doesn’t jump in front of a truck when it gets a rejection letter.
3. A brick understands the importance of structure.
1. A brick is skilled at staying on task. Put one in front of a computer, it will sit there for hours.
2. A brick doesn’t jump in front of a truck when it gets a rejection letter.
3. A brick understands the importance of structure.
A Life it`s own
It begins as an idea in your head.
Wait, back up. That’s not entirely accurate. It starts long before that.
It begins as a childhood daydream, as a parade of clouds, as a balance-beam walk along a railroad track. It begins with rock-skipping, dirt-digging, butterfly-following.
It begins in beautiful words and hard words. In complaint and compliance. In monsters hiding under the bed. In hiding under the bed from monsters.
It begins in the infinite space after the yes and before the kiss. In the thrill of discovery, the fear of begin discovered. The uncertainty of one moment and the certainty of another.
It begins five minutes or two decades ago, when all it means is what it is.
And then in a flash it becomes something else. It becomes an idea for a story.
Stories have roots and tendrils in our experiences, our memories, our histories, our waking and sleeping dreams. Everything – the good the bad the great the sad the dangerous the stupid the ugly the learned the imagined – is seed or sapling for a writer.
When it becomes an idea in your head, you have a choice: ignore it or embrace the arduous thrill of writing it down.
In your head, the story has a shape, a color, and perhaps not much more. But once you begin to write, the words the story gives you (and the ones it withholds) change that shape, that color.
Somewhere between the idea and the page, a good story begins to assert itself. It declares with suggestion or silence that it’s not just about your brilliance and your typing fingers. The maturation of a story happens in concert with the chorus of real-life experiences and relationships that shaped you. To ignore the wisdom of the chorus is to risk telling lies that no one will believe.
So you write and rewrite until the story tells you to stop. Eventually, you add “final draft” to the file name, but that’s not entirely accurate. Because the moment you give a story away, it changes again. The reader’s chorus pulls it like taffy, reshaping it a little or a lot. Your true final draft is co-authored by the reader.
Yes, it’s still your story. You captured it after it captured you. You wrote it down. But it’s bigger than you. It always was.
Good stories have a life of their own. There is curious comfort in this.
And probably good reason to be terrified.
Wait, back up. That’s not entirely accurate. It starts long before that.
It begins as a childhood daydream, as a parade of clouds, as a balance-beam walk along a railroad track. It begins with rock-skipping, dirt-digging, butterfly-following.
It begins in beautiful words and hard words. In complaint and compliance. In monsters hiding under the bed. In hiding under the bed from monsters.
It begins in the infinite space after the yes and before the kiss. In the thrill of discovery, the fear of begin discovered. The uncertainty of one moment and the certainty of another.
It begins five minutes or two decades ago, when all it means is what it is.
And then in a flash it becomes something else. It becomes an idea for a story.
Stories have roots and tendrils in our experiences, our memories, our histories, our waking and sleeping dreams. Everything – the good the bad the great the sad the dangerous the stupid the ugly the learned the imagined – is seed or sapling for a writer.
When it becomes an idea in your head, you have a choice: ignore it or embrace the arduous thrill of writing it down.
In your head, the story has a shape, a color, and perhaps not much more. But once you begin to write, the words the story gives you (and the ones it withholds) change that shape, that color.
Somewhere between the idea and the page, a good story begins to assert itself. It declares with suggestion or silence that it’s not just about your brilliance and your typing fingers. The maturation of a story happens in concert with the chorus of real-life experiences and relationships that shaped you. To ignore the wisdom of the chorus is to risk telling lies that no one will believe.
So you write and rewrite until the story tells you to stop. Eventually, you add “final draft” to the file name, but that’s not entirely accurate. Because the moment you give a story away, it changes again. The reader’s chorus pulls it like taffy, reshaping it a little or a lot. Your true final draft is co-authored by the reader.
Yes, it’s still your story. You captured it after it captured you. You wrote it down. But it’s bigger than you. It always was.
Good stories have a life of their own. There is curious comfort in this.
And probably good reason to be terrified.
The Room in the Elephant.
It lies on the kitchen table like a tipped tombstone, this year of late nights and early mornings, of exhilaration and frustration, of too much coffee and too few showers. The Froot Loops box is prostrate, casualty of another rushed breakfast.
The kids are out the door. The dog is bark-begging back in. The spouse is gridlocked, Van Halen blasting him into the past if only for one more exit. His parting word to you, “finally.”
You repeat the word in whisper even though you know better. This is just another beginning.
But it’s done. Your first novel. Or your tenth. Drafted, redrafted, written and re-written.
You run your finger across the title, printed in 16 point Times New Roman.
The Room in the Elephant.
The kids are out the door. The dog is bark-begging back in. The spouse is gridlocked, Van Halen blasting him into the past if only for one more exit. His parting word to you, “finally.”
You repeat the word in whisper even though you know better. This is just another beginning.
But it’s done. Your first novel. Or your tenth. Drafted, redrafted, written and re-written.
You run your finger across the title, printed in 16 point Times New Roman.
The Room in the Elephant.
Isolophobia(Fear of Being Alone) -
The Fear involved in the Haunted House Scenario, such as Alien(the classic Haunted House in Space)or the classic story 
of The House on Haunted Hill is derived from the fact that we are communal animals, we fear being seperated from those of our own kind, being out of contact with our local support system. Several other phobias related to Isolophobia include, Taphephobia(Being Buried Alive – Buried Alive), Agoraphobia(Open Spaces – Wolf Creek, Texas Chainsaw Massacre), Spacephobia(Outer Space), Claustrophobia(Confined Spaces).
Hydrophobia & Ichthyophobia(Fear of Water & Fear of Fish) -
of The House on Haunted Hill is derived from the fact that we are communal animals, we fear being seperated from those of our own kind, being out of contact with our local support system. Several other phobias related to Isolophobia include, Taphephobia(Being Buried Alive – Buried Alive), Agoraphobia(Open Spaces – Wolf Creek, Texas Chainsaw Massacre), Spacephobia(Outer Space), Claustrophobia(Confined Spaces).Hydrophobia & Ichthyophobia(Fear of Water & Fear of Fish) -
A moment in Valencia
In homage to Henri Cartier-Bresson, my greatest hero of photography, I try to take photos showing the fortuitous blending of human activities into what seems to be a “decisive moment.” (I of course don’t pretend to approach Cartier-Bresson’s skill, and, unlike his, most of my “moments” are accidents.)
I did one of these photos in St. Petersburg, and here’s one I took two weeks ago in Valencia, Spain (click to enlarge):
I did one of these photos in St. Petersburg, and here’s one I took two weeks ago in Valencia, Spain (click to enlarge):
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