Fallow Lands

Hands

Hands. (Photo credit: Mrs Logic)

Behold the salted land of plenty,

raped and pillaged by its own devoted grace

now stalked by storied banshee

no lines by which to draw a brace.

 

What bounty once divined,

what passion might have lain

now blinded and maligned

before the dusty plow could feign.

 

We are cracked

callow and divinely sallow—

yes, youth has lived to see the fated act:

these writers’ hands grown fallow.

(And for an update on why this crazy writer’s life has been crazy this past week, and the blogging sporadic, see my lively life update–complete with a new review of The Hollow March!)

Life’s Key: Passion

“The passions are like fire, useful in a thousand ways and dangerous only in one: through their excess.”
~Christian Nestell Bovee

Passion–let it mark the secret place within your soul. Let it form the guiding light of life, and certainly, of creativity–for the passionless life and passionless creativity both yield the same result: a flaccid, unfulfilled existence of coast and drift, without fulfillment and without the unique character that brings worth into all things.

Will our passion lead us astray? Certainly. So do all things untempered, all things blindly followed. It does not make it any less necessary to the complete life.

Ask yourself: why do you do what you do? Many aspects of our lives are surrendered to simpler reasons, nevertheless made important and viable by the press of stark reality: for money, for food, for respect…We cannot choose to battle for all things, but that makes the battles we can fight all the more important. There should be at least one thing you truly love to do–that you truly take pleasure in. Harness that passion, let it guide your hand, and do it for that joy.

My passion is writing. All too often, it is the only thing that sets me free. What is yours?

“Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark.” 
~Henri-Frédéric Amiel

They called us children once

They called us children once.

Before eyes were windows

dappled in our fogged night,

dawn proud; unknowing

shadowed play between locked fingers.

They called us children once.

There came silence to the cries

when our skin learned its shape,

the mewling crescendo of fingertips

drumming our answer in the twilit backseat.

 

They called us children once.

Until we danced.

Warning: Winter Ahead. Image by Chris Galford.

* I realize in recent days I’ve not been the most prolific of bloggers. No Inside Idasia. No crafty banter. A brief smattering of poems, a Christmas photo, and little else. Well, I just wanted to let you know that will be changing with the new year. I’ve been out of town and out of state, and between family, friends, and a distinct interest in a little break, I’ve been having myself a pretty good vanishing act. Tomorrow I return to Colorado, however, and Monday things should resume their usual pace.

But with that, I wish you all a happy New Year! The old was crazy enough here – between finally publishing, between the move out of state, between all the kind support and friendly community you all have provided…I think the new will be hard-pressed to top it, honestly, but I wouldn’t mind a good surprise. I hope it has been the same for all of you, and thank you simply for taking the time to swing by my humble little corner of the blogosphere. It has meant the world!

Fettered Rise

Image by © Chris Galford.

Darkness

Begets salvation.

Closed eyes embrace

Wide-spaced longing,

Riveted in fire like

Old angels lacquered

With the doubt—

The weight,

They will come to call it,

It lies heavy on the backs

That would toil clouds

To submission.

Naked passions

Circumvent the sense of it,

Armani dreams, Gucci heart

Wing-tipped longing stands

Fleshy and forgotten.

Icarus saw this

Falling.

* My latest work for One Shoot Sunday. Based on the images I provided this week when I graffiti’d One Stop. Yes, that’s right – my travels around Lansing have yielded a great deal of graffiti photos, and this week we decided to plaster this little offering of rebel-art up for all you fellow poets to pour over. So have a look, see what catches your fancy, and enjoy!

Sundress Summers

Barefoot,

Sundress summers

Bloomed in yellow visions

With the milky drink of your lips—

Child love.

My latest submission for the gathering that is One Shot Wednesday. Returning this week to a style that’s been an old favorite of mine – the cinquain – for the purposes of capturing that summer swell. Lord knows we’ve had the weather for it here.

Transmission: Life

Time for another quote of the week, and this time it’s a long one, boys and girls, but a good one. The quote comes from one D.H. Lawrence, and it’s got all the things people quirk an eyebrow for these days: life, work, sex…

D.H. Lawrence, image care of Wikimedia Commons.

As we live, we are transmitters of life.
And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow
through us.

That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards,
Sexless people’ transmit nothing.

And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work,
life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready
and we ripple with life through the days.
Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a
man a stool,
if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding
good is the stool,
content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her,
content is the man.

Give, and it shall be given unto you
is still the truth about life.
But giving life is not so easy.
It doesn’t mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting
the living dead eat you up.
It means kindling the life-quality where it was not,
even if it’s only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.

~We Are Transmitters by D. H. Lawrence

World Poetry, Part Four

For day four’s favorite poetry selection, I give you British poet Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress:”

Andrew Marvell, care of Wikimedia Commons.

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

~Andrew Marvell