A poem by Maya Angelou
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.
--
Felt like sharing the Maya Angelou poem that was read during the ceremony at my wedding some weeks back :) Despite being immensely tired today, I am so very thankful to be alive and to know love.
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Belated Newsflash: April is National Poetry Month
This month has been incredibly taxing (no pun intended) on our household. We are a little over a month away from our wedding date. My partner is working on finding a new career path. I am less than one month away from being done with graduate school classes. I am starting another "figuring out my life" chapter in my story...will it ever really end? Needless to say, on top of all other daily challenges, there has been a bit of stress happening here.
Recently I have visited my blog wanting to say something or meaning to say something but then feeling like I had nothing to say that could be put into a neat, compact, little motivational/genuine post. Truthfully, lately I have felt a bit without significant purpose in the blogosphere which is most definitely a reflection of how I find myself feeling in "real life".
However, it's been long enough, and I am tired of wandering in thought and not writing something down. So I came on here to write about the first idea that came to mind, and my intial thought is about poetry.
So. Poetry. Do you read it? It's okay to be honest and admit that you don't pay much attention to poetry. I know that I don't. It's also okay to not like poetry. At first I really didn't like poetry much at all.
Honestly, why I'm thinking about poetry is because April is National Poetry Month--I found out on Twitter. So, see, Twitter's not that bad.
Since I heard about it, I have visited various websites devoted to poetry and began my own poetry anthology online. These acts are more than I've ever done for poetry on my own behalf, my whole life.
However, while browsing these sites, I realized that I do not hold many poems near and dear to my heart. And I wondered why. I recognized too, that spoken word outside of musical lyrics seems to be less and less apparent and accessible today. With all the forms of social media that require a minimal set of characters and often no audio-aspect, I can see how poetry seems to be dying.
I also noted that the poetry that I was introduced to as an English major was often poetry that did not always speak to my story or resonate with me. Or I couldn't understand it. Some of that reasoning may lie in the fact that much of the poets I studied were a bunch of really old, dead, white guys. I'm not sure, it's just a guess.
In addition, I admit that I also have felt like the poetry I knew belonged to the upper-class--to those people that frequent theatre and enjoy reciting old poems in Middle-English or telling Shakespearean inside jokes. To this point, just last month I attended a poetry reading happening a mile away from my home in a supper club joint and found that the people there were all white-haired, white people, talking about white problems. Then I thought about the people who show up at the local bar for the weekly, open-mic, spoken word sessions. I wondered where is the space/place where these two crowds overlap/intersect, and I wondered what is poetry, anyway?
I came to the thought that regardless of who it comes from (white dead guy or otherwise), all great poems offer great wisdom for people today and also allow people to express themselves in ways that cannot be heard without the lyrical fusion of one's authentic voice mixed with playfulness. With that said I am now on a hunt for poems that use language and topics that speak to me. I am also back to writing poetry. It's not easy, but it's fun.
In honor of National Poetry Month, I'd like to share with you a recent poem that I became aquainted with, thanks to my future-sister-in-law, Anne. She is always reading poetry up North and around town and the other day she posted a lovely poem online that touched me. It's a simple poem about rain, which I relate to as I have been reflecting on Earth day and watching the Spring raindrops fall in Minnesota.
Capturing the Sound of Rain by Raymond A. Foss
Listening to the timpani
the rhythm of the rain
the rap, the tap,
...the ratta-tat-tat,
the staccato of the drumming
on the roof of the van
The storm raging ‘round us
in the stillness of the parking lot
trying to drum to the beat
on laps and the steering wheel
keeping time with the chaos
the randomness of the clatter
Too few drummers for the task
capturing the sound of rain
Also, if you are still reading you get the bonus of reading a poem I wrote two years ago--the last poem I wrote. It was inspired by love as well as a conversation I had with some friends about how anybody can be an artist.
A poem about love by Yours Truly
Tired minds and worried brows
Will make their mark,
Forget to sow
Those hopes, and dreams, and fears
We can’t remember.
Locked pinkies under the sheets,
Hot legs touched by cooling feets,
I rest my head against your furless shoulder.
Love awakens our holy hearts,
Puts to rest those broken parts;
Heals some memories at the start
Within us, stirring ‘til morning.
At the bright sun, the cock then cries,
“Love is patient, love is kind,”
creating for us, in us, those blind—
Blind-spots.
Hiding all our fears and faults,
Protecting shields from reckless thoughts.
Light rays shine dismantling waves
And every falsehood melts away…
Liquids dissipating
Into thick, heavy air—
The ending nightmare
Bobs somewhere
In atmosphere-
Now plainly forgotten.
But here in bed, still, I lay.
Caressing your calm,
Sleeping arm.
My very core, it plays
Pretty picture shows
They enter in, then out
My soul.
Want to start your own poetry notebook? Check out Poets.org.
Recently I have visited my blog wanting to say something or meaning to say something but then feeling like I had nothing to say that could be put into a neat, compact, little motivational/genuine post. Truthfully, lately I have felt a bit without significant purpose in the blogosphere which is most definitely a reflection of how I find myself feeling in "real life".
However, it's been long enough, and I am tired of wandering in thought and not writing something down. So I came on here to write about the first idea that came to mind, and my intial thought is about poetry.
So. Poetry. Do you read it? It's okay to be honest and admit that you don't pay much attention to poetry. I know that I don't. It's also okay to not like poetry. At first I really didn't like poetry much at all.
Honestly, why I'm thinking about poetry is because April is National Poetry Month--I found out on Twitter. So, see, Twitter's not that bad.
Since I heard about it, I have visited various websites devoted to poetry and began my own poetry anthology online. These acts are more than I've ever done for poetry on my own behalf, my whole life.
However, while browsing these sites, I realized that I do not hold many poems near and dear to my heart. And I wondered why. I recognized too, that spoken word outside of musical lyrics seems to be less and less apparent and accessible today. With all the forms of social media that require a minimal set of characters and often no audio-aspect, I can see how poetry seems to be dying.
I also noted that the poetry that I was introduced to as an English major was often poetry that did not always speak to my story or resonate with me. Or I couldn't understand it. Some of that reasoning may lie in the fact that much of the poets I studied were a bunch of really old, dead, white guys. I'm not sure, it's just a guess.
In addition, I admit that I also have felt like the poetry I knew belonged to the upper-class--to those people that frequent theatre and enjoy reciting old poems in Middle-English or telling Shakespearean inside jokes. To this point, just last month I attended a poetry reading happening a mile away from my home in a supper club joint and found that the people there were all white-haired, white people, talking about white problems. Then I thought about the people who show up at the local bar for the weekly, open-mic, spoken word sessions. I wondered where is the space/place where these two crowds overlap/intersect, and I wondered what is poetry, anyway?
I came to the thought that regardless of who it comes from (white dead guy or otherwise), all great poems offer great wisdom for people today and also allow people to express themselves in ways that cannot be heard without the lyrical fusion of one's authentic voice mixed with playfulness. With that said I am now on a hunt for poems that use language and topics that speak to me. I am also back to writing poetry. It's not easy, but it's fun.
In honor of National Poetry Month, I'd like to share with you a recent poem that I became aquainted with, thanks to my future-sister-in-law, Anne. She is always reading poetry up North and around town and the other day she posted a lovely poem online that touched me. It's a simple poem about rain, which I relate to as I have been reflecting on Earth day and watching the Spring raindrops fall in Minnesota.
Capturing the Sound of Rain by Raymond A. Foss
Listening to the timpani
the rhythm of the rain
the rap, the tap,
...the ratta-tat-tat,
the staccato of the drumming
on the roof of the van
The storm raging ‘round us
in the stillness of the parking lot
trying to drum to the beat
on laps and the steering wheel
keeping time with the chaos
the randomness of the clatter
Too few drummers for the task
capturing the sound of rain
Also, if you are still reading you get the bonus of reading a poem I wrote two years ago--the last poem I wrote. It was inspired by love as well as a conversation I had with some friends about how anybody can be an artist.
A poem about love by Yours Truly
Tired minds and worried brows
Will make their mark,
Forget to sow
Those hopes, and dreams, and fears
We can’t remember.
Locked pinkies under the sheets,
Hot legs touched by cooling feets,
I rest my head against your furless shoulder.
Love awakens our holy hearts,
Puts to rest those broken parts;
Heals some memories at the start
Within us, stirring ‘til morning.
At the bright sun, the cock then cries,
“Love is patient, love is kind,”
creating for us, in us, those blind—
Blind-spots.
Hiding all our fears and faults,
Protecting shields from reckless thoughts.
Light rays shine dismantling waves
And every falsehood melts away…
Liquids dissipating
Into thick, heavy air—
The ending nightmare
Bobs somewhere
In atmosphere-
Now plainly forgotten.
But here in bed, still, I lay.
Caressing your calm,
Sleeping arm.
My very core, it plays
Pretty picture shows
They enter in, then out
My soul.
Want to start your own poetry notebook? Check out Poets.org.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Quick note about Fire
The fire is the main comfort of the camp, whether in summer or winter, and is about as ample at one season as at another. It is as well for cheerfulness as for warmth and dryness. ~Henry David Thoreau
As I previously blogged about spirituality and how I would like to pay more attention to it, it is funny that tonight when I opened my book on herbs, spirituality was mentioned in the chapter I happened to be reading.
I came upon an intersting anecdote I wanted to share from the book, (Plant Spirit Medicine by Eliot Cowan). The chapter I read was about the element fire and of course about spirituality.
Cowan discusses the role of fire in our lives. He says that fire is what gives us pleasure. This connection makes sense in relation to Thoreau's quote about fire being good for cheerfulness and it makes sense in relation to fire being commonly connected to the pleasure of sex among other passions in life.
Cowan goes on to mention that people look for hot stuff in life because our spirits are cold. His take on this void of spirituality and heat comes from a void of love. He says that the only thing that can truly warm us is love. This reflection is interesting to think about if one considers the person who is "looking for love in all the wrong places."
Cowan says that on top of our need for pleasure and heat, we live in a society that is cold-hearted. He explains, "We are spiritually frigid and so we have an infantile craving for pleasure. This craving is whipped into frenzy by purveyors of merchandise of every kind" (p.72). People fill their lives with all forms of pleasure but cannot seem to find happiness. Cowan suggests it is because these people have not found love in their lives.
He also mentions that the element of fire has the power to bring things to maturity. He says, "A mature human being is one whose spirit has been warmed by the fire of love" (p.72). This quote suggests that part of connecting to our spiritual selves and reaching maturity is in finding the ability to love from our hearts and in making space for receiving love in our lives.
Now to the juicy part which perhaps I have built up (I'm sorry). I'll leave it alone after I get this out. I promise.
Cowan includes an anecdote about an anthropologist that went to learn about the songs of the Hopi tribe. On the anthropologist's visit, he met an elder and had the elder sing the songs of the tribe. The anthropologist noticed that the elder kept singing songs about water. Slightly annoyed, the anthropologist asked if all of the songs were about water. The Hopi elder responded that yes, the songs were mostly about water because their need for water was so great in their community and that most of their songs reflected the greatest needs of their people.
The Hopi Elder then said, "I listen to a lot of American music. Seems like most American music is about love." He then asked the question, "Is that why? Is that because you don't have very much?" (73)
As I previously blogged about spirituality and how I would like to pay more attention to it, it is funny that tonight when I opened my book on herbs, spirituality was mentioned in the chapter I happened to be reading.
I came upon an intersting anecdote I wanted to share from the book, (Plant Spirit Medicine by Eliot Cowan). The chapter I read was about the element fire and of course about spirituality.
Cowan discusses the role of fire in our lives. He says that fire is what gives us pleasure. This connection makes sense in relation to Thoreau's quote about fire being good for cheerfulness and it makes sense in relation to fire being commonly connected to the pleasure of sex among other passions in life.
Cowan goes on to mention that people look for hot stuff in life because our spirits are cold. His take on this void of spirituality and heat comes from a void of love. He says that the only thing that can truly warm us is love. This reflection is interesting to think about if one considers the person who is "looking for love in all the wrong places."
Cowan says that on top of our need for pleasure and heat, we live in a society that is cold-hearted. He explains, "We are spiritually frigid and so we have an infantile craving for pleasure. This craving is whipped into frenzy by purveyors of merchandise of every kind" (p.72). People fill their lives with all forms of pleasure but cannot seem to find happiness. Cowan suggests it is because these people have not found love in their lives.
He also mentions that the element of fire has the power to bring things to maturity. He says, "A mature human being is one whose spirit has been warmed by the fire of love" (p.72). This quote suggests that part of connecting to our spiritual selves and reaching maturity is in finding the ability to love from our hearts and in making space for receiving love in our lives.
Now to the juicy part which perhaps I have built up (I'm sorry). I'll leave it alone after I get this out. I promise.
Cowan includes an anecdote about an anthropologist that went to learn about the songs of the Hopi tribe. On the anthropologist's visit, he met an elder and had the elder sing the songs of the tribe. The anthropologist noticed that the elder kept singing songs about water. Slightly annoyed, the anthropologist asked if all of the songs were about water. The Hopi elder responded that yes, the songs were mostly about water because their need for water was so great in their community and that most of their songs reflected the greatest needs of their people.
The Hopi Elder then said, "I listen to a lot of American music. Seems like most American music is about love." He then asked the question, "Is that why? Is that because you don't have very much?" (73)
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