2 poems

April is Poetry Month. Moth. Mouth. 

Here's two for you.

III
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere) arranging
a window, into which people look (while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here) and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things, while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there) and

without breaking anything.
 - E. E. Cummings  Read more…

"Every year a given tree creates absolutely from scratch ninety-nine percent of its living parts. Water lifting up tree trunks can climb one hundred and fifty feet an hour; in full summer a tree can, and does, heave a ton of water every day. A big elm in a single season might make as many as six million leaves, wholly intricate, without budging an inch; I couldn't make one. A tree stands there, accumulating deadwood, mute and rigid as an obelisk, but secretly it seethes, it splits, sucks and stretches; it heaves up tons and hurls them out in a green, fringed fling. No person taps this free power; the dynamo in the tulip tree pumps out even more tulip tree, and it runs on rain and air."
 - Annie Dillard  Read more…

Rimbaud's magic

"My turn now. The story of one of my insanities.

What I liked were: absurd paintings, pictures over doorways, stage sets, carnival backdrops, billboards, bright-colored prints, old-fashioned literature, church Latin, erotic books full of misspellings, the kind of novels our grandmothers read, fairy tales, little children's books, old operas, silly old songs, the naive rhythms of country rimes.

I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody had heard of, republics without histories, religious wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements of races and continents; I used to believe in every kind of magic.

I invented colors for the vowels. A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green. I made rules for the form and movement of every consonant, and I boasted of inventing, with rhythms from within me, a kind of poetry that all the senses, sooner or later, would recognize. And I alone would be its translator.

I began it as an investigation. I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still."
 - Arthur Rimbaud

six from 2012

Six images Orphan enjoyed in 2012.

Two monks at a wat and The Tree of Life, Luang Prabang, Laos.

On the street - boys and wedding Siem Reap, Cambodia.

 

Music man plays for an audience of 1, Trabzon, Turkey. Red balloons.

 

awareness

There are  absolutely no metaphors, just observations. 

The artist maps reality.

That's the cat-and-mouse game between the artist and the world. And it's just not the artist who plays it. Each of us is in the cat-and-mouse game with our perceptual life. Do we really see ourselves?

Or do we see only what obtrudes in daylight?

Do we crash through our nightlife, scattering subtle things that abide there?

Or do we simply watch without judgment, in the expectation of learning something? - John Cage

 

a short story

Once upon a time there was a king.

The king wanted a painting. He'd heard about a famous painter in a distant village. "I don't care how much it costs," said the king. He sent a messenger to the painter.

"My king wants a painting," said the messenger. "Ok," said the painter, "give me two million gold coins and come back later." The messenger paid.

The messanger came back a year later. "It's not finished yet," said the painter. "Come back later."

Ten years passed.

The messenger returned. "Where is the painting for the king?"

The painter grabbed a canvas and painted a painting. "Here, give this to the king."

"What, you just made it!" said the messenger.

"Yes," said the painter, "but I've been thinking about it for ten years."