Poem #21: September Midnight

Sep. 21st, 2017 12:25 pm
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September Midnight

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.

~~ Sara Teasdale

(no subject)

Sep. 21st, 2017 08:09 am
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I have today off because it would have been set up day if the ceramic show was a 2 day one. At first I can was going cancel the day and just have tomorrow off, but then they fired my VP for no reason other than wanting a change to suit the new Chief of Business Operations... a 35 year employee and a genuine gentleman. I took the day as a breath and I have other feeling now, I need to not be in the lay off panic mode...

Jose is pounding the house at the Moment. I wanted to go play in Rockport, but the wether is not stellar so I bet the little art places don't even open. I wanted to go to the Aquarium, but we have 37 MPH wind gust happening even 5 to 10 minutes so it is not pleasant to walk. I am thinking of starting my chores and then seeing if things clear off around lunch. Maybe go shopping. Right now a cheeky cat is enjoying my company.

And it looks like Jose may hang around Boston up to Saturday... Hopefully it is not too rainy Saturday as rain does keep people away from the show since many are elders.

Reading Wednesday

Sep. 20th, 2017 07:47 pm
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[personal profile] slashmarks
Bryony and Roses – T. Kingfisher. Reread, reviewed here previously.

Black Beauty – Anna Sewell. Reread of a childhood – not quite favorite; it was just that in the process of going through every entry in the library catalog that came up under the keyword 'horses' in three separate libraries, I was eventually going to end up reading Black Beauty; I resisted from what I recall and turned my nose up at it repeatedly, but eventually I gave in and liked it at least enough that I think I read it more than once. This is not saying much of a horse book.

This held up better than I expected in terms of nineteenth century literature; there is the awkward comprehension as an adult of exactly what “Darkie” means in that context, and that bizarre moment where Lizzie naturally can't ride a nervous horse despite being described repeatedly as an excellent horsewoman because she is a woman; but overall I was surprised by the lack of horribleness to make me want to pitch the book across the room. Sewell seems to have deliberately taken pains to make it obvious that relative abusiveness of Black Beauty's owners has nothing to do with class, and the moment when Jerry (I think?) comments that the cab drivers would have Sundays off if they organized a strike for it was a good surprise.

It is also somewhat less miserable than I had the impression from other people who'd read it more recently, with relatively little deliberate sadism from owners – as opposed to ignorance and apathy and alcoholism – and cruelty usually implied and covered quickly in summary rather than lingered over. Then again, I have a pretty high tolerance for that kind of thing.

Corona – Bushra Rehman. The summary you'll find online is something like, after bisexual Razia Mirza is excommunicated from her Muslim community in Queens, she goes on a road trip. This is somewhat misleading; what Corona actually is is a collection of nonlinear microfiction that covers much of Razia's childhood and early adulthood; the road trip appears in exactly one piece; and rather than being “excommunicated,” she's disowned after her parents find out she's dating someone (male) and she refuses to remedy the situation by immediately marrying.

There are moments of this that I felt were well done, or enjoyed in that almost painful way of recognition – it is so rare to find characters who are in that awkward place of half-speaking to parents without forgiving them that most of my social circle is – but overall I was disappointed. A lot of the pieces have the impression of wallowing in misery for shock value (eg. was that thing with the kitten really necessary? speaking of which, content warning for animal death), and I found the romance with the most attention paid for it thoroughly unconvincing. True, you are supposed to be unconvinced – they break up – but in order to convince the reader that your protagonist is not being an idiot, you should usually give the relationship you are going to have tragically fail some positive aspect at the beginning. Having Razia state that she felt like she was losing her mind and so did all of her friends did not help; it just made me want to scream 'yes, you are, what the fuck are you thinking?' at the book.

In addition, I think the decision to do this non-linearly hurt it. Even as there are pieces that seem to wallow in misery, a lot of the actually difficult pieces of the story I was invested in are completely skipped. As an example, the pieces focus mostly on three time periods – childhood to teenager years; her time careening between temporary living situations in a wildly precarious position after her parents disown her for refusing to get married; and her adulthood which appears to involve relative financial stability, a social circle of other queer South Asians, and an awkward truce with her family. There's no real picture of the transition between these points. The view of Razia being disowned is indirect, told in retrospective with no detail; the details of how she clawed her way to financial stability and ended up on speaking terms with her family again are totally absent. There's an abusive partner who shows up in one, maybe two pieces of microfiction – the boyfriend she left her parents with – and then vanishes and is never referenced anywhere else. Her one girlfriend on page similarly shows up once. Microfiction over the course of a life can work, I've seen it done wonderfully, but the decision to avoid almost all important or decision making moments did not work, here. I have to wonder whether that was deliberate, or from a place of feeling unable or nervous about writing those moments well.

(no subject)

Sep. 20th, 2017 05:27 pm
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[personal profile] ravena_kade
Does Dreamwidth have a phone APP?

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Sep. 20th, 2017 03:44 pm
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I have a 4 day weekend.


I am getting ready for the ceramic show. I don't think it will do well, but we re trying. I do like the 1 day concept, but I think out tables are too expensive....but we have to cover 1.5 days of a hall rental.

I am looking for some good things.....

I may go play tomorrow morning and work in the afternoon.

Poem #20: Sonnet 73

Sep. 20th, 2017 06:59 am
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Another autumn poem and another love poem. You can never go wrong with a Shakespeare sonnet.


Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

~~ William Shakespeare

(no subject)

Sep. 19th, 2017 04:44 pm
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The VP that I am fond of just told us he was leaving the company in October.... and does not have a job lined up. I am sad for him as his twin girls are in year 2 of an expensive college here in Boston.

I am worried to as he was a buffer .... and a better VP than my 2 cousins have... that one is a prick.

I am curious how John, the boss I really like... like I'd date him..., will hold up.... will he stand up for the way we work , which is more laid back than my cousins, or will he cave. I could loose my hours... the only thing that makes it okay here... we'll accept from John 😉

Poem #19: Autumn

Sep. 19th, 2017 12:16 pm
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Autumn Song

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

~~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti


Sep. 19th, 2017 08:30 am

some B&W

Sep. 18th, 2017 09:01 pm
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[personal profile] ravena_kade
I have been challenged to a 7 day B&W photo project. No words, no questions, and no people. This is good as it gets me back tossing the camera and learning this new editing program (learning is more like wrestling)

This and that.

Sep. 18th, 2017 08:35 pm
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[personal profile] ravena_kade
Fighting he bad memory head space... Hind sight is 20/20... and painful considering what happened to Ma.

Trying to keep busy... and brain filled with other things.


I have been asked to come up with a craft program for the developmentally disabled people I did this with a few years ago. Trying to decide if 3or 4 projects that take 2 weeks or more each would be better than trying to do 6 like before. Not all the people are at the same level and so the time it takes to do a project varies. I am thinking of a ceramic item, a jewelry item, and a painting item.

For the jewelry I want to do the memory wire bracelets...I will also be making these for a craft show. Like this type of bracelet because =, depending on the beads, it can be fancy or Bohemian.

For the painting I wanted to do a button tree... it is something I would put in my house. You paint a stylized bare branch tree and then you glue on buttons for the leaves. This is great if you happen to have Grandma's button box, or just a few special buttons.

I also thought of getting some rough would and letting them stain it. Then stenciling some words and glue things onto the board. An example is the words :Make a wish upon a star fish. Then glue craft starfish to the board. It should be rustic and artsy.

Poem #18: The Tyger

Sep. 18th, 2017 07:25 am
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Simply one of my all time favorites.


The Tyger

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

~~ William Blake

Poem #17: All the World's a Stage

Sep. 17th, 2017 02:00 pm
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Can't beat the bard!


All The World's A Stage

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

~~ William Shakespeare
(As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII)
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This one reminds me of my mother who stubbornly hung onto life long after her body had given up.


Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~~Dylan Thomas

(no subject)

Sep. 15th, 2017 11:13 pm
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After work I took a trip to the pottery place in Braintree to get slip... and they were out of it... so I guess all I can take to the ceramic show is what I have made so far... I now need to prep it all for the kiln and fire it up. Fingers crossed I sell things...

Tonight I took a break from clay dust and visited friends. We watched a show called Dr. Blake's Mysteries... an Aussie mystery show set after WW2. The lead actor reminds me a lot of a man at the Rent Faire that I had a crush on for 23 years.... I am such a silly woman

(no subject)

Sep. 15th, 2017 08:47 am
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In this time of anti-immigrant fever and just plain un-American stupidity from the White House and the far right, I wanted to post a reminder of the way it should be...


The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

~~Emma Lazarus
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When I was a girl, I loved the Scholastic book clubs at school. Every month we got a flyer with wonderful books that we could order for almost nothing. The best books of an entire decade came through that book club... I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Go Ask Alice, Slaughterhouse Five and this poem was the name of a collection of modern poems. It was wonderful. I think maybe this is what made me love poetry so much.


Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity

During that summer
When unicorns were still possible;
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned;
When shiny horse chestnuts
(Hollowed out
Fitted with straws
Crammed with tobacco
Stolen from butts
In family ashtrays)
Were puffed in green lizard silence
While straddling thick branches
Far above and away
From the softening effects
Of civilization;

During that summer--
Which may never have been at all;
But which has become more real
Than the one that was--
Watermelons ruled.

Thick imperial slices
Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins;
Leaving the best part,
The black bullet seeds,
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wall
Against the wind
Against each other;

And when the ammunition was spent,
There was always another bite:
It was a summer of limitless bites,
Of hungers quickly felt
And quickly forgotten
With the next careless gorging.

The bites are fewer now.
Each one is savored lingeringly,
Swallowed reluctantly.

But in a jar put up by Felicity,
The summer which maybe never was
Has been captured and preserved.
And when we unscrew the lid
And slice off a piece
And let it linger on our tongue:
Unicorns become possible again.

~~John Tobias
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I love both of these so I decided to share them together. The ultimate love poem and the snarky reply.

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields
Woods or steepy mountain yields

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flower, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

~~ Christopher Marlowe

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

~~ Sir Walter Raleigh

Poem #12" Epitaph on a Tyrant

Sep. 12th, 2017 08:37 am
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Auden wrte this one in 1940 after he'd lived in Berlin for a while. The tyrant was Hitler, but most tyrants still fit the mold.


Epitaph on a Tyrant

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

~~W. H. Auden

See him read it here: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xqq1r8

Poem #11: God

Sep. 11th, 2017 06:00 pm
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Not exactly poetry but very poetic. I love the musings of Kahlil Gibran.



In the ancient days, when the first quiver of speech came to my lips,
I ascended the holy mountain and spoke unto God, saying, “Master,
I am thy slave. Thy hidden will is my law and I shall obey thee
for ever more.”

But God made no answer, and like a mighty tempest passed away.

And after a thousand years I ascended the holy mountain and again
spoke unto God, saying, “Creator, I am thy creation. Out of clay
hast thou fashioned me and to thee I owe mine all.”

And God made no answer, but like a thousand swift wings passed

And after a thousand years I climbed the holy mountain and spoke
unto God again, saying, “Father, I am thy son. In pity and love
thou hast given me birth, and through love and worship I shall
inherit thy kingdom.”

And God made no answer, and like the mist that veils the distant
hills he passed away.

And after a thousand years I climbed the sacred mountain and again
spoke unto God, saying, “My God, my aim and my fulfillment; I am
thy yesterday and thou are my tomorrow. I am thy root in the earth
and thou art my flower in the sky, and together we grow before the
face of the sun.”

Then God leaned over me, and in my ears whispered words of sweetness,
and even as the sea that enfoldeth a brook that runneth down to
her, he enfolded me.

And when I descended to the valleys and the plains God was there

~Kahlil Gibran


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