Living in Frames, by meshing the lyrical moments of life with the captured images of experience. This is a reverie, a journey, the fork in the road, and the never-ending story....

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

sleeping with inspiration.

I went to bed with a couple poets last night....
                                Oh please, don't take everything I say so literally.
Last night, I stayed in and snuggled up with a stack of my favorite poetry books. Moving from one mesmerizing or profound canto onto the next, absorbing like a sea sponge.
My growing appetite as of late, has been focused on the power of brevity and directly tackling societal complexities with verse. Poetry is the perfect form in this way. You can gain so much, in the simpliest of expressions and in the slightest of space. And being that poetry was my first love, I find that devoting an occasional day or night just to relish in it, is important to my development as a writer.
Here are a couple of my favorite lines, or should I say "sweet nothings" that were whispered into my ear:

"my absenteeism reached such astonishing
that I had to finally
at some expense
behind a Chinese bar
where all I could see were tiny shuttered
with neon signs advertising some
it seemed less real, and that was
what was needed." 
chuck bukowski, "the blade"

 "I can't tell you my name :
you don't believe I have one
I can't warn you this boat is falling
you planned it  that way
You've never had a face
but you know that appeals to me
You are old enough to be my
skeleton:  you know that also.
I can't tell you I don't want you
the sea is on your side
You have the earth's nets
I have only a pair of scissors.
When I look for you I find
water or moving shadows
There is no way I can lose you
when you are lost already."
margaret atwood, "hesitations outside the door"
"The iridule--when, beautiful and strange,
In a bright sky above a mountain range
One opal cloudlet in an oval form
Reflects the rainbow of a thunderstorm
Which in a distant valley has been staged--
For we are most artistically caged."
- vladimir nabokov, "pale fire"
"Mother I am bare in the mist-mad forest
Only the moon shows me love.
Winter will crush me: tiny arms, pale feet,
tongue of rust. I have a thousand visions.."
-mary jo bang, "gretel"
"The traveling players with their ladel of stars, their scaffolding, their mirrors, their charms, their helpless plots , their horoscopes...
In the darkened theater of our desire the traveling players construct out of balsa wood--wings.
And hold their bright threads of story--
weaving water sacred open..."
 -carole maso

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