millenary-thoughts

Seasons

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 16:39:02 +0100

We had our first snow of the winter yesterday. As always there is something special about that first snow. Even though it causes chaos when traveling or trying to get to work, there is a solitude and sense of peace that comes with it as well. The earth seems to quieten somehow. All of the peripheral noise of the city is muffled by a blanket of white. The grassy side garden outside my screened-in porch is now covered with snow. Only a few blades of grass peep out above it. The only recognizable features are the trees and my bird feeder, which is empty moments after I fill it. I struggle to remember the beautiful flowers I had this past summer. It seems ages since the bluebells danced in my garden or the aroma of the roses wafted through the air. This poem is about not just the snow, but about how everything in life is only for a season. Whether we are lovers of snow or prefer the summer sun, it is only a season. Whether life if full of pleasure or seemingly unbearable pain, it is only a season.

The fresh snow covers the hardened earth
    with its blanket of white.
Quietness overcomes noise.
Unheard stillness echoes loudly in my ears,
    raping my senses.
Small patches of brown, withered grass
    keeps its head above the blanket,
    peering only slightly higher.

“The snow will surely melt.
You may not see me, but I am still here.
It is only a season.”

Covered up, grappling, without strength,
    you try to keep your head above it all.
Scales fall from the eyes.

Truth is exposed.
Colour is lost.
Resiliency has died.
Your beauty has fade.
You become the grass.

Trampled beneath unsuspecting feet,
    you are invisible to the human eye.
Straining forward in one last attempt,
    your pleas fall on deafened ears.
Your voice becomes silenced with the snow.
Where are the children playing at your feet,
    the voice of the songbird,
    the sound of the young lovers?

In summer, in your prime, you were admired.
Now there is no warmth to be found.
It is only a season.

Pregnant with dissipating hope,
    the next season will be better.
Winter turns to spring.

Rejuvenation and rebirth – the words only
    muttered, and never known.
Will this blanket suffocate you?
Or is it’s beauty – a mirage or a dream?
Black stands disguised in a cloak of white.

Tenderly, a baby is rocked to sleep.
The ivory blanket covers and slowly
    chokes life from its first breath.

How can you know when spring appears?
Will you then be sprung, or will you
    slumber in impatience?
Will colour and beauty again be realised?
Will darkness flee in a moment?
Like a man leaving only his footprints,
    you are left alone.
Unanswered questions, never known.

Is this life all there is,
    or is it, only
        a season?

My New Car

Wed, 06 Jan 2010 20:04:46 +0100

Many of you remember by wonderful silver little car the Tiburon. It really was a nice car, but it had 83,000 miles, no warranty and was definitely starting to show some wear and tear. Though it was speedy, it wasn't the most economical on petrol either. All of these factors and then some is what led me to my new 2010 Hyundai Accent SE.

With my starting graduate school next month, it seemed right to start off with a reliable vehicle that has a full warranty and cheaper miles per gallon in the city 27 and highway 38, and a little less each month on payments as compared to the Tiburon.

I will continue to teach part time at USI while I study full time at the Academy of Art University in San Francisco. It is all online, apart from the summer months when I plan to go to California for the classes. This will enable me to meet the faculty and they me. The MFA will take about 2 1/2 years to complete and is something I have not been able to fully pursue until now. I had started once before, but due to several factors (car accident) I had to put everything on hold.

I'm really looking forward to the new journey and having a new apple green car that gets the BBC World Service on the radio is incredible!

My Year

Wed, 30 Dec 2009 19:55:21 +0100

In January
My fish died and for 20 days
I cried and lamented.

In February
My best friend said I was crazy
and extremely demented.

In March
I moved into my new home.
I couldn’t buy so I rented.

In April
I won an award, but wasn’t there
when it was presented.

In May
My new neighbour’s loud music
caused me to be tormented.

In June
My best friend said he was
going to have me committed.

In July
I found out that I was
sexually oriented.

In August
I did a very small sin,
but never repented.

In September
I found an antique gold coin
and had it re-minted.

In October
The red wine I made last year,
finally fermented.

In November
I agreed I was crazy. I meant it
and consented to be committed.

In December
My best friend died
and I did nothing.

Happy Holly-Days!

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 23:10:33 +0100

From Bob, Peanut, Charlie, Lucy, maybe the innocent bystander, and I…have a very nice holiday. Have a cracking Christmas, a happy Hanukkah, an inkwedible Kwanza'a, a wonderful Winter Solstice, a naughty New Year, and a ________ _________ (fill in the blank in case I missed something accidentally)!

Have a SCARY Christmas

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 14:17:50 +0100

What else could I possibly say? Whenever I post these blogs, I have an option of placing 'tags,' which categorize the posting for easy location. The only category that possibly fit this was "HUMOUR." However, upon further looking at this image I decided there was nothing really funny about it. It is quite disturbing. Imagine having to sit in his lap. YIKES.

Black Crow

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 06:07:01 +0100

I have always been fascinated by the mysterious burqa, niqab and hijab worn by Muslim women. I can't imagine living my entire life hidden from everyone in public. I can't imagine the thoughts of those that are forced to wear it; never to feel the gentle wind against your cheeks or feel the rays of the sun on a warm spring day. Of course, this is possible, but only in the privacy of their homes when no other males are around but their husbands or very close relatives — a life spent in total submission to society and its traditions, no freer than a bird in the sky.

I have heard of a few stories where the ladies claim to like wearing it, as it keeps the prying eyes of the men away. They boldly claim that it is about expression rather than oppression. This makes me wonder what kind of woman this would be.

Does she secretly live in fear? After all, we know that it is always the women who are to blame for the wandering eye and hands of the men. It is these women who are stoned and punished even to death if they are caught flirting or being improper with a man. Perhaps they wear it for their own protection against men forever looking for opportunities to blame others for their weaknesses. These gentle women are, of course, the temptresses who must be hidden away. Greater still is the mystery of those who honestly believe this is true and part of the Islamic faith.

The following poem was written several years ago in response to these mysterious ladies one might encounter in a Muslim country. However, such ladies are not limited to Islamic countries. One can witness them in London, New York or other places where Muslims have migrated.

image source: Los Angeles Times World 02/27/08

Black crow in the centre of the street,

Never looking up or daring to meet our eyes.
She is a black crow.

Children at home, pretending to play,
The unfaithful far away husband has now flown.
She is a black crow.

Sitting still and alone,
Hidden in shadows we’ve never known before.
She is a black crow.

Behind a veil of dark mystery,
Left without a melody or song.
She is a black crow.

Black crow, I saw her today,
Looked in my direction, but then looked away from me.
She is a black crow.

Tears in her eyes run gently down her cheek.
She is unable to speak and quickly turns.
She is a black crow.

Why doesn’t she fly, far away,
Like the eagle in the clouds?
She lives her life a prisoner, in captivity.

She is a black crow. She is a black crow.

If I Should Wake

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 16:45:32 +0100

This poem was written for my daughter Ruth. Having lived 12 years in the US and due to uncontrollable situations our relationship has been strained. I seldom hear from her and she from me. Due to an often lack of finances I am unable to fly to England as I would desire. Though I pretend everything is fine, it is not. Seldom do days pass that I don't think of her and regret many decisions I have made. She always was the best thing that ever happened to me and I am so very proud of her achievements.

If I should wake before I die, I hope to see you again.
For without you in my life, I have lived in the slumber of solitude.
Your absence causes shadows to surround my being.
Walking, I am as a blind man, left without props.
My only aid of survival is your picture etched upon my mind.
Your image, ever before me, are dreams of unreality.

If I should wake before I die, I hope to hold you again.
The smell of your skin remains lodged within my nostrils.
As an intoxicating perfume, I am drunk with pity.
The soft locks of your hair create a warm blanket in my darkness.
Reaching, I touch only years of void and torment.
My hand fitting evenly within yours is now withering alone.

If I should wake before I die, I hope you know me again.
Time recreates everything and yet I am the same as I once was.
Don’t become a lover with guilt, for it wasn’t you who changed.
It was my destiny and my life which drove me far away.
Letters and conversation silenced as I drifted into the dark,
Only to find myself years later, a prisoner of my dreams.

If I should die before I wake, remember I loved you....
again and again.... remember I loved you.

Piss Christ

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 16:07:03 +0100

For those unfamiliar with the below image, this was a work of 'art' done by Andres Serrano in 1987 entitled, "Piss Christ". He urinated in a jar and placed a crucifix inside it — all for the sake of art. The reason I show this image is because of a recent discussion in one of my classes as to the definition of art and whether it should be censored. This type of art is called "Abject Art" and is often used to shock the audience or to express the inexpressible. While I am not a big fan of such art, it does draw some curiosity. I am reluctant to promote censorship within public art, but do feel there are some places where it needs to be contained within a certain area for viewing.

On Serrano's controversial piece, I liked the commentary of Sister Wendy Beckett, a South African-born British art expert, consecrated virgin and contemplative hermit who became an unlikely celebrity during the 1990s. She stated in a television interview with Bill Moyers that she regarded the work as not blasphemous but a statement on "what we have done to Christ" - that is, the way contemporary society has come to regard Christ and the values he represents."

What are your thoughts? I would love to hear from you.

After this lively classroom discussion I then came across the below comic from an unknown source. This appealed to me more than the above. Does this say something about my humour?

The Voice of the Snobar Cedar

Wed, 30 Dec 2009 19:47:19 +0100

In Lebanon where I lived for a short period there were lovely Snobar Cedars, which grew predominantly in Lebanon. We could see them all around and I would often retreat beneath their shade for an afternoon get-away or a picnic. I would sometimes talk to the trees (and yes, I am a little odd) and could imagine our discussions had I been able to hear their voices. I'm sure we have all heard of the phrase, "oh, if walls could talk". I applied this phrase to the cedars which rested on the hills around me and wondered what these trees might have said as they looked over the horizon of a war-torn country; forever changed by unfortunate hatred and misunderstanding.

blackbirds and bullets
ravens and rockets
swirl in my head
dizzying my senses

they keep me
from sleeping long
into the pitch
of night

my branches heavy
weary
from protecting the young
lovers gathering near my feet

etched into my body
their names
fade
an indefinite memory

i see their hiding place
on the distant hill
more have come
others have gone

i remain

snobars
snobars
they cry with false hope
yet

i am left only with my
rings
rings of years
tales of borrowed time

shouting
blowing through the wind
a whispered
melody

majnun and laila
beckon me
to shield them
from an encircling hate

i despise their freedom

i tower above others
and therefore
I must surely
commune with god

yet
i am only
the cedar
ever green

lacking affection
never knowing
the ecstasy
of change

nor the repeating
seasons of death
of life
of rebirth

stuck on this mountain
i am a symbol
of time past
of time hopeful

a display
for the refugee
seed is spilled
into the ground

beneath me
nothing ever is born
my roots partake in
their bittersweet devotion

unbeaten by the elements
i will nevertheless
search
for pure water

regrettably
in a land
no longer
my own

i am the snobar cedar

Yoyo

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 01:03:46 +0100