Reach for the Stars!

Reach for the Stars?

I don't understand it;

what could it possibly mean?

My arms are not plastic

and they cannot extend that far.

But I know what I can

embrace and mold with my hands,

Or breathe into words that harness

the winged horses of my imagination. 

I reach deep in my pocket

that's where those stars will be, dangling

like strands of pearls, each one

from a different year, season and day.

You know them all:

the lingering perfume under  the wrist,

those hours sleeping

as a child cupped in their hands;

the footprints that lighten in the night.

Only words will land this craft--

on the Stars named by the

aboriginal children of the past

____________________

Meus Otium:

I suppose everyone has a pet peeve so mine would be hearing someone say Reach for the Stars!... I believe in a way the stars one should be reaching for is the infinite wealth that resides in them, we are a walking, talking, breathing UNIVERSE!  Which is why when someone tells me they are bored or do not have anything to do, perhaps they haven't really realized the full potential of self realization.  In my experience the constant self discoveries, brighten my perception, like being given another pair of eyes to look out with, even from a different perspective (imagine having eyes on top of your head that constantly looked up to the sky,,,hmmm). 

Anyway, I sort of doodled on that imaginary vision of the stars being guides from the navigational/historical perspective but incorporates it into the stories told when 'aboriginal children' or for me when language developed to communicate these ideas or self expression or poetry-- each one a giant step for mankind.

The structure of the poem was inspired from the  poem of Margaret Atwood, "True Stories."  I suppose her pet peeve would be about the need for truth... in essence all we need are the stories that frame our lives in these captured indelible moments... itself fleeting from the moment we perceive them in our lives.

Art: Aboriginal Star Symbol

The Blue Door

Suzanne I didn't get the chance to thank you

as much as I could have.  You showed me

the strength of our friendship-- 

                                               Oh how you

took over my weakness and ploughed through

the needless monotony of my laundry,

                                        the blues of apartment

hunting (thank goodness not by myself), organzing

my schedule and even taking my calls when you

busily prepared home cooked meals.

                                                         My thoughts

grazed these streets down the chilly January rain

when nothing seems to sprout but only the fog

that became a constant reminder the day was still

rolling by.

               Perhaps the Muni- as dependable as it has

been...came by every10 minutes along my walk.

The birds didn't seem to mind the calling of this morning,

why even when the refrigerator arrived I could not even fill it

but you knew I was above my head, not allowing enything to

enter nor leave my mind. 

                                     How I wish I could have been more

cooperative those two weeks.  I must have been a handful

mess, a sorrow starless nights drowned by delphic dreams.

                     I remember the time when you put that pen in

my hand that rainy afternoon, the blank paper white with shadows

of rain falling on a canvas the ink just dripped with no direction to go.

It was the company of this nature my poetry can speak of,

I know no other

words to conjure

or employ--

                  Only appreciate you.

I sit on these steps, wondering if those neighbors arguing

next door could have sounded the way they did back in

1969, when i was still unborn in your womb, like the thoughts

you had when words were birthed one by one, reminded you of

[that joking voice] which we still encounter beyond  every door.

___________________

Meus Otium:

I wrote this prose poem on an encounter when I visited the house where Elizabeth Bishop lived in San Francisco in 1969 for a year before going back to Brazil.  I had just finished reading part of her biography and was particularly drawn to the character of Suzanne one of her friends from Seattle who came down to help her move.  She became a more than a friend and the feelings of the poem I hope evoked some part of that friendship.

I was also reminded of my own friendship with my best friend Lorraine who has helped me countless of times when I needed more than a morale boost, there are often missed occasion I know I didn't get to thank her...and she continues to be my friend.  This poem is sort of a thank you note...

Giving thanks even as unspoken acts of gratitude are gestures that lasts a lifetime, and I believe crosses through the doors of time.  

The Magic Plum Tree

I found this Golden Plum

and ate from it

a flesh so sweet

my mouth oozed with honey.

please let me plant

 this tree in my garden

so I can dream for more.

__________________

Meus Otium:

William Carlos Williams wrote about plums in an icebox in his poem, "This is Just to Say." The tension in this poem is so palpable from guilt to forgiveness, from having to nothing and the relationship between the two persons in this short communicative love note.  I like that it leaves the question as to whether this person might have saved those plums so that they would be cold and delicious for the person to partake of them.  

I remember the first poetry exercise we had was to write a poem on our favorite vegetable.  If the teacher had asked us to write about a fruit- the plum is what I would have written about.  The painting is by Van Gogh where incorporated Japonisme as other artist did like Monet as well.  Enjoy! :-)

De Young Museum Presents the Birth of Impressionism

The ethereal paintings of mythical figures dominated the Parisian scene where realism was the main objective and all else were regarded as poor attempts to describing art, mere sketches according to one critic of Monet's work.  Going through the Manet, Millet, and Monet's work  will surely prove that the popular conventions of the time were not only invalid but a gross misrepresentation of the work these avant-garde Impressionist artists were striving to recreate.

If you haven't quite saved up for a trip to Paris and  roam the Musee d'Orsay, consider this exhibit a preliminary taste of what's to come from a yearlong engagement to include  Van Gogh to start on September 10, 2010.


Stroll along a promenade of sepia colored wall panels giving a panoramic view of the Boulevard Capucine (host to numerous Impressionist salon expositions).    Enter the main pavilion greeted by the statuesque Venus herself  to usher you in the epic battle between  Idealistic and Realistic interpretation of Art.


And for those of you who already made that visit,  be prepared to re- open the flood gates of first impression memories... Nothing like celebrating in the "Rue Montorgueil, Paris" of Monet on Bastille in the summertime, watching the parades under the sea of red, white and blue.


How about that marvelous afternoon trip to Giverny, the quintessential country road lined with Poplar trees waving under the breezy afternoon sun just like the light filtering through the leaves in "The Swing" by Renoir.


The seasons of Sisley who painted clouds in their myriad milky way  of blue hues, was as arresting as the realism of Millet in "Spring" and the mythic floor scrapers of Caillebotte who brought Art in the midst of people-- so much so they were given as tokens of appreciation.


Take in the snow with a more contemplative appreciation since you first saw them for the very first time.  Monet's essay account here written in purple and white that appears in "The Magpie"-- soulfully enlighten as the light catches on the tree branches and as it peeks through the fences.


If you're in a brooding mood like the rainy week we just had, consider the Spanish influence of Velazquez and Goya on Manet and Whistler-- taking an amorphous black to yards of textures in silken folds as they drape the body like an Ingres. Marvel from the delicate black lace to the diaphanous net of maternal love in  Morisot's "The Cradle."

Marvel at Degas' "The Dancing Lesson" where perhaps a certain homage to Vermeer's "The Girl with a Pearl Earring" was captured as a scene in his own tableau.  

These were just a few of many awe inspiring paintings and would surely be a memorable experience as many who have said so.   I know, it's been many years since I went and saw these paintings in the Paris, but seeing them again has a new revelation.

________________

Meus Otium:

Art Belongs to the People!

From the artists of France, the treasures of Musée d'Orsay!

ORIGAMI

by: Marjorie Evasco

This word unfolds, gathers up wind
To speed the crane’s flight
North of my sun to you.

I am shaping this poem
Out of paper, folding
Distances between our seasons.

This poem is a crane.
When its wings unfold,
The paper will be pure and empty.


ORIGAMI

Ce mot se déploie,  ramassant le vent,
Pour faire vite le vol de la grue
Nord de mon soleil vers vous.

Je plie ce poème
du papier, en pliant
Les distances entre nos saisons.

Ce poème est une grue.
Lorsque ses ailes se déploient
Le papier sera pur et vide.

____________________

Meus Otium

Ms. Evasco's poems remind me of the master Haiku poet Basho almost distilling Universe in 3 simple lines.  Here we are given 3 line stanzas where the poem starts as a word, then process of creation takes place and an origami is transfiguration to our crane... this imagery of a crane flying in my head will forever remind me whenever simplicity beckons in my life :-) My secondary french translation is for my francophone friends...
For more of her poems:
http://marjorieevasco.jimdo.com/

Tsuru Origami folding instruction-

THE WOMAN WHO FELL FROM THE SKY

by Joy Harjo

I really like Ms. Harjo's poems, its ethereal spirit roams in situations, stories and permeate the lines with her words. This book offers many such examples with stories taken from her experiences and stories told from her ancestors and family.  I felt closer to her now as a person, woman and poet and in some spiritual bonding we share through the stories we have through our own families and ancestors.  We are all interconnected somehow well above our ancestry lineage.  The title evokes the story of Creation from her American Indian heritage and comes through the presentation of each poem.

A poem that particularly touched me from this collection was titled "Promise of Blue Horses."

A blue horse turns into a streak of lightning,
                                                                  then the sun --
relating the difference between sadness
                                                           and the need to praise
that which makes us joyful, I can't calculate
                                                              how the earth tips hungrily
toward the sun - then soaks up rain -- or the density
                                                                    of this unbearable need
to be next to you. It's a palpable thing -- this earth philosophy--
                                                                    and familiar in the dark
like your skin under my hand. We are a small earth. It's no
                                                                  simple thing. Eventually
we will be dust together; can be used to make a house, to stop
                                                                       a flood or grow food
for those who will never remember who we were, or know
                                                                    that we loved fiercely.
Laughter and sadness eventually become the same song turning us
                                                                   toward the nearest star --
a star constructed of eternity and elements of dust barely visible
                                                             in the twilight as you travel
east. I run with the blue horses of electricity who surround
                                                                                   the heart
and imagine a promise made when no promise was possible.

_____________

Meus Otium

There are promises that indeed cannot be broken.  They seep through the ground and find a way to be a part of a flower then its pollen so that one day it may be a memory given to you as a smell of rose, the changing leaves of trees, the breeze of the evening air or "your skin under my hand"...Life is full of these promises :-)

Dancer: Daystar/Rosalie Jones
Photo Credit: Norm Regnier

Ode to Yosemite

Oh Hollowed vision

of meadows meandering faith--

Mystified dew falling

Shower from Heaven's abode.

Caught in a bowl of grandeur

In Splendor weeping,

I wake up with joy!

Our first meeting was on an insistent invite-

Your friendly lovers' quarrel mend,

Belayed by his ardent resolve--

A place of refuge and soulful fill.

I still hear the distant inviting words,

Swift to deliver to an eagle's nest

Incensed of oak, pine and cedar.

"This most beautiful

place in the world!"

rests in the feathered abode above

the warring worlds.

Gaze upon this valley it bestowed

from beyond the 140 to descend below,

Eyes did share this splendid Beauty

spoken in your voice, opened by your hands.

Blessed time carved walls, veined by seasons

of which one was mine.

Mesmerizing chandelier as suspended lakes

Buttressed by rainbows of crystal weaving like arteries

around the heart of the land-- each pulsing drop

nourish the souls below!

Ashes lay on hallowed ground

to color the emerald lakes the pristine mirrors

and seascapes of stars that highlight

 the night sky above?  Teach as ancients

did of lost time, lost dreams

All journey to a second past.

Wishes wander through the church cabin below

lifting the bridal veil to hear lovers vows

shared on a fine morning born.

Oh what sighs echoes from El Capitan,
doused by streams of tears from the maiden

of Yosemite Fall or

witness promises split

On Half Dome?

Today I come back with four unwinged angels

playing your silenced voice

that now roam this land:

the rustling leaves,  the warmth of the midday sun

the cool breeze enveloped me of sounds

that only souls hear!

If Divine solace received upon the view

from this Sacred Mount-

receive the Love Embrace painted with Might!

Stands on this Pedestal of Strength,

for Time shall wane the bonds of dust,

and settle to wipe the faces of these Mountains,

that in one moment suffering ceased

only a pastoral prayer, 

this solemn ode,

will no longer want!

_______________________

Meus Otium:

I wrote this a few years ago-- upon the loss of my boyfriend at the time.  It started more as a memory of a weekend trip to Yosemite-- the first time he wanted me to see it.  I think the main theme that came out of was lost dreams,  fleeting existence and the cruelty of our suffering which seem to wane when one finds oneself in such a beautiful place. It is a comfort that surpasses all understanding...  I came back with four friends and I included that here as a point of contrast and the captured stills and their voices fill this ode... The painting is from Frida Kahlo of the same title to her work...I feel it represents many of the sentiments brought here :-) Have a wonderful day!

Illusionary Road

Is this the road less traveled--
where the day awakens to an alarm of a cell call
to shackle a prisoner to be led?

Wrists bound while others have bled
Can there be such a road where we can be free with all--
Is this the road less traveled,

Mr. Frost? No silver coins under my lead bed
Perchance to dream on Elysium fields encased in a lead ball,
shackled to a prisoner to be led.

Postcards sent from the cliff's edge,
Solaced by winged words that lit my dimming candle
on this, the road less traveled.

Be my light, Be my night, You who traveled--

Shine on my darkest days when I wake only to grovel;
Shackle me like a prisoner to be led.

Deep into the realms of worlds you as Guide discovered,
Be thou the solemn worldly rest to break down this wall
to walk this road less traveled--
Unshackled prisoner to be led.

________________

Meus Otium:

I have always pondered about this road of life we are bound to walk on- but with its calling to live a life of unexpected twists and turns that often has more suffering than happiness (my personal opinion).  This process includes questioning the foundation of what is important- the belief in God , in oneself  and in others. What are the meaning in these things? We pave our lives with what we call "concrete" things but they are not real--are they? Though one directs the path they choose to walk on, there is still an element of being bound to it which to me brings a philosophical challenge to man's ultimate freedom. 

Villanelle much like haiku depend on the word choice to enrich a poem.  I began this poem in the night thinking about Robert Frost's poem "The Road Not Taken."  After having read it, I was meditating on the last lines "I took the one less traveled by," and wrote the first stanza with a feeling that we are bound to walk the road no matter which one we take, much like Sisyphus condemned to roll a rock uphill for eternity  We don't really have a choice in our birth (again another inherent supposition) but the rights we are bestowed are all questionable (by other minds)-- the road seems bleak to me, except of this singular reassurance I feel about poetry.  I think this is how I came up with a word that binds or imprisons and this alliteration of chains rattling as one walked would deliver the sentiment.  The repetition of - "shackle" in its various forms gives a progressive walk as if chains were dragging behind. 

This poem,  gives homage to what I call my prophets for they were more than voices to words  they have written .   There are various references I made to this have become the ultimate "Guide" because they have literally walked the walk.  "Elysium fields" homage to Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Perchance[to dream]" by Shakespeare, "Guide" by Milton and "Postcards from the edge" -- the "Postcard" series by Radinoti and "Wrists bound while others have bled," is in reference to:  Berryman,  Sexton, Plath, Crane (wrists have bled) and Dylan Thomas and Elizabeth Bishop in their own battle within their weakness.

UN ART

"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop


L'art de perdre n'est pas difficile à maîtriser;
tant de choses semblent remplis avec l'intention
à perdre que leur perte n'est pas un désastre.

Perde une chose chaque jour. Accepte l' enervement
des clés perdues, les heures mal utilisées.
L'art de perdre n'est pas dificile à maitriser.

Ensuite pratiquer de perdre plus loin, plus vite;
des places, et de noms, et où tu y étais destiné
à voyager. Rien de tout cela apportera des désastres.

J'ai perdu le montre de ma mère. Regardez! Ma dernière,
ou avant dernière, de trois maison bien aimées- disparue
L'art de perdre n'est pas difficile à maîtriser.

J'ai perdu deux villes, si belles, Et, plus vaste,
des domaines que j'ai eu, deux rivières, un continent.
Ils me manquent, mais ce n'etait pas un désastre.

--Même de te perdre (ta voix badine , un geste
que j'adore) Je n'aurai pas eu menti. C'est évident
l'art de perdre n'est pas si  difficile à maîtriser
mais, qu' il peut sembler comme (Ecris-le!)comme un désastre.



_____________
This translation came about when I was talking about the poems of Ms. Bishop with a friend of mine in Paris. He hadn't heard nor read any of her poems so I tried to look for a translation.  To my amazement, I could not find one and only ones by other poets who translated one or two of her work.  I will start working on translating others where I feel my French is sufficient to do so...
I welcome any suggestions to make this as close as the original villanelle form.

One Art, One hair strand-- through civilizations...In Memoriam

an entirely human hair made temple of pseudo-chinese, english, hindi, arabic and synthesized english-chinese, chinese ming dynasty's furniture tv monitors, a video film heaven.  13' x 52' x 20' A permanent collection of hong kong museum of art

The Averrhoa Tree

I am playing, picking handfuls of

jade tears fallen from  faces of ghosts

swept by monsoon floods dried by summer's end.

In my absence its leaves withered as

lactating white sap unfurled sculptures of amber,

Worshipped by ants whose voices praise:

Those soured hours of stewed hearts 

sweetened to raisins in a jam jar

--Night falls behind the shadows.

Puno ng Kamias

Kami'y naglalaro namimili sa hakot 

ng mga batong-lungtian na nangaling sa luha ng mga ninuno,
tinangay ng baguio natuyo sa bilad ng tag-araw.

Sa aking pagalis, ang dahon niya'y nalanta
ngunit sa kanyang puting dakta umuuslong mga lilok ng ambar
sinamba ng mga langam walang tinig na kakapapuri--

sa mga oras na umaasim,  pusong nalalasay parang
pasas na pinatamis sa isang garapon halaya,
sa pagdilim ng gabi ay sinusubaybayan lamang ng lilim.

The Dragonfly

After the poem "The Man-Moth" by Elizabeth Bishop

Here, below,

the two worlds separate by a veil of fine film wall,

where shadows break, rippling as  shimmering light

swaying like the billowed curtains --an eclipsed view of 

Sprites as young nymphs dancing on this stage of

pale blue shaded pond to the green cold quiet streams.

They inhabit the night moon, the elegant  warm spring,

peering from the womb into the cloudless sky paved with roads

lined with veined marble fossils.

  

            But when the Dragonfly

molts,  he springs from everlasting youth to ascend a final leap,

packing his green, blue, red, and purple suit. Emerging

into the hot humid air with 30,000 suns before his eyes

the viscous aroma draped with fragrant  lotus of summer

along the sidewalks, the meandering stream filled with

swaying blades of grass oiled in morning dew.

He climbs high chasing the breeze-- searching.

 
            Up this revelry

his shadow drips like sand trailing behind the beach before him

rising boldly, thinking as a dragon, breathing fire to shield the

stained glass wings that seem to crumple in the open sky above.

As if forced to discover this new world,  he voraciously gnaws

(Man, enchanted by him, builds a mosaic of illusions)

on green leaves landing at arm's reach captured as a

winged creature, leashed yet eager to fulfill unscathed.

             In every  season,

he returns to the familial oceanic realm he calls home. He writhes,

he flusters, relentless aboard the train bound for unknown
destination almost in a hurried fight, the only enemy Fate follows 

behind.  The Dragonfly hardly misses a spot, peering though this 

veil scaling the heights of eagles, shifting speed and gear
without hestiation before a storm or torrential rain, that--
Thinking of having missed something,  flies backwards.

             Each Autumn night

he sings ancestral night songs reflected on his wings
This dragonfly serenades wind and water with new songs
ridding himself of words heard from voices of every living thing,

seen through on a passing train, each window scene played

on this diaphanous veil floating on the water watching it

again and again, hovering above the children

speaking as their prophet out from a cave!

            If he lets you

catch him, gently take the offering tail as it points to the sky,

the entire cycle itself, the grasp six times tighter, focuses all eyes

on you.  Here, this Jurassic marble whose strands sewn into mine,

opens with wide wings,  unfettered by the thread now wrapped
around the tail,  gifts the last cordial possession,

parting with him in flight flies like an origami kite--

unstrung, linked only by a strands of dreams that ripple
from the deep blue pond to the breaking night sky.

Ab Initio

I begin a voyage of discovery
of words plucked from obscurity
to summon the forces of
Lorca's Duende
as my voice echoes
from the heights of human
achievement to the valleys
of immovable mountains
as winds carve this
sculpture:
Birth of Venus.

I am here today not to write
poetry, but live as the

fragile ink on papyrus roll,
flaking gold leaflets
peeling from the
lips of Pharaohs,
treasure laden stories
weaved in to cowebs of
trapped spiders.

Born in each blood cell,
flowing inside arteries nourish
the soil of this fertile Nile
as the iron rusts of red
harvest moon.  This is
my soul, seeping deeper in
the ground, until I am dug up
by another Sisyphus.

I was brought to Olympus,
as dust on Hermes sandals,
to rest as glitter on the
on purple silk garment,
Swaying with a belly dancer whose
breasts now turned to stone.

From Angkor Wat to Shangri-la 
follow the road to Nirvana,
I find remnants of dreams
fragmented memories
when I stare in the eyes
of the present,
born a second time.

A Guanyin Perspective