between galaxies
a mighty morphing B E I N G
creates his play-mates
all rights
Poland 2021
Galactic God
27 Jan 2021 Leave a comment
in Poetry Tags: all righta2021, between galaxies, creates his play-mates, Galactic God, mighty morphing BEING
bouquet
26 Jan 2021 Leave a comment
in Poetry Tags: amaryllis, bouquet, glows, golden star, in sky, petaled fuschia
amaryllis glows
its golden star in sky of
petaled fuschia
all rights
Jeanne
2021
A Chat:
25 Jan 2021 Leave a comment
in Poetry Tags: A Chat, calm in the storm, faithfulness, gratitude, I will never let you go, immortalize your poem, love is eternal, never give enough love, one in the love of Christ, One kiss makes me a King, place to run when aching, precious, shelter in rain, soar like an eagle, sparkled light when lost, spring in winter, sweet herbs, sweet when bitter, the treasure I seek, you're all i see, your tender skin
Contemporary writer of our time
22 Jan 2021 Leave a comment
in Poetry Tags: All the time, always finish around 3 in the morning, Aryn Kyle, Boys and Girls like you and me, clench your jae and power through, Contemporary writer of our time, Emily Dickinson lived in an attic, more I trust this process, Not at All, the, The Foaling Season, The God of Angels
It’s the birthday of Aryn Kyle, born in Peoria, Illinois, in 1978.
Her first novel, The God of Animals (2007), was an award-winning international best-seller.
She always wanted to be a writer. And starting in the fourth grade she started writing stories about young girls who like animals. One of those stories, “The Foaling Season,” was published in The Atlantic Monthly, and it won the National Magazine Award for Fiction. “The Foaling Season” became the first chapter of her first novel, The God of Animals (2007). Four days after she finished the draft, the novel sold. When it was published, critics called her one of the best young novelists in America.
She’s not a daily writer or a rigidly disciplined one. In fact, she said, “I tend to have two speeds when it comes to writing: All The Time; and Not At All.” She said:
“Months pass in which I don’t work at all. But when I am writing, that’s all I do. I hardly sleep, hardly eat, hardly have any contact with the outside world. I stop answering my phone, I don’t respond to emails, I forget to pay my bills. This is neither terribly healthy nor terribly good for my social life, but I try to remind myself that Emily Dickinson lived in an attic, which makes me feel well adjusted by comparison.”
She said that as she gets older, she trusts this process more. “I can only loaf around for so long before I start to feel pent-up and anxious, before I feel a skittish energy begin to build inside of me, and then I know it’s time to get back to work.”
She loves the thrill of beginning a new story and she loves the glory of finishing a first draft. But all of that time writing in between can be difficult and discouraging, she said, like “digging through concrete with a salad fork” or being “adrift in threads that don’t tie together and arcs that go nowhere.” At that point, she says, there’s nothing to do but “clench your jaw and power through.”
She said:
“Finishing a story is truly the most amazing experience in the world. … It’s like being on the most fantastic, perfect drugs. I feel like I can fly. Literally. Everything I’ve ever written has been finished around 3:00 in the morning — probably because I write at night — and when I’m done, I’m filled with so much adrenaline, I can hardly contain myself. I want to go running or dancing or find a trampoline.”
Her most recent book, is a short-story collection called Boys and Girls Like You and Me (2010). In it, she writes:
“She wasn’t bored, not exactly. There were a lot of things she liked about Mark. His jawline smelled like crayons and freshly cut grass. His hands were always clean. At night, he curled his body around her in bed, one arm beneath her neck, the other looped across her waist. She would press herself into the warm weight of him and feel his breath, damp and hot on her throat. And in that foggy place between sleep and waking, he could have been anyone. That was what she liked most about him: In the darkness, he became whomever she wanted.”
from the Poetry Almanac, Jan 22,2021
Love…in words
21 Jan 2021 Leave a comment
in Poetry Tags: 2011, a squeal of pain, and no one else, blanketed by snow, drops a veil of mist around her, essential to me, how I miss you, I love you too much to be stand-offish, I treasure your discourses, I want to be with you, I want you so frightfully, iridescent waterfalls, Italy, Jan 21, longest and most charming love letter in literature, Love...in words, Neil Waldman, Orlando, thr movie released in 2018, Vita and Virginia, Vita Sackville-West to Virinia Woolf, Writer's Almanac, you have broken down my defences
Let the olives reign
by Neil Waldman
Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf
So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don’t really resent it. However I won’t bore you with any more.
We have re-started, and the train is shaky again. I shall have to write at the stations — which are fortunately many across the Lombard plain. …The waterfalls in Switzerland were frozen into solid iridescent curtains of ice, hanging over the rock; so lovely. And Italy all blanketed in snow.
We’re going to start again. I shall have to wait till Trieste tomorrow morning. Please forgive me for writing such a miserable letter.”
The following January—a year later—Vita wrote to Virginia:
“My darling, I hoped I should wake up less depressed this morning, but I didn’t. I went to bed last night as black as a sweep. The awful dreariness of Westphalia makes it worse: factory towns, mounds of slag, flat country, and some patches of dirty snow. … Why aren’t you with me? Oh, why? I do want you so frightfully. I want more than ever to travel with you; it seems to me now the height of my desire, and I get into despair wondering how it can ever be realised. Can it, do you think? Oh my lovely Virginia, it is dreadful how I miss you, and everything that everybody says seems flat and stupid.
I do hope more and more that you won’t go to America, I am sure it would be too tiring for you, and anyway I am sure you wouldn’t like it. …
So we bundle along over Germany, and very dull it is — Surely I haven’t lost my zest for travel? No, it is not that; it is simply that I want to be with you and not with anybody else — But you will get bored if I go on saying this, only it comes back and back till it drips off my pen — Do you realise that I shall have to wait for over a fortnight before I can hear from you? poor me. I hadn’t thought of that before leaving, but now it bulks very large and horrible. What may not happen to you in the course of a fortnight? you may get ill, fall in love, Heaven knows what.
I shall work so hard, partly to please you, partly to please myself, partly to make the time go and have something to show for it. I treasure your sudden discourse on literature yesterday morning, — a send-off to me, rather like Polonius to Laertes. It is quite true that you have had infinitely more influence on me intellectually than anyone, and for this alone I love you.”
Shortly after she received this letter, Virginia Woolf came up with the idea for a new novel, inspired by Vita, who often liked to dress up in men’s clothes. That novel was Orlando: A Biography (1928), about a transgender writer who lives for hundreds of years. Vita’s son Nigel wrote, “The effect of Vita on Virginia is all contained in Orlando … in which she explores Vita, weaves her in and out of the centuries, tosses her from one sex to the other, plays with her, dresses her in furs, lace and emeralds, teases her, flirts with her, drops a veil of mist around her.” He calls Orlando “the longest and most charming love letter in literature.”
They ended their affair in the late 1920s but stayed friends until Virginia Woolf’s death in 1941. The relationship is chronicled in Vita and Virginia: The Work and Friendship of V. Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf (1993), written by Suzanne Raitt . Vita and Virginia, a movie based on the book, was released in 2018.
from the Writer’s Almanac Jan 21, 2021
Chinese food on Sunday…
20 Jan 2021 Leave a comment
in Poetry
how refreshing was our chinese food on Sunday and ice cream for dessert
Dinner Out
by Christopher Howell
We went to either the Canton Grill
or the Chinese Village, both of them
on Eighty-second among the car lots
and discount stores and small nests
of people waiting hopelessly
for the bus. I preferred the Canton
for its black and bright red sign
with the dragon leaping out of it
and sneezing little pillows of smoke.
And inside, the beautiful green
half-shell booths, glittery brass encrusted
lamps swinging above them.
What would I have?
Sweet and sour?
Chow mein with little wagon wheel- shaped
slices of okra and those crinkly noodles
my father called deep fried worms?
Fried rice?
Among such succulence, what did it matter?
We could eat ’til we were glad and full, the whole
family sighing with the pleasure of it.
And then the tea
All of this for about six bucks, total,
my father, for that once-in-a-while, feeling
flush in the glow of our happy faces
and asking me, “How you doing, son?”
Fine, Dad. Great, really, in the light
of that place, almost tasting
the salt and bean paste and molasses, nearly
hearing the sound of the car door
opening before we climbed in together
and drove and drove,
though we hadn’t far to go.
“Dinner Out” by Christopher Howell, from Light’s Ladder. © University of Washington Press, 2004. Used by permission
those who dream by day…
19 Jan 2021 Leave a comment
in Poetry Tags: a midnight Weary, Baudelaire prayed to Poe, Boston 1809, Fall of House of Usher, fiction writers, Gothic Tales, Gothis Horror, invented psychological horror and detective stories, married his cousin, nincompoops, no copywrite law, Tell-Tale Heart, The Raven, those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night, wrote darker stories
Edgar Allan Poe wrote, “They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”
Edgar Allan Poe born in Boston in 1809
Parents died when he was two.
He wrote many poems while in the army and at West Point.
He described Longfellow and Whittier as nincompoops.
Married his fourteen year old cousin who developed tuberculosis like his parents, and he began to write darker stories.
He invented Gothic Horror Stories.
He made about $4 per article and $15 per story, and the magazines were notoriously late with their paychecks. There was no international copyright law at the time, and so his stories were printed without his permission throughout Europe.
It was under these conditions, suffering from alcoholism, and watching his wife grow slowly worse in health, that he wrote “The Tell-Tale Heart” and “The Fall of the House of Usher,” considered some of the greatest Gothic horror stories in English literature.
Near the end of his wife’s illness, he published his most famous poem, “The Raven,” about a young man visited by a raven in the middle of the night, and who comes to believe that the bird is possessed by the spirit of his dead lover, Lenore.
It begins,
“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —”
For many years after his death, Poe was considered by critics in this country to be a mere sensationalist writer of Gothic tales. But much of his work was translated into French, where he inspired a generation of surrealist poets and fiction writers, including Charles Baudelaire, who said that he prayed every morning to God, to his father, and to Poe.
Today Poe is credited with having invented the psychological horror story and the detective story.
force your heart and nerve and sinew …
18 Jan 2021 Leave a comment
in Poetry Tags: Archangel Ariel, be a Man, distance run, don't be tired by waiting, don't deal in lies, force your heart and nerve and sinew..., forgiveness, keep your head, meet with triumph and disaster, Rudyard Kipling, self-confidence, start again, strength and grace through kindness
IF
by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating
, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; I
f you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken
, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son
Lord, you discern my thoughts from afar…
17 Jan 2021 Leave a comment
in Poetry Tags: acquainted with my ways, behind and before me, clean the errors with repentence, colour it with love, discern my thoughts, draw the lines with prayers, How deep I find your thoughts, I am marvelously made, I was woven in the depths of the earth, know it altogether, know thw words on my lips, Life is like a painting, LoganRay Grant, Lord, more numerous than sand, my body not hidden from you, my resting places, Psalm 139, such knowledge is so high, trace my journeys, unfisished in the womb, you discern my thoughts from afar...Psalm 139, you have searched me, your works are wonderful
Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17
Domine, probasti
Lord, you have searched me out and known me; *
you know my sitting down and my rising up;
you discern my thoughts from afar.
You trace my journeys and my resting-places *
and are acquainted with all my ways.
Indeed, there is not a word on my lips, *
but you, O Lord, know it altogether.
You press upon me behind and before *
and lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; *
it is so high that I cannot attain to it.
For you yourself created my inmost parts; *
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I will thank you because I am marvelously made; *
your works are wonderful, and I know it well.
My body was not hidden from you, *
while I was being made in secret
and woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes beheld my limbs, yet unfinished in the womb;
all of them were written in your book; *
they were fashioned day by day,
when as yet there was none of them.
How deep I find your thoughts, O God! *
how great is the sum of them!
If I were to count them, they would be more in number than the sand; *
to count them all, my life span would need to be like yours.
Life is just like a painting.
You draw the lines with prayers,
Clean the errors with repentence,
and colour it with love.
written by Logan Ray Grant 2021
The Vibrant Channeled Creator 