Tag Archives: POEMS + PASSAGES
The only people for me are the mad ones……
** The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!” ~ Keourac
Image via whatgives365.wordpress.com
Kairos * Chronos
From Walking on Water, by Madeleine L’Engle:
Kairos. Real time. God’s time.
That time which breaks through chronos with a shock of joy, that time we do not recognize while we are experiencing it, but only afterwards, because kairos has nothing to do with chronological time. In kairos we are completely unselfconscious, and yet paradoxically far more real than we can ever be when we’re constantly checking our watches for chronological time.
The saint in contemplation, lost to self in the mind of God is in kairos. The artist at work is in kairos. The child at play, totally thrown outside herself in the game, be it building a sand castle or making a daisy chain, is in kairos. In kairos we become what we are called to be as human beings, co-creators with God, touching on the wonder of creation.
This calling should not be limited to artists, or saints, but it is a fearful calling. It is both Mana and taboo. It can destroy as well as bring into being. Continue reading
Kiss me and you will see how important I am.
Star Firsts on Nerve
Compiled by Dana Cook
Title Quote: Sylvia Plath
A Refined Hedoism by Sylvia Plath
“I remember a cool river beach and a May night full of
rain held in far clouds, moonly sparks saying on the water and the
close, dank, heavy wetness of green vegetation. The water was cold to
my bare feet, and the mud oozed up between my toes. He ran on the sand,
and I ran after him, my hair long and damp, blowing free across my
mouth. I could feel the inevitable magnetic polar forces in us, and the
tidal blood beat loud, loud, roaring in my ears, slowing and rhythmic.
He paused then, I behind him, arms locked around the powerful ribs,
fingers caressing him. To lie, with him, to lie with him, burning
forgetful in the delicious animal fire. Locked first upright, thighs
ground together, shuddering mouth to mouth, breast to breast, legs
enmeshed, then lying full length, with the good heavy weight of body
upon body, arching, undulating, blind, growing together, force fighting
force: To kill? To drive into burning dark of oblivion? To lose
identity? Not love, this, quite. But something else rather. A refined hedonism.
Hedonism because of the blind sucking mouthing fingering quest for
physical gratification. Refined because of the desire to stimulate
another in return, not being quite only concerned for self alone, but
mostly so. An easy end to arguments on the mouth: a warm meeting of
mouths, tongues quivering, licking, tasting. An easy substitute for bad
slashing with angry hating teeth and nails and voice: the curious
musical tempo of hands lifting under breasts, caressing throat,
shoulders, knees, thighs. And giving up to the corrosive black
whirlpool of mutual necessary destruction. Once there is the first
kiss, then the cycle becomes inevitable. Training, conditioning makes a
hunger burn in breasts and secrete fluid in vagina, driving madly for
destruction. What is it but destruction? Some mystic desire to beat to
sensual annihilation — to snuff out one’s identity on the identity of
the other — a mingling and mangling of identities? A death of one? Or
both? A devouring and subordination? No, no. A polarization rather — a
balance of two integrities, charging, electrically, one with the other,
yet with centers of coolness, like stars. (Northampton, Massachusetts,
early 1950s)”
via http://www.nerve.com/PersonalEssays/Cook/starfirsts/index.asp?page=Plath.asp
The Shimmering Verge …
“Imagine a paint chip – it’s blue. Imagine another paint chip
– it’s green.Now
get one greenish blue. And another one bluish green.Now
get one greenish blue closer to bluish green.Get
it so close that that you don’t know whether its blue or green anymore.
. .That’s
what I call the Shimmering Verge.And
that is the place where the poem occurs.”
We become aware of the void as we fill it.
Lenka Clayton Artist & Documentary Filmmaker.
Accidental Haiku
2008. found 1975 diary, colored tabs, wikipedia contemporary english-language Haiku definition
Exhibited in 7,000 stones etc. Alfred, New York
Title Quote: Antonio Porchia
In the power and splendor of the universe, inspiration waits for the millions to come. Man has only to strive for it. Poems greater than the Iliad, plays greater than Macbeth, stories more engaging than Don Quixote await their seeker and finder.
thatgamecompany | TGC » About.
I have never had the desire to play a video game until now ….
Title Quote: John Masefield
“thatgamecompany was founded in the Spring of 2006 by Jenova Chen and Kellee Santiago, two graduates of the University Southern California Interactive Media MFA program. They had worked on several projects together, including the multi-award winning student game, “Cloud,” and decided to continue working together on small, experimental games by forming a game studio that would focus on these projects.
At TGC (thatgamecompany) our goal is to make video games that communicate different emotional experiences the current video game market is not offering. We encourage innovation and experimentation and believe that our creative games will appeal to new, yet untapped, audiences.” -That Game Company
Everything is temporary. Everything is bound to the end.
Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.
Light Breather
The spirit moves,
Yet stays:
Stirs as a blossom stirs,
Still wet from its bud-sheath,
Slowly unfolding,
Turning in the light with its tendrils;
Plays as a minnow plays,
Tethered to a limp weed, swinging,
Tail around, nosing in and out of the current,
Its shadows loose, a watery finger;
Moves, like the snail,
Still inward,
Taking and embracing its surroundings,
Never wishing itself away,
Unafraid of what it is,
A music in a hood,
A small thing,
Singing.
Daily Poetics 