Sunday, November 15, 2009

Vincent Van Gogh - "The Starry Night" - 1889

An album by Yvalain (on Jamendo) I am now listening to: "Baroque Guitars"
My review: "Sweetly singing guitars. Peaceful and relaxing. The music was obviously created to be enjoyed by human beings in need of stress reduction. Yvalain creates his music with care, talent and love. I have no fault to find with this album."

Some untitled poems I wrote in the 1980's:

Beyond the call of nature
Is the song of the Soul;
Beyond the gray horizons
Is the tapestry of the stars;
Woven into eternal space
Is the center of hope
Where time is sent away.

Beyond the mountain stream
Is the thunder of the seas;
Beyond the ice of winter
Is the promise of the spring.
Gathered as the flowers
Are the hopes
That set men free;
Hope is all the promises
That we have never seen.

Beyond the day that is
Is the day that will come to be;
Beyond the passing moment
Is the moment to be free.


We saw the robin flying
Singing in the breeze.
We saw the robin dying
Dropping cold to freeze.
Snapping neck on glass partition,
The glass as cold as ice;
Robin seeking his own reflection
Came to kiss his eyes.

Who loved the orange feathers?
Who loved the crying beak?
We sing our love for the robin
On his back with upturned feet.

Can't you hear the robin singing
Winging in the air so free?


An interlude here: not about art but something I remember from long ago. I was on playground duty in the midst of winter and a group of small boys came running to me, visibly upset and needing assistance: for a small dead robin lying at the edge of the baseball diamond. A dozen boys were crouched around this tiny object with raw emotion upon their rough little faces. Asking me what to do:
"Save it Ms. Wolfsong." 
"Why don't it fly away?"
"Can't it sing anymore?"
Death is undeniable and almost always hurts. 
I told the little boys, "He is gone, he was sick but now he doesn't hurt anymore. I cannot help him and we will leave him to nature, because nature knows exactly what to do with the dead." 
As I walked away, the little boys continued to grieve over the fallen bird, and some of these young, hardened by their own lives, decided to pray, and crossed themselves in the manner of their own trembling faith. They were holding a funeral for the dead. In a few moments, as I watched, they ran off to join the game of soccer.


I feel so alone
Even though you are near.
Will our souls
Ever touch?
Will my cry
Ever reach your ear?


Who count stars
Get lost in the night sky.
Burnt amber
Creeps along the horizon
Like wine spilled
                            On a table.
Trees whisper
Summer things
Leaning nearer
Black and looming.
Winds sigh songs
Touch a face
Tease a soul.
A falling star
A wound in 
                the purple velvet.
A child dreams
And smiles
A secret wish
Never to be forgotten.


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