“We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves.”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
I suppose each of us on some level make a deal with the devil, like Goethe's Dr. Faustus. Sometimes, the devil is a person, a job, a belief, or situation. Sometimes, it's a lie we tell ourselves until we believe it. Until the deception is the truth and we believe it, completely, regardless of personal harm or unhappiness. Many times we resign ourselves to our fate and continue on with the devil we know, rather than gather our courage and head to the edge of the world where cartographers warned, "there be dragons here" and the Vikings believed the Valkyries lurked.
The end is right there in the beginning. We know the truth, even if we chose to deceive ourselves.
At this moment, at 12:59 am in the morning, while my dogs sleep peacefully in thier dreams of utter veracity, I declare I saw the end that first day, and every day since, and that I have seen, and I will see, and at this moment, I see, the end, the beginning, and the finale.
I see, and can no longer deceive myself.
Poem Therapy at 7:24 P.M. - Walt Whitman & Charles Wright
A Noiseless Patient Spider
Walt Whitman
A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to
connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor
hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.
Spider Crystal Ascension
Charles Wright
The spider, juiced crystal and Milky Way, drifts on his web through the night sky
And looks down, waiting for us to ascend ...
At dawn he is still there, invisible, short of breath, mending his net.
All morning we look for the white face to rise from the lake like a tiny star.
And when it does, we lie back in our watery hair and rock.
Walt Whitman
A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to
connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor
hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.
Spider Crystal Ascension
Charles Wright
The spider, juiced crystal and Milky Way, drifts on his web through the night sky
And looks down, waiting for us to ascend ...
At dawn he is still there, invisible, short of breath, mending his net.
All morning we look for the white face to rise from the lake like a tiny star.
And when it does, we lie back in our watery hair and rock.
Poets & Writers - Weird Deer
This just in from the July 2010 Poets & Writers print issue, News and Trends, 3 for Free article on pg. 16.
Weird Deer no doubt qualifies as one of those incredibly simple ideas that never cease to be intriguing. Here's what you do: Call(206)569-5451, wait for the beep, read your poem or story or thought or essay or what have you in three minutes or less, hang up, email the title of the aforementioned work and your name to nichols.travis@gmail.com, and wait to see if your mp3 file is posted on the Web site. In the meantime, listen for free to those that have been. (weirddeermedia.com)
Weird Deer no doubt qualifies as one of those incredibly simple ideas that never cease to be intriguing. Here's what you do: Call(206)569-5451, wait for the beep, read your poem or story or thought or essay or what have you in three minutes or less, hang up, email the title of the aforementioned work and your name to nichols.travis@gmail.com, and wait to see if your mp3 file is posted on the Web site. In the meantime, listen for free to those that have been. (weirddeermedia.com)
Poem Therapy at 8:32 P.M.- Afzal Ahmed Syed
If My Voice Is Not Reaching You
Afzal Ahmed Syed
If my voice is not reaching you
add to it the echo—
echo of ancient epics
And to that—
a princess
And to the princess—your beauty
And to your beauty—
a lover's heart
And in the lover's heart
a dagger
There always has to be a dagger, doesn't there? Tragedy sells far better than bliss. Happiness is awesome, don't get me wrong, but it's the rough patches that show you, and the entire world, if anyone is watching, who you really are.
Think about the people you know, or think you know, like celebrities, who appear to have it all, who appear to be really, really happy. Now look at the legions of resentful people surrounding them, just waiting, hoping beyond hope, for tragedy to strike, and strike hard.
We humans love incredible success stories, romances, tales of heroism, but oh man, do we love to see it all go south, for the riches to turn to rags, love to fester like a cancer, heroes to disappoint and betray.
Why? Ask Aristotle. We love blood-soaked tragedy. Somebody else's, of course, so we can live vicariously, wallow in virtual muck, offer righteous platitudes, prurient insights,and be seriously relieved that we dodged yet another bullet.
Gone With the Wind wouldn't have been the emotional TKO if Rhett had forgiven Scarlett and taken her into his arms, instead of telling the narcissistic little brat he'd had enough of her fiddle-de-deeing b.s. by declaring, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." That damn was pretty big expletive news in 1939,definitely pre-Trarintino effing, effing, effing, effing f-bomb era.
Back to the dagger in the heart: not all love stories have to end in tragedy, contempt, or apathy. Some love stories can be boring, as in gentle, loving, unselfish, genuine.
Hmmm, I suppose I'm a glass half full kinda' gal, after all. But, don't expect me to start watching romantic comedies any time soon.
Afzal Ahmed Syed
If my voice is not reaching you
add to it the echo—
echo of ancient epics
And to that—
a princess
And to the princess—your beauty
And to your beauty—
a lover's heart
And in the lover's heart
a dagger
There always has to be a dagger, doesn't there? Tragedy sells far better than bliss. Happiness is awesome, don't get me wrong, but it's the rough patches that show you, and the entire world, if anyone is watching, who you really are.
Think about the people you know, or think you know, like celebrities, who appear to have it all, who appear to be really, really happy. Now look at the legions of resentful people surrounding them, just waiting, hoping beyond hope, for tragedy to strike, and strike hard.
We humans love incredible success stories, romances, tales of heroism, but oh man, do we love to see it all go south, for the riches to turn to rags, love to fester like a cancer, heroes to disappoint and betray.
Why? Ask Aristotle. We love blood-soaked tragedy. Somebody else's, of course, so we can live vicariously, wallow in virtual muck, offer righteous platitudes, prurient insights,and be seriously relieved that we dodged yet another bullet.
Gone With the Wind wouldn't have been the emotional TKO if Rhett had forgiven Scarlett and taken her into his arms, instead of telling the narcissistic little brat he'd had enough of her fiddle-de-deeing b.s. by declaring, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." That damn was pretty big expletive news in 1939,definitely pre-Trarintino effing, effing, effing, effing f-bomb era.
Back to the dagger in the heart: not all love stories have to end in tragedy, contempt, or apathy. Some love stories can be boring, as in gentle, loving, unselfish, genuine.
Hmmm, I suppose I'm a glass half full kinda' gal, after all. But, don't expect me to start watching romantic comedies any time soon.
Utah Arts Festival 2010 - Big Mouth Cafe Poetry Reading
I received a request to forward a poem from a very hip local poet who will be reading at the Utah Arts Festival. I assume, (and we all know what a slippery slope assuming anything can be), that he will be reading one of my poems as part of a community poetry reading. He will be reading his poems, perhaps one of mine, I just don't know for certain, Sat 06/26 05:30pm - 06:00pm at the Big Mouth Café Stage in Salt Lake City. Check it out. Actually, if you're anywhere near Utah, this is the place! (and I even provided an inside joke for all you locals...this is the place... get it!) psst, if you don't, in addition to being a heritage/theme park, it's what Brigham Young, (second Mormon prophet who spearheaded the Mormom Pioneer move West), is reported to have said when he looked out over the Salt Lake valley the very first time.
Click on the This is The Place Heritage Park site's virtual tour and you can see my ancestor, Levi Robert's cabin, which incidentally, was so well built it didn't have to be dismantled for the move from the banks of Kayscreek to its new home at the This is The Place Heritage Park.
Levi Roberts was a basket weaver in case you're wondering. Weaver's Lane is named after him. You can still find some pretty fabulous reeds growing on the creekbank. Also, in case you like really useful trivia about obscure pioneer types, Levi was Joseph Smith's bodyguard, (Joseph Smith was the first Mormon prophet). FYI: Levi wasn't on the job when Joseph Smith was shot dead.
Supposedly, Levi buried a cache of gold on the property, but many a treasure seeker wielding a metal detecter has been utterly disappointed. The property is currently under development, so unless a construction worker unearths a bag of gold, it's a story left to local myth tellers.
Here's trivia a little more gruesome about the property, in the category of airing dirty family laundry. I happed upon this story by accident when my Grandmother let the family secret slip. Once I had its scent, I tracked down as much of it as possible from primary sources before they died, then went to the now defunct publication The Clipper, and gathered ordinary heresay,for the rest.
Here's the dish: My Uncle Snowden, (yes, that is his real name), found his Uncle Henry dead, face down near the cabin, stabbed to death. I can only imagine the long term emotional rammifications on Uncle Snowden.
From what I understand, Henry's murder didn't cause a public call to arms to avenge him, probably because he was known to be of a raw meat temperament, and mainly because, it was common knowledge that his long suffering wife had finally gotten fed up with being a punching bag, and she had a great many sympathizers. Long story short: the murder was pinned on a transient, who just happened to escape the law by jumping a nearby train to freedom. Win-win for everybody.
I'll find out and let you know if one of my poems will be read at the Festival. Until then, here are the three poems I submitted, and two I wish I had. Let me know what you think.
1.
Karma Will Cut You to Ribbons
Danna
go back to that sightless fish swimming
inside the cave of the body
toward the dark-haired girl
her virgin skin shimmering
in the kitchen's ambient moonlight
metal ringing in her ears
knives falling from the rocking table
like reverberating echoes pinging
through the cave's recessess
to the waxed linoleum floor
go back to the girl looking to the doorway
her shadow self standing at the threshold
a slow hiss lifting in her coiling tresses
2.
Shekel of Tyre
Danna
looking at a dead man's mouth,
what is the use of god
or money unspent?
give me hunger,
greed to be alive
give me silver,
the betrayer's coin,
holy and invoilable,
coin enough for a slave
or a life
3.
Driving to Mercury
Danna
We shred ribbons of highway
stretching across the planet's surface
under the watchful eyes of the stars
the car's headlights illuminating our path
I am strapped into the driver seat
hands holding the steering wheel loosely
heading toward that dark horizon
pulled by its gleaming iron core
My dog is curled in the passenger seat
whimpering in his dreams
He is unaware the smallest planet
of the solar system
is expecting our arrival
We must hurry into the distance
to win the race with the swift-
footed messenger's flight across the heavens
before he disappears
once again in the morning light
4.
Wish You Were Here
Danna
Dear Siobhan.,
I wish you were here beside me,
alternating between holding
your breath and screaming curses
into the swirling chaos. The sky
is a threatening lapis blue,
and the trees are bent in a sideways
prayer beneath the wind's finger.
You always loved to be scared,
always loved knowing that the whirlwind
was out on the horizon waiting for you,
sharpening its scythe on its leather strop.
5.
What Goes Around
Danna
the burdens of the dead
float inside him
like a boat made of sharp bones
his own death is coming
a shadow out on the dark water
Click on the This is The Place Heritage Park site's virtual tour and you can see my ancestor, Levi Robert's cabin, which incidentally, was so well built it didn't have to be dismantled for the move from the banks of Kayscreek to its new home at the This is The Place Heritage Park.
Levi Roberts was a basket weaver in case you're wondering. Weaver's Lane is named after him. You can still find some pretty fabulous reeds growing on the creekbank. Also, in case you like really useful trivia about obscure pioneer types, Levi was Joseph Smith's bodyguard, (Joseph Smith was the first Mormon prophet). FYI: Levi wasn't on the job when Joseph Smith was shot dead.
Supposedly, Levi buried a cache of gold on the property, but many a treasure seeker wielding a metal detecter has been utterly disappointed. The property is currently under development, so unless a construction worker unearths a bag of gold, it's a story left to local myth tellers.
Here's trivia a little more gruesome about the property, in the category of airing dirty family laundry. I happed upon this story by accident when my Grandmother let the family secret slip. Once I had its scent, I tracked down as much of it as possible from primary sources before they died, then went to the now defunct publication The Clipper, and gathered ordinary heresay,for the rest.
Here's the dish: My Uncle Snowden, (yes, that is his real name), found his Uncle Henry dead, face down near the cabin, stabbed to death. I can only imagine the long term emotional rammifications on Uncle Snowden.
From what I understand, Henry's murder didn't cause a public call to arms to avenge him, probably because he was known to be of a raw meat temperament, and mainly because, it was common knowledge that his long suffering wife had finally gotten fed up with being a punching bag, and she had a great many sympathizers. Long story short: the murder was pinned on a transient, who just happened to escape the law by jumping a nearby train to freedom. Win-win for everybody.
I'll find out and let you know if one of my poems will be read at the Festival. Until then, here are the three poems I submitted, and two I wish I had. Let me know what you think.
1.
Karma Will Cut You to Ribbons
Danna
go back to that sightless fish swimming
inside the cave of the body
toward the dark-haired girl
her virgin skin shimmering
in the kitchen's ambient moonlight
metal ringing in her ears
knives falling from the rocking table
like reverberating echoes pinging
through the cave's recessess
to the waxed linoleum floor
go back to the girl looking to the doorway
her shadow self standing at the threshold
a slow hiss lifting in her coiling tresses
2.
Shekel of Tyre
Danna
looking at a dead man's mouth,
what is the use of god
or money unspent?
give me hunger,
greed to be alive
give me silver,
the betrayer's coin,
holy and invoilable,
coin enough for a slave
or a life
3.
Driving to Mercury
Danna
We shred ribbons of highway
stretching across the planet's surface
under the watchful eyes of the stars
the car's headlights illuminating our path
I am strapped into the driver seat
hands holding the steering wheel loosely
heading toward that dark horizon
pulled by its gleaming iron core
My dog is curled in the passenger seat
whimpering in his dreams
He is unaware the smallest planet
of the solar system
is expecting our arrival
We must hurry into the distance
to win the race with the swift-
footed messenger's flight across the heavens
before he disappears
once again in the morning light
4.
Wish You Were Here
Danna
Dear Siobhan.,
I wish you were here beside me,
alternating between holding
your breath and screaming curses
into the swirling chaos. The sky
is a threatening lapis blue,
and the trees are bent in a sideways
prayer beneath the wind's finger.
You always loved to be scared,
always loved knowing that the whirlwind
was out on the horizon waiting for you,
sharpening its scythe on its leather strop.
5.
What Goes Around
Danna
the burdens of the dead
float inside him
like a boat made of sharp bones
his own death is coming
a shadow out on the dark water
What I Made Today - Collage #4
Jupiter's ButterflyThis is my reward for working hard all day. I am almost done. Just one more hoop to jump through, and then it's summer vacation!
What I Made Today - Three Collages
Our Lady of the Rubies and Starlings #2
Our Lady of Rubies and Starlings
Halo GoddessI'm supposed to be finishing a very important letter, but instead I'm playing around on Photoshop reworking a few of my collages. I generally use my collages as sketches for paintings, but recently instead of painting, I'm making digital art. It's a lot of fun!
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