Poetry-6

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Feature Article An Ode to Morpheus Author: Ambreen Ishrat Another night and Morpheus has yet again to deliver my share of sleep and so I lie on my pillow, gazing at the ceiling fan, while the rest of the world is in deep slumber. How I wish to have hypnotized myself to sleep as counting sheep never helps, nor does hot milk. The sandman's sand has also turned colourless. Another night it is when sleep deludes my weary eyes and my overactive brain refuses to stop dwindling on the scenes of the day that has just ended and another one has started silently. Sleep - the boundary between the two days - is missing. What's the big deal, you must think, for every now and then, a sleepless night is quite a normal thing for everyone. But for some, this is an affliction that happens more often than usual. And what makes me hysterical is the feeling that on one such desperate night, you also tend to discover that you have run out of your emergency supply of sleeping pills. So much for my emergency-coping capabilities! The value of sleep can only be known to an insomniac and the bliss that it brings to one who is weary in soul as well. For me, sleep is what always restores my sanity, which can wear off the effects of gruesome schedules, worries and complications. It is a happy escape into the land of Oz, where I can slip into for a few hours and then come back to the familiar worrisome and often irksome daily routine. The problems remain the same, but my ability to cope with them certainly increases thrice-fold. Pimples on the tired skin reduce, the sting of heartaches lessen and deadlines become graspable. Like a magical transformation, overnight my body gets charged with energy. The brain starts brimming with activated and regenerated neurons and I rise as a new person who takes upon the irksome hurdles of yesterday with horns and does away with them. So silent seems the world around me that I can hear the beating of my own heart. My weary eyes start to roam and scan the length and breadth of the four corners of the room. This is my room, my heaven, my prison and my hell. The walls wear my solitude like trophies and silence curls on my bed and encapsulates me like a shroud, where I lie with my hands resting neatly by my sides. I lift the palm of my hand and feel my own breath at the back of my hand - to seek reassurance that I am still alive and this isn't the silence of the grave. And if that is not enough, my mind goes on speculating on and on as to why certain things happened. At night, my mind turns itself into a backyard cluttered with half-conceived and half-aborted ideas and plans that I keep on stumbling upon. All the wonderful ideas and resolutions which flit like bats in the nook and crannies of my mind fade away on seeing the light of day. The mind is also the graveyard of memories and remembrances, which are easily resurrected in the dead of the twelfth hour. As morbidity tries to seize me, I kick my sheet off and get up, wishing no more to wait upon sleep or revel in thoughts of the past, analysis of the day just gone by and pipe dreams of tomorrow. The chill gets the better of me and for one moment, the warmth of my bed tempts me to snuggle back again. But the body refuses to lay in monotony anymore. My mind swiftly scans the possibility of activities that can help me to kill time or to induce sufficient tiredness, forcing me to lull me back to the peaceful sojourn of sleep. A book to read maybe, a long overdue letter that needs to be answered or I can hook on the net and explore the web. All options are considered and struck off one after another, as my tired body protests. Hence, I decide to just lie low and breathe the surrounding silence in and out. I enviously think of those who are sound asleep in their beds. I even envy those who stay up late by choice and still manage to get along with their day-to-day routine just fine. The marvellous generation of 'night people' - a different genre. What do I have in common with them? It is during such strange moments of serenity and uncanny silence that the likes of Keats heard the voice of the nightingale and so transported himself to the realm of beyond, and Matthew Arnold contemplated upon the crisis of faith for the mortals. As for me, I stand as miserable and confused as ever, feeling stupid that I have exhausted my supply of sleeping pills. I am not up because I choose to. I don't have the luxury of getting up late. With bleary eyes and a puffy and exhausted face, I must brave the world. I must get up at the crack of dawn and return late into the afternoon. Feeling panicky, I start to pace around the room. I ransack my medicine box feverishly like an addict, for a pill that might have escaped my groping fingers and must be hiding in some corner. But none are to be found. I sigh, as I can do nothing else. I switch on the side lamp and see the room come alive in a soft hue of light and shadows, adding a delightfully mysterious and cozy look to the walls and ceiling. So often I am struck with the feeling that at nighttime, all non-living things tend to exude a life of their own. The fridge hums and drones silently, the walls whisper and breathe, as the electricity running behind them slithers, twists and runs with defying swiftness. I peer out of the window on to the street which looks deserted and dark. The carcass of a dying and spent moon is briefly revealed by the passing clouds and then its darkness again. Crickets creak, a dog lets out a churlish howl and the moths feverishly encircle the solitary lamp posts on the street, until the night watchman whistles and everything turns still, but only for a moment and then the rhythm resumes. A car passes by on the street, a midnight rider, whose stereo blare heinously and ruins the perfect harmony of the night and silence. As he passes away, the dog howls loudly in protest. The breeze at night feels so very gentle. A few dry leaves and the ubiquitous plastic bags are sucked up by the breeze and they start to dance in whirlwind motion. The breeze turns into a wind, which twirls the leaves round and round on the deserted road, around the lamp posts and finally spits them out in a corner and then carries on its ballet alone. I prick my ears. A low rustle! Then a moan. It is the wind again. And the wind does cry. I switch on to FM radio, hungry and desperate for a human voice. The radio hums and creaks as I set the bandwidth and finally sweet sounds of rhythm and blues start to emit, filling in my jarred senses with companionship and peace. So I listen on and on, silently humming and rocking myself to sooth the dull pain in my body. I take up a long-neglected poetry book. Hours pass till I finally hear a slight chirp and then another one. The FM station has gone silent ages ago and static emitting from the radio drones on. I keep my book away. I have survived a night without my sleeping pills and the delicate sensation of yesterday sleeps on my eyelids. I blink softly, hoping not to loose any of it. The aurora is wakening; the reign of darkness lies in recession. It's dawn and I am still looking through yesterday's eyes, though weary but with the hope that I am stepping into a new day and whatever it might bring. I will tackle it and I will tackle it well because I am a survivor, if not anything else. About the Author The author is a 26 years old single female, hailing from Karachi, Pakistan. She has earned her masters degree in English Literature from the University of Karachi. Currently working as a content and creative writer at an IT firm, she dreams of pursuing a M. Phil degree in literature some day. Her hobbies include reading and writing. For feedback, comments or critique she can be reached at galatia2001@yahoo.com . ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Poetry-6

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Feature Article An Ode to Morpheus Author: Ambreen Ishrat Another night and Morpheus has yet again to deliver my share of sleep and so I lie on my pillow, gazing at the ceiling fan, while the rest of the world is in deep slumber. How I wish to have hypnotized myself to sleep as counting sheep never helps, nor does hot milk. The sandman's sand has also turned colourless. Another night it is when sleep deludes my weary eyes and my overactive brain refuses to stop dwindling on the scenes of the day that has just ended and another one has started silently. Sleep - the boundary between the two days - is missing. What's the big deal, you must think, for every now and then, a sleepless night is quite a normal thing for everyone. But for some, this is an affliction that happens more often than usual. And what makes me hysterical is the feeling that on one such desperate night, you also tend to discover that you have run out of your emergency supply of sleeping pills. So much for my emergency-coping capabilities! The value of sleep can only be known to an insomniac and the bliss that it brings to one who is weary in soul as well. For me, sleep is what always restores my sanity, which can wear off the effects of gruesome schedules, worries and complications. It is a happy escape into the land of Oz, where I can slip into for a few hours and then come back to the familiar worrisome and often irksome daily routine. The problems remain the same, but my ability to cope with them certainly increases thrice-fold. Pimples on the tired skin reduce, the sting of heartaches lessen and deadlines become graspable. Like a magical transformation, overnight my body gets charged with energy. The brain starts brimming with activated and regenerated neurons and I rise as a new person who takes upon the irksome hurdles of yesterday with horns and does away with them. So silent seems the world around me that I can hear the beating of my own heart. My weary eyes start to roam and scan the length and breadth of the four corners of the room. This is my room, my heaven, my prison and my hell. The walls wear my solitude like trophies and silence curls on my bed and encapsulates me like a shroud, where I lie with my hands resting neatly by my sides. I lift the palm of my hand and feel my own breath at the back of my hand - to seek reassurance that I am still alive and this isn't the silence of the grave. And if that is not enough, my mind goes on speculating on and on as to why certain things happened. At night, my mind turns itself into a backyard cluttered with half-conceived and half-aborted ideas and plans that I keep on stumbling upon. All the wonderful ideas and resolutions which flit like bats in the nook and crannies of my mind fade away on seeing the light of day. The mind is also the graveyard of memories and remembrances, which are easily resurrected in the dead of the twelfth hour. As morbidity tries to seize me, I kick my sheet off and get up, wishing no more to wait upon sleep or revel in thoughts of the past, analysis of the day just gone by and pipe dreams of tomorrow. The chill gets the better of me and for one moment, the warmth of my bed tempts me to snuggle back again. But the body refuses to lay in monotony anymore. My mind swiftly scans the possibility of activities that can help me to kill time or to induce sufficient tiredness, forcing me to lull me back to the peaceful sojourn of sleep. A book to read maybe, a long overdue letter that needs to be answered or I can hook on the net and explore the web. All options are considered and struck off one after another, as my tired body protests. Hence, I decide to just lie low and breathe the surrounding silence in and out. I enviously think of those who are sound asleep in their beds. I even envy those who stay up late by choice and still manage to get along with their day-to-day routine just fine. The marvellous generation of 'night people' - a different genre. What do I have in common with them? It is during such strange moments of serenity and uncanny silence that the likes of Keats heard the voice of the nightingale and so transported himself to the realm of beyond, and Matthew Arnold contemplated upon the crisis of faith for the mortals. As for me, I stand as miserable and confused as ever, feeling stupid that I have exhausted my supply of sleeping pills. I am not up because I choose to. I don't have the luxury of getting up late. With bleary eyes and a puffy and exhausted face, I must brave the world. I must get up at the crack of dawn and return late into the afternoon. Feeling panicky, I start to pace around the room. I ransack my medicine box feverishly like an addict, for a pill that might have escaped my groping fingers and must be hiding in some corner. But none are to be found. I sigh, as I can do nothing else. I switch on the side lamp and see the room come alive in a soft hue of light and shadows, adding a delightfully mysterious and cozy look to the walls and ceiling. So often I am struck with the feeling that at nighttime, all non-living things tend to exude a life of their own. The fridge hums and drones silently, the walls whisper and breathe, as the electricity running behind them slithers, twists and runs with defying swiftness. I peer out of the window on to the street which looks deserted and dark. The carcass of a dying and spent moon is briefly revealed by the passing clouds and then its darkness again. Crickets creak, a dog lets out a churlish howl and the moths feverishly encircle the solitary lamp posts on the street, until the night watchman whistles and everything turns still, but only for a moment and then the rhythm resumes. A car passes by on the street, a midnight rider, whose stereo blare heinously and ruins the perfect harmony of the night and silence. As he passes away, the dog howls loudly in protest. The breeze at night feels so very gentle. A few dry leaves and the ubiquitous plastic bags are sucked up by the breeze and they start to dance in whirlwind motion. The breeze turns into a wind, which twirls the leaves round and round on the deserted road, around the lamp posts and finally spits them out in a corner and then carries on its ballet alone. I prick my ears. A low rustle! Then a moan. It is the wind again. And the wind does cry. I switch on to FM radio, hungry and desperate for a human voice. The radio hums and creaks as I set the bandwidth and finally sweet sounds of rhythm and blues start to emit, filling in my jarred senses with companionship and peace. So I listen on and on, silently humming and rocking myself to sooth the dull pain in my body. I take up a long-neglected poetry book. Hours pass till I finally hear a slight chirp and then another one. The FM station has gone silent ages ago and static emitting from the radio drones on. I keep my book away. I have survived a night without my sleeping pills and the delicate sensation of yesterday sleeps on my eyelids. I blink softly, hoping not to loose any of it. The aurora is wakening; the reign of darkness lies in recession. It's dawn and I am still looking through yesterday's eyes, though weary but with the hope that I am stepping into a new day and whatever it might bring. I will tackle it and I will tackle it well because I am a survivor, if not anything else. About the Author The author is a 26 years old single female, hailing from Karachi, Pakistan. She has earned her masters degree in English Literature from the University of Karachi. Currently working as a content and creative writer at an IT firm, she dreams of pursuing a M. Phil degree in literature some day. Her hobbies include reading and writing. For feedback, comments or critique she can be reached at galatia2001@yahoo.com . ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Poetry-5

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Feature Article The Quest for Truth and the Meaning of Life Author: Laurent Grenier All too often, the quest for truth – which admittedly can only yield a qualified success in the best case scenario – is tainted with laxity and fancifulness, and hence is doomed to a pitiable result, not to say failure. Strangely enough, Blaise Pascal, a famous mathematician and philosopher, is also the eccentric author of a wager according to which the belief in God (or more precisely in heaven as a divine reward for virtue) is defensible to the extent that it is desirable, even though it cannot be proven. Actually, it is supposedly defensible because not only cannot it be proven, it also cannot be disproven. So desirableness is considered a valid foundation for belief, absent provableness and disprovableness! The door is open to every wild fancy, as long as we lack the empirical means of discrediting it. — Who have you invited to dinner, dear? — Some fabulous folks, my love. — Great! And who exactly are these folks? — I don't know, but they're fabulous. — Hum! How can you say they're fabulous if you don't know them? — Our neighbor across the road told me so. — Forgive me for asking, dear, but isn't that neighbor somewhat loopy? The story about angels watching over us sounds like wishful thinking to me. — This loopy neighbor, as you say, is more fun to listen to than your professor friends, with all due respect. — But don't you think… — Forget about thinking; I'm in the mood for a dinner with some fabulous folks. (If you feel this is a bit of sexist humor, note that I have made no mention of genders. The prejudices that offend us are sometimes very much our own. Remember also that Blaise Pascal was a man.) Personally, I am not willing to forget about thinking. However attractive a claim may be, this attractiveness must be accompanied by credibleness – which is a function of provableness and trustworthiness – before I let it shape my view and govern my life. When credibleness is wanting, I reserve judgment until further notice and meanwhile accept reality as it appears to be, judging from facts and solid arguments, even if this appearance is not consistent with a so-called ideal world. Call me austere (not ready to indulge in the luxury of extravagant beliefs), a man of reason who associates his intellectual austerity with intellectual integrity. Having said this, the reverse attitude is common, especially in matters that are beyond the realm of experience and hence can neither be proven nor disproven. For example, as regards their future – here below or in the hereafter – many do not reserve judgment or keep their minds open to all possibilities, ranging from disastrous to glorious. Instead they believe a heavenly tale because they fancy believing it and often also because a charismatic fortuneteller or spiritual leader, allegedly endowed with supernatural powers, is the originator of this tale. In its wildest and blindest form, optimism coupled with faith is illustrative of this attitude. Is it fanciful and naïve, or even foolish? I am tempted to say yes, and yet I will resist this temptation. There is no denying that the inveterate optimists-believers derive significant enjoyment from seeing their future through rose-colored spectacles. In view of this enjoyment, a sophisticated better like Blaise Pascal will argue that these spectacles are worth wearing, at the risk of laboring under a delusion. I myself lack the grace or the guile of innocent or calculating souls to whom ignorance is bliss. I am all the stauncher as a committed realist since life in itself – without fables and despite the adversities that are part and parcel of it – has meaning to my mind. Furthermore, I contend that religion (as a provider of a questionable but meaningful myth that makes a blissful afterlife the purpose of life) is often a poor substitute for wisdom. It is designed to offset the feeling of dissatisfaction that shadows the foolish if often profound concept of existential absurdity. The more deficient in wisdom, the more avid for religion (as defined above) one is. Now, what is the content of this wisdom, or what is the meaning of life within the limits of life? I have answered this question to the best of my ability in my book A REASON FOR LIVING; and my answer – like any answer to this question – is sure to be both at odds and in keeping with yours. But then, the antithesis of statements and disagreements can usefully stimulate the intellect to resolve the oppositions and achieve a new and superior synthesis. Be that as it may, this antithesis betrays the imperfection of individual wisdoms. At best, they are true up to a point, and we can persistently overpass this point while the complete truth indefinitely recedes like the horizon as we advance toward it. There are as many wisdoms as there are individuals; nevertheless their subjectiveness admits of much intersubjectiveness or deep intellectual kinship. Let us explore a number of cardinal facts and logical assumptions based on facts. 1) The observable universe is the obvious manifestation of a tendency toward order. Ordered things and beings (that show their attraction for a particular inert or living state), ordered behaviors and thoughts (that aim at specific achievements and feelings in preference to others), all this testifies to the tendency in question, which can be called the principle of universal order. The oneness of this principle is not merely nominal. It is fundamental, as demonstrated by the unitary if complex human nature, which comprises every physical and nonphysical aspect of the observable universe. 2) The observation of the universe relates to observers: humans, in the present instance. It is limited to the observable manifestations of this universe, or provides a basis for knowledge only within the limits of these manifestations. Everything beyond these limits – that is, everything that is not observably manifest – transcends our ability to know it. Nevertheless, as Kant pointed out, our inability to know it does not suppress our curiosity. Whereas some accept the limits of knowledge, many don't. Their effort to penetrate the transcendental mystery ought to yield nothing except fancy. 3) There are, however, various degrees of fancy. At one extreme, fancy is grossly unfounded or rests on the highly suspicious claims of inspired visionaries regarding the great beyond. At the other extreme, fancy is very much tempered with reason. It is reminiscent of poetry, which assimilates certain things to kindred things through metaphors and similes. Take for example the predictions of learned and intuitive futurists about the distant future of humanity. They clearly overstep the limits of knowledge, and yet they are believable to the extent that they are conceivable, given the way this knowledge represents humans and the world they inhabit. Take also for example the conjectures of learned and intuitive philosophers about the intimate nature of nonhuman beings or things beyond their observable characteristics. Like the above-mentioned predictions, they clearly overstep the limits of knowledge, and yet they are believable to the extent that they are conceivable, given the way this knowledge represents humans and nonhuman beings or things. 4) With respect to our human nature, observations include introspections and reveal both the spiritual and material aspects of this nature. Since we measure the value of life in terms of pleasure (sensual, intellectual, or moral), it is safe to say that the spiritual aspect is preeminent. By underscoring the pleasure principle in moral matters, I imply that even the most edifying proof of nobility comprises an element of self-interest. Indeed, nobility is an ideal in the pursuit of which the noble soul takes pleasure – not the low sort of pleasure that one derives from such activities as feasting on a palatable dish or having intercourse with a seductive lover, but the most elevated sort. Therefore, self-interest and nobility are not mutually exclusive. When they come together, the former is exalted by the latter. 5) As we fathom our human nature, we ultimately acknowledge the principle of universal order as the essence of our being, which can normally acquire habits – of thought or behavior – that are conducive to well-being. And so gratitude adds to the acknowledgment, though misery may reverse this attitude when it plagues us despite ourselves. Why such misery? There is no answer to this question. We can ascertain the possibility of misery; we cannot explain it. Saying that the principle of universal order is such as to permit the occurrence of misery is like saying that misery is because it can be, which is no explanation. In short, misery is a mystery; and the best we can do is fight and overcome it, or resign ourselves to it when it is insuperable. Actually, we can do better. We can regard misery as a precious opportunity for courage and merit, whereas an absolutely blissful and effortless life would require no courage and hence afford no merit. But what about extreme cases where we are truly miserable and helpless? We can then take comfort from the knowledge that the principle of universal order is the essence of our being. Each of us is a single human incarnation of this principle among countless other like incarnations, which offer the prospect of a meritorious happiness through considerable effort. About the Author Laurent Grenier's writing career spans over twenty years. During this time he has broadened and deepened his worldview, by dint of much reflection and study, and in the end has crafted A REASON FOR LIVING, his best work to date. Official web site: http://laurentgrenier.com/ARFL.html ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Poetry-40

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Feature Article Traditional VS. Modern Anniversary Gifts Author: Slade Hartwell Most people are familiar with the traditional materials list that good etiquette requires us use as a guide when selecting a gift to commemorate a wedding anniversary. If you are like most people, you might find it a bit challenging to convert the materials on the list into an acceptable gift idea. There may be more choices available to you than you realize. Do you know that an updated "modern" gift list is available which is becoming more and more popular? This article touches on the history of the traditional list, highlights the differences between the modern and traditional lists, and helps you decide which is right for you. Parts of the traditional list have existed since medieval times. Historians can trace the origins of silver and golden anniversaries to medieval Germany, where garlands made of these metals were presented as gifts for the 25th and 50th years of marriage. The rest of the list may not be as traditional as you think. I was surprised to learn that the traditional list, as we know it today, did not exist until 1937. In that year, the American National Retail Jeweler Association published a list, which associated a material for each Anniversary up to the 15th year and then each fifth year after that up to the 60th Anniversary. The following is the materials list from 1937, through the 60th year: * First - Paper * Second - Cotton * Third - Leather * Fourth - Fruit/Flowers * Fifth - Wood * Sixth - Candy/Iron * Seventh - Wool/Copper * Eighth - Bronze/Pottery * Ninth - Pottery/Willow * Tenth - Tin/Aluminum * Eleventh - Steel * Twelfth - Silk/Linen * Thirteenth - Lace * Fourteenth - Ivory * Fifteenth - Crystal * Twentieth - China * Twenty-Fifth - Silver * Thirtieth - Pearl * Thirty-Fifth - Coral * Fortieth - Ruby * Forty-Fifth - Sapphire * Fiftieth - Gold * Fifty-fifth - Emerald * Sixtieth - Diamond The modern anniversary materials list presents us with a contemporary, easier to use alternative. The modern list has no clear beginning, but like the original, each year's gift is more precious than the last. This arrangement is intended to honor the longevity of the commitment. The new list retains the spirit of the traditional list, but loses the some of the sense of etiquette in the original. Although more convenient, the modern list sacrifices the thoughtfulness previously required to make a good gift from the more mundane materials on the old list. However, the modern list is more extravagant (expensive) than the original, which in some cases may be more appreciated than a thoughtful but humble gift from the traditional list. The following is the widely accepted modern list, through the 60th year: * First - Clocks * Second - China * Third - Crystal/ Glass * Fourth - Appliances * Fifth - Silverware * Sixth - Candy/Iron * Seventh - Desk Sets * Eighth - Bronze/Pottery * Ninth - Linen/Lace * Tenth - Leather * Eleventh - Jewelry * Twelfth - Pearls * Thirteenth - Textiles/Furs * Fourteenth - Gold Jewelry * Fifteenth - Watches * Twentieth - Platinum * Twenty-Fifth - Silver * Thirtieth - Diamond * Thirty-Fifth - Jade * Fortieth - Ruby * Forty-Fifth - Sapphire * Fiftieth - Gold * Fifty-fifth - Emerald * Sixtieth - Diamond Jubilee For most couples, I recommend using the modern list. When selecting a gift from the modern list you have the benefit of more specificity, for example a desk set is much more clear than copper/wool. With the modern list, you won't risk insulting your spouse by rewarding 10 years of companionship with a pitiful tin or aluminum gift. Believe me, she won't be satisfied with the excuse of tradition. Also, good luck finding the ivory candlesticks for year 14! Unless you really enjoy the creative challenge of using the traditional list, try the modern list this year. Slade Hartwell, Webmaster at http://www.ezromantic.com/ " http://www.ezromantic.com/ http://www.ezromantic.com/home.html " Romance Relationship Advice: We offer tons of romance and relationship help such as: great articles, advice, love poems, book reviews, gift ideas, romantic travel guides, a relationships forum, and more. ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Monday, January 14, 2008

Poetry-4

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Feature Article William Butler Yeats and Alchemy Author: Robert Bruce Baird There are adepts outside of what is called alchemy who have achieved great things in these areas and there are alchemists before Socrates and Aristotle, or Da Vinci and Newton; who all true experts know were alchemists. For any author or journalist who would produce a TV documentary on the subject and not even interview a hermeticist (much less an alchemist) it is obvious their intent is not to educate. So when you see Time/Life videos doing that kind of show I hope you know you are being fed lies. In February, 1925 Yeats wrote this in Capri. "The End of the Cycle A Vision A In the first edition of A Vision the section 'Dove or Swan' contains a relatively long passage on the relationship of the gyres to the contemporary period and the near future (AV A 210-215), which was omitted in the second edition. It is given here for reference, with the page breaks indicated. The first sentence given here (in italics) is the last on AV B 300, and the text continues from there. Having bruised their hands upon that limit men, for the first time since the seventeenth century, see the world as an object of contemplation, not as something to be remade, and some few, meeting the limit in their special study, even doubt if there is any common experience, that is to say doubt the possibility of science. It is said that at Phase 8 there is always civil war, and at Phase 22 always war, and as this war is always a defeat for those who have conquered, we have repeated the wars of Alexander. I discover already the first phase—Phase 23—of the last quarter in certain friends of mine, and in writers, poets and sculptors admired by those friends, who have a form of strong love and hate hitherto unknown in the arts. It is with them a matter of conscience to live in their own exact instant of time, and they defend their conscience like theologians. They are all absorbed in some technical research to the entire exclusion of the personal dream. It is as though the forms in the stone or in their reverie began to move with an energy which is not that of the human mind. Very often these forms are mechanical, are as it were the mathematical forms that sustain the physical primary—I think of the work of Mr Wyndham Lewis, his powerful "cacophony of sardine tins," and of those marble eggs, or objects of burnished steel too drawn up or tapered out to be called eggs, of M. Brancussi [sic], who has gone further than Mr Wyndham Lewis from recognisable subject matter and so from personality; of sculptors who would certainly be rejected as impure by a true sectary of this moment, the Scandinavian Milles, Meštrovi? perhaps, masters of a geometrical pattern or rhythm which seems to impose itself wholly from beyond the mind, the artist "standing outside himself." I compare them to sculpture or painting where now the artist now the model imposes his personality. I think especially of the art of the 21st Phase which was at times so anarchic, Rodin creating his powerful art out of the fragments of those Gates of Hell that he had found himself unable to hold together—images out of a personal dream, "the hell of Baudelaire not of Dante," he had said to Symons. I find at this 23rd Phase which is it is said the first where there is hatred of the abstract, where the intellect turns upon itself, Mr Ezra Pound, Mr Eliot, Mr Joyce, Signor Pirandello, who either eliminate from metaphor the poet's phantasy and substitute a strangeness discovered by historical or contemporary research or who break up the logical processes of thought by flooding them with associated ideas or words that seem to drift into the mind by chance; or who set side by side as in "Henry IV," "The Waste Land," "Ulysses," the physical primary—a lunatic among his keepers, a man fishing behind a gas works, the vulgarity of a single Dublin day prolonged through 700 pages—and the spiritual primary, delirium, the Fisher King, Ulysses' wandering. It is as though myth and fact, united until the exhaustion of the Renaissance, have fallen so far apart that man understands for the first time the rigidity of fact, and calls up, by that very recognition, myth—the Mask—which now but gropes its way out of the mind's dark but will shortly pursue and terrify. In practical life one expects the same technical inspiration, the doing of this or that not because one would, or should, but because one can, consequent licence, and with those "out of phase" anarchic violence with no sanction in general principles. If there is a violent revolution, and it is the last phase where political revolution is possible, the dish will be made from what is found in the pantry and the cook will not open her book. There may be greater ability that hitherto for men will be set free from old restraint, but the old intellectual hierarchy gone they will thwart and jostle one another. One tries to discover the nature of the 24th Phase which will offer peace—perhaps by some generally accepted political or religious action, perhaps by some more profound generalisation—calling up before the mind those who speak its thoughts in the language of our earlier time. Peguy in his Joan of Arc trilogy displays the national and religious tradition of the French poor, as he, a man perhaps of the 24th phase, would have it, and Claudel in his "L'Otage" the religious and secular hierarchies perceived as history. I foresee a time when the majority of men will so accept an historical tradition that they will quarrel, not as to who can impose his personality upon others but as to who can best embody the common aim, when all personality will seem an impurity—"sentimentality," "sullenness," "egotism"—something that revolts not morals alone but good taste. There will be no longer great intellect for a ceaseless activity will be required of all; and where rights are swallowed up in duties, and solitude is difficult, creation except among avowedly archaistic and unpopular groups will grow impossible. Phase 25 may arise, as the code wears out from repetition, to give new motives for obedience, or out of some scientific discovery which seems to contrast, a merely historical acquiescence, with an enthusiastic acceptance of the general will conceived as a present energy—"Sibyll [sic] what would you?" "I would die." Then with the last gyre must come a desire to be ruled or rather, seeing that desire is all but dead, an adoration of force spiritual or physical, and society as mechanical force be complete at last. Constrained, arraigned, baffled, bent and unbent By those wire-jointed jaws and limbs of wood Themselves obedient, Knowing not evil or good. A decadence will descend, by perpetual moral improvement, upon a community which may seem like some woman of New York or Paris who has renounced her rouge pot to lose her figure and grow coars of skin and dull of brain, feeding her calves and babies somewhere on the edge of the wilderness. The decadence of the Greco-Roman world with its violent soldiers and its mahogany dark young athletes was as great, but that suggested the bubbles of life turned into marbles, whereas what awaits us, being democratic and primary, may suggest bubbles in a frozen pond—mathematical Babylonian starlight. When the new era comes bringing its stream of irrational force it will, as did Christianity, find its philosophy already impressed upon the minority who have, true to phase, turned away at the last gyre from the Physical Primary. And it must awake into life, not Dürer's, nor Blake's, nor Milton's human form divine—nor yet Nietzsche's superman, nor Patmore's catholic, boasting "a tongue that's dead"—the brood of the Sistine Chapel—but organic groups, covens of physical or intellectual kin melted out of the frozen mass. I imagine new races, as it were, seeking domination, a world resembling but for its immensity that of the Greek tribes—each with its own Daimon or ancestral hero—the brood of Leda, War and Love; history grown symbolic, the biography changed into myth. Above all I imagine everywhere the opposites, no mere alternation between nothing and something like the Christian brute and ascetic, but true opposites, each living the other's death, dying the other's life. It is said that the primary impulse "creates the event" but that the antithetical "follows it" and by this I understand that the Second Fountain will arise after a long preparation and as it were out of the very heart of human knowledge, and seem when it comes no interruption but a climax. It is possible that the ever increasing separation from the community as a whole of the cultivated classes, their increasing certainty, and that falling in two of the human mind which I have seen in certain works of art is preparation. During the period said to commence in 1927, with the 11th gyre, must arise a form of philosophy, which will become religious and ethical in the 12th gyre and be in all things opposite of that vast plaster Herculean image, final primary thought. It will be concrete in expression, establish itself by immediate experience, seek no general agreement, make little of God or any exterior unity, and it will call that good which a man can contemplate himself as doing always and no other man doing at all. It will make a cardinal truth of man's immortality that its virtue may not lack sanction, and of the soul's re-embodiment that it may restore to virtue that long preparation none can give and hold death an interruption. The supreme experience, Plotinus' ecstasy, ecstasy of the Saint, will recede, for men—finding it difficult—substituted dogma and idol, abstractions of all sorts, things beyond experience; and men may be long content with those more trivial supernatural benedictions as when Athena took Achilles by his yellow hair. Men will no longer separate the idea of God from that of human genius, human productivity in all its forms. Unlike Christianity which had for its first Roman teachers cobblers and weavers, this thought must find expression among those that are most subtle, most rich in memory; that Gainsborough face floats up; among the learned—every sort of learning—among the rich—every sort of riches—and the best of those that express it will be given power, less because of that they promise than of that they seem and are. This much can be thought because it is the reversal of what we know, but those kindreds once formed must obey irrational force and so create hitherto unknown experience, or that which is incredible. Though it cannot interrupt the intellectual stream—being born from it and moving within it—it may grow a fanaticism and a terror, and at first outsetting oppress the ignorant—even the innocent—as Christianity oppressed the wise, seeing that the day is far off when the two halves of man can define each its own unity in the other as in a mirror, Sun in Moon, Moon in Sun, and so escape out of the Wheel." (1) When he says 'the Christian brute and ascetic' is he making reference to the family of stoic philosophers or Bruttii including the Admiral who accompanied Julius Caesar when they met the Keltic fleet and invaded what is called Britain today after them? This same family includes another Brutus we learned about from another Hermetic named Shakespeare. That family was still standing up for Keltic egalitarianism when it killed Julius Caesar or when Rome was founded. Did he know the history of the Milesian Stuarts from before the various influxes to the Emerald Isles as they returned many millennia after leaving due to glacial effects? There is so much code in this prose and poetry. The sun and moon surely make a wheel and this ancient knowledge probably pre-exists the coming of white men through whatever adept mutation or happenstance that allowed it. I implore the reader to spend a lot of time with this one sentence—"This much can be thought because it is the reversal of what we know, but those kindreds once formed must obey irrational force and so create hitherto unknown experience, or that which is incredible." About the Author Guest expert at World-Mysteries.com Columnist at The ES Press Magazine Author of Diverse Druids ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Poetry-4

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Feature Article William Butler Yeats and Alchemy Author: Robert Bruce Baird There are adepts outside of what is called alchemy who have achieved great things in these areas and there are alchemists before Socrates and Aristotle, or Da Vinci and Newton; who all true experts know were alchemists. For any author or journalist who would produce a TV documentary on the subject and not even interview a hermeticist (much less an alchemist) it is obvious their intent is not to educate. So when you see Time/Life videos doing that kind of show I hope you know you are being fed lies. In February, 1925 Yeats wrote this in Capri. "The End of the Cycle A Vision A In the first edition of A Vision the section 'Dove or Swan' contains a relatively long passage on the relationship of the gyres to the contemporary period and the near future (AV A 210-215), which was omitted in the second edition. It is given here for reference, with the page breaks indicated. The first sentence given here (in italics) is the last on AV B 300, and the text continues from there. Having bruised their hands upon that limit men, for the first time since the seventeenth century, see the world as an object of contemplation, not as something to be remade, and some few, meeting the limit in their special study, even doubt if there is any common experience, that is to say doubt the possibility of science. It is said that at Phase 8 there is always civil war, and at Phase 22 always war, and as this war is always a defeat for those who have conquered, we have repeated the wars of Alexander. I discover already the first phase—Phase 23—of the last quarter in certain friends of mine, and in writers, poets and sculptors admired by those friends, who have a form of strong love and hate hitherto unknown in the arts. It is with them a matter of conscience to live in their own exact instant of time, and they defend their conscience like theologians. They are all absorbed in some technical research to the entire exclusion of the personal dream. It is as though the forms in the stone or in their reverie began to move with an energy which is not that of the human mind. Very often these forms are mechanical, are as it were the mathematical forms that sustain the physical primary—I think of the work of Mr Wyndham Lewis, his powerful "cacophony of sardine tins," and of those marble eggs, or objects of burnished steel too drawn up or tapered out to be called eggs, of M. Brancussi [sic], who has gone further than Mr Wyndham Lewis from recognisable subject matter and so from personality; of sculptors who would certainly be rejected as impure by a true sectary of this moment, the Scandinavian Milles, Meštrovi? perhaps, masters of a geometrical pattern or rhythm which seems to impose itself wholly from beyond the mind, the artist "standing outside himself." I compare them to sculpture or painting where now the artist now the model imposes his personality. I think especially of the art of the 21st Phase which was at times so anarchic, Rodin creating his powerful art out of the fragments of those Gates of Hell that he had found himself unable to hold together—images out of a personal dream, "the hell of Baudelaire not of Dante," he had said to Symons. I find at this 23rd Phase which is it is said the first where there is hatred of the abstract, where the intellect turns upon itself, Mr Ezra Pound, Mr Eliot, Mr Joyce, Signor Pirandello, who either eliminate from metaphor the poet's phantasy and substitute a strangeness discovered by historical or contemporary research or who break up the logical processes of thought by flooding them with associated ideas or words that seem to drift into the mind by chance; or who set side by side as in "Henry IV," "The Waste Land," "Ulysses," the physical primary—a lunatic among his keepers, a man fishing behind a gas works, the vulgarity of a single Dublin day prolonged through 700 pages—and the spiritual primary, delirium, the Fisher King, Ulysses' wandering. It is as though myth and fact, united until the exhaustion of the Renaissance, have fallen so far apart that man understands for the first time the rigidity of fact, and calls up, by that very recognition, myth—the Mask—which now but gropes its way out of the mind's dark but will shortly pursue and terrify. In practical life one expects the same technical inspiration, the doing of this or that not because one would, or should, but because one can, consequent licence, and with those "out of phase" anarchic violence with no sanction in general principles. If there is a violent revolution, and it is the last phase where political revolution is possible, the dish will be made from what is found in the pantry and the cook will not open her book. There may be greater ability that hitherto for men will be set free from old restraint, but the old intellectual hierarchy gone they will thwart and jostle one another. One tries to discover the nature of the 24th Phase which will offer peace—perhaps by some generally accepted political or religious action, perhaps by some more profound generalisation—calling up before the mind those who speak its thoughts in the language of our earlier time. Peguy in his Joan of Arc trilogy displays the national and religious tradition of the French poor, as he, a man perhaps of the 24th phase, would have it, and Claudel in his "L'Otage" the religious and secular hierarchies perceived as history. I foresee a time when the majority of men will so accept an historical tradition that they will quarrel, not as to who can impose his personality upon others but as to who can best embody the common aim, when all personality will seem an impurity—"sentimentality," "sullenness," "egotism"—something that revolts not morals alone but good taste. There will be no longer great intellect for a ceaseless activity will be required of all; and where rights are swallowed up in duties, and solitude is difficult, creation except among avowedly archaistic and unpopular groups will grow impossible. Phase 25 may arise, as the code wears out from repetition, to give new motives for obedience, or out of some scientific discovery which seems to contrast, a merely historical acquiescence, with an enthusiastic acceptance of the general will conceived as a present energy—"Sibyll [sic] what would you?" "I would die." Then with the last gyre must come a desire to be ruled or rather, seeing that desire is all but dead, an adoration of force spiritual or physical, and society as mechanical force be complete at last. Constrained, arraigned, baffled, bent and unbent By those wire-jointed jaws and limbs of wood Themselves obedient, Knowing not evil or good. A decadence will descend, by perpetual moral improvement, upon a community which may seem like some woman of New York or Paris who has renounced her rouge pot to lose her figure and grow coars of skin and dull of brain, feeding her calves and babies somewhere on the edge of the wilderness. The decadence of the Greco-Roman world with its violent soldiers and its mahogany dark young athletes was as great, but that suggested the bubbles of life turned into marbles, whereas what awaits us, being democratic and primary, may suggest bubbles in a frozen pond—mathematical Babylonian starlight. When the new era comes bringing its stream of irrational force it will, as did Christianity, find its philosophy already impressed upon the minority who have, true to phase, turned away at the last gyre from the Physical Primary. And it must awake into life, not Dürer's, nor Blake's, nor Milton's human form divine—nor yet Nietzsche's superman, nor Patmore's catholic, boasting "a tongue that's dead"—the brood of the Sistine Chapel—but organic groups, covens of physical or intellectual kin melted out of the frozen mass. I imagine new races, as it were, seeking domination, a world resembling but for its immensity that of the Greek tribes—each with its own Daimon or ancestral hero—the brood of Leda, War and Love; history grown symbolic, the biography changed into myth. Above all I imagine everywhere the opposites, no mere alternation between nothing and something like the Christian brute and ascetic, but true opposites, each living the other's death, dying the other's life. It is said that the primary impulse "creates the event" but that the antithetical "follows it" and by this I understand that the Second Fountain will arise after a long preparation and as it were out of the very heart of human knowledge, and seem when it comes no interruption but a climax. It is possible that the ever increasing separation from the community as a whole of the cultivated classes, their increasing certainty, and that falling in two of the human mind which I have seen in certain works of art is preparation. During the period said to commence in 1927, with the 11th gyre, must arise a form of philosophy, which will become religious and ethical in the 12th gyre and be in all things opposite of that vast plaster Herculean image, final primary thought. It will be concrete in expression, establish itself by immediate experience, seek no general agreement, make little of God or any exterior unity, and it will call that good which a man can contemplate himself as doing always and no other man doing at all. It will make a cardinal truth of man's immortality that its virtue may not lack sanction, and of the soul's re-embodiment that it may restore to virtue that long preparation none can give and hold death an interruption. The supreme experience, Plotinus' ecstasy, ecstasy of the Saint, will recede, for men—finding it difficult—substituted dogma and idol, abstractions of all sorts, things beyond experience; and men may be long content with those more trivial supernatural benedictions as when Athena took Achilles by his yellow hair. Men will no longer separate the idea of God from that of human genius, human productivity in all its forms. Unlike Christianity which had for its first Roman teachers cobblers and weavers, this thought must find expression among those that are most subtle, most rich in memory; that Gainsborough face floats up; among the learned—every sort of learning—among the rich—every sort of riches—and the best of those that express it will be given power, less because of that they promise than of that they seem and are. This much can be thought because it is the reversal of what we know, but those kindreds once formed must obey irrational force and so create hitherto unknown experience, or that which is incredible. Though it cannot interrupt the intellectual stream—being born from it and moving within it—it may grow a fanaticism and a terror, and at first outsetting oppress the ignorant—even the innocent—as Christianity oppressed the wise, seeing that the day is far off when the two halves of man can define each its own unity in the other as in a mirror, Sun in Moon, Moon in Sun, and so escape out of the Wheel." (1) When he says 'the Christian brute and ascetic' is he making reference to the family of stoic philosophers or Bruttii including the Admiral who accompanied Julius Caesar when they met the Keltic fleet and invaded what is called Britain today after them? This same family includes another Brutus we learned about from another Hermetic named Shakespeare. That family was still standing up for Keltic egalitarianism when it killed Julius Caesar or when Rome was founded. Did he know the history of the Milesian Stuarts from before the various influxes to the Emerald Isles as they returned many millennia after leaving due to glacial effects? There is so much code in this prose and poetry. The sun and moon surely make a wheel and this ancient knowledge probably pre-exists the coming of white men through whatever adept mutation or happenstance that allowed it. I implore the reader to spend a lot of time with this one sentence—"This much can be thought because it is the reversal of what we know, but those kindreds once formed must obey irrational force and so create hitherto unknown experience, or that which is incredible." About the Author Guest expert at World-Mysteries.com Columnist at The ES Press Magazine Author of Diverse Druids ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Sunday, January 13, 2008

Poetry-39

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Feature Article Poetry Critics Author: millsy75 My name is Jeffrey Michael Miller and my book entitled " From The Inside Out " is my first collection of poetry that's been published through Publishamerica. The book is doing well and even though this is my first book I've been writing poetry for quite some time. I care about the art and how the art effects people. I want to talk some about how poetry is seen in my opinion and how narrow the view of some can be when it comes to poetry and the worth and value it holds in society. I've heard many times by reviewers and critics and even booksellers that poetry books are hard to sell and that little interest is taken in the art of poetry by the general public but I beg to differ on these views held by so many in the literary world. I feel poetry is such a unique and expressive art that has stood the test of time and as we look back on poets like Wordsworth and Dickinson and all the wonderful poets of a time gone by we can all agree that nobody can discount or dismiss the contributions these people have made to the literary world. The Wordsworth's and Lord Byron's are still out there today working hard to bring back into the mainstream the powerful emotions and feelings that once struck a chord so long ago. These people are putting their heart and soul into their words and putting forth messages that they want to share with readers from all origins and backgrounds. We should not put limitations on them by telling them their art is dead or that their art is not much of a selling point in society because it is and if it wasn't we would not have so many poetry forums and websites accross the infinite space of the internet from nation to nation. One website I visited has over five million poets in their database alone so obviously their is an interest in poetry and it's growing bigger with every passing day. Multitudes of people from accross the globe enjoy this art we call poetry and this is a fact that should not be ignored. There is also a problem in my view with some people who take the role of critic and these people judge the work of others and seek to influence how an individual chooses to express themselves through poetry. I feel that each person and expression is unique and I have never been much of a fan of the critic as Teddy Roosevelt reminded us in " The Battle of Life " it's not the critic that counts and I agree. Individualism and uniqueness spawns genius in my opinion in every facet of life or work and it's also certainly true when it comes to poetry. I want to read new and freshly presented material from someone original. I don't want to see someone trying to copy another artist or his or her ways. I want to see someone expressing their own ways that I will not judge because I feel I have no rightful place in doing so. We must remember that it's not my opinion or the opinion of a critic that counts when it comes to you and your work and the feelings you wish to present. These things are yours and yours alone that nobody should touch or try to fine tune in any fashion. If Shakespeare had allowed his work to be sorted out and played with by the masses then he would not have been the Shakespeare we know today and your work will not be yours if you allow it to be changed to fit the views of others. Let your vision and your work live and die on it's own and let it live independantly and develop into what you wish it to be not what someone else wants it to be so it never ceases to be your very own. Article Source : http://www.articledashboard.com jeffreymichaelmiller.bravehost.com ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Saturday, January 12, 2008

Poetry-38

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Feature Article Traditional VS Modern Anniversary Gifts Author: Slade Hartwell Most people are familiar with the traditional materials list that good etiquette requires us use as a guide when selecting a gift to commemorate a wedding anniversary. If you are like most people, you might find it a bit challenging to convert the materials on the list into an acceptable gift idea. There may be more choices available to you than you realize. Do you know that an updated "modern" gift list is available which is becoming more and more popular? This article touches on the history of the traditional list, highlights the differences between the modern and traditional lists, and helps you decide which is right for you. Parts of the traditional list have existed since medieval times. Historians can trace the origins of silver and golden anniversaries to medieval Germany, where garlands made of these metals were presented as gifts for the 25th and 50th years of marriage. The rest of the list may not be as traditional as you think. I was surprised to learn that the traditional list, as we know it today, did not exist until 1937. In that year, the American National Retail Jeweler Association published a list, which associated a material for each Anniversary up to the 15th year and then each fifth year after that up to the 60th Anniversary. The following is the materials list from 1937, through the 60th year: * First - Paper * Second - Cotton * Third - Leather * Fourth - Fruit/Flowers * Fifth - Wood * Sixth - Candy/Iron * Seventh - Wool/Copper * Eighth - Bronze/Pottery * Ninth - Pottery/Willow * Tenth - Tin/Aluminum * Eleventh - Steel * Twelfth - Silk/Linen * Thirteenth - Lace * Fourteenth - Ivory * Fifteenth - Crystal * Twentieth - China * Twenty-Fifth - Silver * Thirtieth - Pearl * Thirty-Fifth - Coral * Fortieth - Ruby * Forty-Fifth - Sapphire * Fiftieth - Gold * Fifty-fifth - Emerald * Sixtieth - Diamond The modern anniversary materials list presents us with a contemporary, easier to use alternative. The modern list has no clear beginning, but like the original, each year's gift is more precious than the last. This arrangement is intended to honor the longevity of the commitment. The new list retains the spirit of the traditional list, but loses the some of the sense of etiquette in the original. Although more convenient, the modern list sacrifices the thoughtfulness previously required to make a good gift from the more mundane materials on the old list. However, the modern list is more extravagant (expensive) than the original, which in some cases may be more appreciated than a thoughtful but humble gift from the traditional list. The following is the widely accepted modern list, through the 60th year: * First - Clocks * Second - China * Third - Crystal/ Glass * Fourth - Appliances * Fifth - Silverware * Sixth - Candy/Iron * Seventh - Desk Sets * Eighth - Bronze/Pottery * Ninth - Linen/Lace * Tenth - Leather * Eleventh - Jewelry * Twelfth - Pearls * Thirteenth - Textiles/Furs * Fourteenth - Gold Jewelry * Fifteenth - Watches * Twentieth - Platinum * Twenty-Fifth - Silver * Thirtieth - Diamond * Thirty-Fifth - Jade * Fortieth - Ruby * Forty-Fifth - Sapphire * Fiftieth - Gold * Fifty-fifth - Emerald * Sixtieth - Diamond Jubilee For most couples, I recommend using the modern list. When selecting a gift from the modern list you have the benefit of more specificity, for example a desk set is much more clear than copper/wool. With the modern list, you won't risk insulting your spouse by rewarding 10 years of companionship with a pitiful tin or aluminum gift. Believe me, she won't be satisfied with the excuse of tradition. Also, good luck finding the ivory candlesticks for year 14! Unless you really enjoy the creative challenge of using the traditional list, try the modern list this year. About the Author Slade Hartwell, Webmaster at www.ezromantic.com http://www.ezromantic.com/home.html Romance Relationship Advice We offer tons of romance and relationship help such as: great articles, advice, love poems, book reviews, gift ideas, romantic travel guides, a relationships forum, and more. ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Friday, January 11, 2008

Poetry-37

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Feature Article Find the Artist Within Author: Eileen Bergen Find the Artist Within by Eileen Bergen The Artful Crafter www.theartfulcrafter.com Can anyone be an artist? People admiring my work often say, "I could never do that!" I say, "Yes, you can!" Eight years ago, during a very difficult time in my career in finance (Downsizings, layoffs – let's not talk about it, OK?), my company sent me to a development workshop for female executives. I came out of a particularly thought-provoking discussion group and penned the following very prophetic free verse. Threads They Said Mimi said, "Why don't you paint again?" I said, "There's no time. I crunch numbers now." Carole said, "You can do it!" I said, "No. I don't think so." Cheryl said, "You have an artist within. Reach down. Bring it out." I said, "My numbers … they pay the bills. Though, God knows, they don't feed the soul anymore!" Martha said, "There's a strength within you." I asked, "They why do I feel so weak, so beaten?" Bob said, "Reach for the sky. Be your mother's daughter. Write poetry. Perhaps the answer lies within." I reached. I created. I wrote. I discovered. The threads came together. I design tee-shirts now. On a glorious sunny beach. I write my musings in between. And share them with other artists --- like me. I didn't really dwell on these thoughts at the time since I ended up taking early retirement and had no intention of going back to work. "Threads They Said" got filed away with my other work files. I only unearthed it recently and was stunned to realize how it all has come true. Except we don't live on a glorious sunny beach, we live on a mountainside overlooking a beautiful lake – close enough for me! And now you are some of the other artists I share my musings with! I believe anyone with a creative eye can be an artist. If you know what you like when you see it, you can be an artist. If you know what someone else will like, you can be a commercial artist. You only need to find your medium or craft. To find the artistic spirit within you: 1. Think about your abilities, not your dis-abilities; what you can do, not what you can't. Maybe you're good with the computer. Think graphic arts. Maybe you wield a mean needle. Think of practical sewn items to which you can add artistic touches. Today with the endless supply of craft materials and kits to get you started, there's something for everyone – or I should say – something for every artist. 2. Determine your bliss. I once read that if a woman thinks back to what she most enjoyed when she was between 8 and 11, she can identify her bliss. For men, it's between 10 and 14. They mature later, you know – some women would say never. If, at that age, you were always making "stuff" (doesn't matter what) and loved having your own crayons (that no one else was allowed – under penalty of death – to touch) and maybe your own set of colored pencils, art and crafting could be your bliss. If you took particular joy in actually producing something – an end product – rather than just messing with all those neat (or should I say, messy) paints, you almost certainly have an artist within. 3. Browse a local crafts superstore or Internet crafting sites (please start by browsing around TheArtfulCrafter.com!). Go up and down the aisles, whether virtual or real, and see what appeals to you. Purchase a few kits. [Aside: If you intend to sell what you make from the get-go, be sure to consider what will also appeal to your future customers.] 4. Don't be afraid to try something new. To me, a sub-definition of artist is "someone who is always trying something new" – new techniques, new media. You have little to lose – the cost of a kit or a few tubes of paint – and very much to gain! by Eileen Bergen The Artful Crafter www.theartfulcrafter.com About the Author Ms Bergen has had a varied career, first as a special education teacher and than, after getting a MBA degree, as a vice president of a major insurance company. For the past eight years, she has been creating and selling her crafts. ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Thursday, January 10, 2008

Poetry-36

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Feature Article Critique the Poem not the Poet Author: Rose DesRochers The act of writing poetry is something that is very personal to us poets and sharing it for the first time can be a very frightening experience. The first experience of having your work criticized can boggle our mind and set us back a step in our writing. However critique is essential in any writer's career. Accepting criticism is something that we all must face even if we don't like it. When I received my first harsh critique it was on a ezboard workshop and right then I wanted to give up writing. They were arrogant and my opinion very mean. It was the most painful experience. Running an online writing community for the last two years I have met a few arrogant and mean people just like the one on Ezboard. I think that some of these poets have gone to workshops and have been critique in this matter, so now they think this is how one critiques. Wrong! How to give a critique : Short reviews like good poem, I like this, and awesome are not useful to any poet. When giving a critique remember that poets are looking for in depth critique. As writers we strive on feedback and we grow as writers by getting both positive and negative comments on our work. At all times keep them respectful. You don't have to take a critical lengthy review approach when commenting on others poetry. You might just want to comment on the way the poem struck you, what you liked about a poem, or what threw you off about a poem. Maybe you can quote part of the poem and why you liked that verse. You don't have to write a book; just a few comments can really help someone know what works and what doesn't. Remember to be tactful and never disrespect the writer. Poets are sensitive souls and they take their poetry to heart. There is a wrong way and right way to say everything. You can offer constructive criticism where the poet is going to learn from it without being disrespectful and never mock your fellow poet. Here is an example: You just read a poem and all you can find are reasons why the poem that you just read sucks. Maybe they had a number of spelling, grammar mistakes and run on sentences. Instead of commenting on only the bad parts of the poem start out by pointing out a good point. For instance you could say I think you've done a really fine job at expressing your emotions. I do believe that your poem could use some work on the structure to make it complete. I noticed a few spelling and grammar mistakes. I really think this is a good attempt and if you are looking for a more in depth critique I would be happy to work with you to tighten up the poem. How to not give a critique. Never critique the author, critique the poem. Never change the poem and put it in your own words. When you do this it no longer becomes the poet's thoughts. Never think that you are an expert in your field. All poets have room for improvement. Never look at another poet as a failure, keep in mind just as movies not every poem will appeal to you. Don't point out every line in the poem that needs work. You should save that for a more in depth critique if the poet desires it. Don't come off as an arrogant critic that is not the way to help people or win friends in the writing business. Critique is important to all poets. However if you feel that you are a poet expert with no room for improvement yourself than maybe you should stay away from critique groups and just look at your own writing because your really not helping anyone. About the Author Rose DesRochers, Canada admin@todays-woman.net http://www.todays-woman.net Rose is a published author and web columnist. She is also the founder of Today's Woman a supportive online community for men and women over 18. Their goal is to help writers succeed in the writing industry by offering a useful selection of services including author interviews, regular columns, interactive forums, and a place to share your writing for critique by your peers. ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Poetry-35

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Feature Article Christians, the Minority Author: Joyce C. Lock It was published that the Christian Community is taking over the net. I thought, "Yes! It's about time they noticed!" But, sadly, another report came. It read that Christians have used the Internet to, single-handedly, restore the love for poetry. But, it has not reached the lost world. Perhaps, the Christian Community became the minority because of our own doing. We were called to be in the world, without being like the world, to be a testimony in the midst of them … not to separate from opportunity to minister to the world (Philippians 2:15); except in the event of an evil we need to, personally, get away from. How can they, otherwise, hear? Scripture makes reference to sowing beside all waters, Isaiah 32:20. A way that applies, for writers, is to submit our original writings to whomever is interested (the highways and hedges of the Internet), with the exception of x-rated sites. The only reason for eliminating those is because writings would be perverted, wherein God would not get the glory. Though, we can still sow beside those waters, without going inside. One way writers can compel others, via the Internet, is to include a link to more of their writings; which will draw some to where they can further be ministered. Utilizing your talents, you might have other ideas. There is neither Jew or Greek, bond or free ... red, yellow, black or white ... Protestant, Catholic, Indian, Hindu ... we are all trying to find our way to God. All things were created by Him and for Him. Our God is the God of the corn, the wheat, and the rain; the one in whom all things consist. But, Jesus was an anti-religionist. He went directly to the source because, THERE IS ONLY ONE GOD. Regardless of what another faith believes (if our writings do not create offense), we can cross religious barriers to submit writings to them; until we all grow into a unity of faith. Likewise, we can share their non-offensive writings, because (however we serve) it is still the same God. No one religion has all the answers. If we separate from everything not like us, we lose opportunity to learn from other faiths, also. We stand sure on what God has revealed to us, unwavering. Though, if we keep an open mind, we just might discover that there is more to God than any of us has, yet, considered. Proverbs 8:31 refers to our freedom in the inhabitable part of the earth. If a website offers Halloween stationery, it is my conviction to not download those. But, if you want to be legal about it and dismiss the rest of their wonderful creations, you will miss a blessing. God created all things. The part that can be used as a testimony to Him, we are free use. However, there was an occasion wherein I was even able to use an OE skeleton stationery, as it fit a writing against the hazards of drinking. We limit God when we tell Him what He believes before we hear it from Him. There is a habitable part. Early Christians did not want to give up their festive traditions. Thus, those that could be turned into a blessing for God were adapted, converting to Christian Holidays. We still have that option, today. Whatever Satan meant for evil, God can use for good. If we do not see the connection of how to use evil for good, we are free to move on. In such case, we either are not listening or God may not be calling us to it. But, if we see the connection, we are free to walk in the Spirit; following Christ. Being not everyone is a writer, your opportunities may be different. We are not all called and gifted in the same way or to the same things. But, to keep an open mind until we have heard from God, our ministry can reach more for the Lord. That is the key. "Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain." Psalm 127:1 ~ Immortality ~ Long after we're dead, Long after we're gone, Through others, we pray, May Our Seed Live On! ~ * ~ If you want to build a ministry that will withstand the Gates of Hell, Seek the Master Builder. © by Joyce C. Lock http://our.homewithgod.com/heavenlyinspirations/ This writing may be used in its entirety, with credits in tact, for non-profit ministering purposes. About the Author Joyce C. Lock is a published author, poet, and columnist. In addition, she founded and maintains the e-mail ministries "Heavenly Inspirations" http://groups.yahoo.com/group/HeavenlyInspirations/ and "Share a Smile" http://groups.yahoo.com/group/smilesharing/. Joyce's writings encourage us in our relationship with God and each other. ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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Tuesday, January 08, 2008

Poetry-34

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Feature Article Imagination Author: Debbie Long Have you ever sat and watch a child struggle with a blank page? Have you ever wondered why some children just seem to detest anything to do with writing? Have you seem them just give up in frustration and walk away angry and distraught? Well you are not alone. Every one possesses the capability to write stories, plays, poems or journal writings. There is something that belongs to you and nobody else – something that you can always keep a secret. There is something so special that it is priceless, and yet it costs you nothing. This is something that can never be taken away from you, but is yours to share with as many people as you choose. This is something you can keep for a lifetime and use anytime. Do you know what it is? Do you give up? This is your imagination. Poets and artisans of ancient Greece attributed their inspiration to playful whispers from Muses. Eventually, they recognized the mystic murmurings to be their own imaginations. Einstein claimed that imagination was more important than knowledge. Knowledge was limited, he said, whereas imagination could "embrace the entire world stimulating progress, giving birth to evolution." As co-author of a literacy program in Ontario, 'The Muse Program' Debbie has had a unique opportunity to observe children at work and see the methods that work best. The hesitation comes for some as they sit facing a blank page. Even with a vivid imagination, without the tools to utilize it, it becomes a stumbling block for many children. Debbie has peppered her books with practical questions easily understood by children of any background. Their answers to those leading questions will provide a strong basis for a story. There is a broad comfort zone, because she leads them through familiar territory so that they can write about what they know best. Using techniques she has developed with her own children to stretch their imaginations and her artistic background, she is able to conjure up images in their minds that are more easily transformed into words on that intimidating blank page. The first in the series, 'Short Stories with Imagination' is designed to encourage the use of imagination and to help foster a child's self-image, opening up a whole new world to explore. Based on real-life childhood memories, these stories promote the idea that anything is possible. With a little help from our imaginations, an ordinary day can become one filled with adventure – sailing with pirates, running a race, or experiencing the thrill of a plane ride for the first time. 'Storybuilding with Imagination', the second in the Imagination Series, uses the proven techniques Debbie has developed and helps walk the child through the general principals of story writing. Following her lead helps the child untangle the confusing trail of mazes, and feel the pride of a job well done. 'Storybuilding with Imagination' is written simply, visually and interactively, so that children can follow along, regardless of reading and writing capabilities. Kid's Writing Place could be called an Internet learning room where children are mused and/or become the muse to others, helping to spark children's imaginations and promote writing skills. Encouraging the use of imagination helps a child build strength and courage, thus fostering a child's self-image. At Kid's Writing Place, children that are intimidated by that blank page can come and get story beginning ideas, or those that are full of ideas but just can't seem to finish the ending can get help with their ideas. Those that are well on their way to becoming the next generation of authors can have their work read and critiqued by others. This not only enhances skill improvement but promotes interaction between others. The goals of Kid's Writing Place are to Foster Literacy through the Imagination. This is achieved through the interaction, cooperation and brainstorming of the children working together and learning how to build on their ideas. This on-line forum was inspired by a writer's fascination with the ability to motivate the creative process within children using their imagination. Visit www.designsbydebbie.ca/kidswritingplace and join in the fun of letting your own imagination soar and be amazed at the places that it can take you. "The kids of today are our future,' says Designs by Debbie founder, "I believe that we are all capable of helping to improve our children's futures, starting with their own imaginations." About the Author Debbie Long is a writer/illustrator and founding member of 'The Muse Program', a literacy program for children. She has currently published her first children's book, in the Imagination Series, 'Short Stories with Imagination. The second is due to be released July 2005. For more details visit http://www.designsbydebbe.ca ... Subscribe to our Poetry newsletter! Your email:

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