The Poetry In Art

Maria, hopefully many of my works have an element of poetry to them and not so esoteric as to be missed...

Having a poor education in language skills and the fact the i could never spell correctly before spell check came about... (thank you).
i chose the visual medium as a career and learned to express myself with the available visual language.
The great surprise was when i began to write, i guess you can call it poetry if you will, and how it help to communicate the message of some of my images. There have been times when words come first and others when the image creates the poetry... and on a rare occasion and with great pleasure they happen simultaneously… and i think, lucky me.




fleeing edge to edge
the land-escapes
it's confines
and takes flight
beyond the horizon

Ed Meredith

My late mother, artist Avonelle Kelsey often produced work in sets. A poem or short story would lead become the inspiration for a painting or vise versa. Those might then lead to a sculpture or an instillation. She often collaged her poetry haphazardly to a painting. In my youth I was aghast when she did this. Now that she has passed away and I slip further down the rabbit hole into the world of art myself, I find it all very wonderful. Several of the many paintings I kept for myself that are now on FAA are ones with her written works attached or based on longer stories where I have the handmade books that go with them.



G E N E S
Avonelle Kelsey @ ‘87

Each of us a different nose
Eyes and ears, a funny slant,
Different craziness expound,
Colors vary, many lands.
Inner rhythms, eerie sounds,
Voices babble, foreign nouns.

And I thought that knowing me
Was the key to knowing you.
But now to my experienced eye
You are not me in disguise.
If we’re different on the top
Where we camouflage weak spots,

Then underneath this body form
The lonely gene is lost, forlorn.

Gibran—The Prophet says, “Our Children come through us but are not …us!”

Nice one Ed. I remember having a phase where everything I painted I purposely had some part falling off the edge of the page/canvas because I felt that there was never a piece of paper large enough
To express myself, I was defiant in not keeping within the frame even though all of the books were telling me different. When I did keep within the confines of the frame sometimes it was okay but I always wanted to add some interest just slipping over the edge. Like taking a small section of a scene to paint, I was always aware that whoever looked at the scene within the frame did not get the full story, but that's ok for the viewer I suppose.
The over the edge freedom in your image is felt instantly.

Maria

There was one of your pieces that spoke to me and I remember adding a poem on it for you. I do not have time to find it just now but that one shouted that poem to me (although it was not my poem)

Yes I remember, the large white Lily. That's interesting, I didn't think of adding artworks that made you run to find a poem which brought about the same feeling. I remember going to the Archibald Prize exhibition one year here in
Melbourne and saw a painting which had me instantly bring to mind a poem or piece of writing, will have to try and find the pair.

This artist inspires my poetic imagination :))



Solitare

That cat was her consort,
black and sleek.
In no farm fields
did he stealthily creep.

No curiosity
crossed his mind.
None of his nine lives
had he left behind.

In her arms
he was perfectly content.
The stroke of her hand
was time well spent.

The nest of her breast
was his happy home.
Purr synced with heart beat,
never alone.

Trips of imagination
were the games that they played.
He was her consort.
He never strayed.

Karen Newell
2013

For me, it is rare that any photograph no matter how good has spoke to me in a way that I could write from. Paintings seem to do that a lot more than any other form of art. Of all my poetry, about three books worth now, I have maybe 70%, 600-700 are written from art, of that maybe 4 photos have inspired me to write, and seven sculptures.
So on this, is anyone else who writes from art, have any similar experiences?

Wow Dan, that is very encouraging regarding the connection between art and poetry. Photographs work for me almost as much as paintings or sculptures.
Nola, I did respond to your image and poem but lost it. Will try again tomorrow. Great responses from everyone. Thanks.

This Painting is called “On Silent Wings” by Pat Erickson


The first thing I notice is “I feel” this painting. The depth of shadow and it’s highly emotive quality has lured me deep inside the picture. The woman who has fallen now lays helpless at the mercy of her passions which have prevented her from seeing the truth for so long. How can she possibly fight against all the odds that keep her so tightly bound, and so without further struggle she surrenders only to lay ever so still. Within that deep inner silence a renewed strength is delivered and ushers in the owl of wisdom to restore the vision of herself, her abilities, and the world around her.

This is what this incredible watercolor says to me.

-Kelley Lee McDonald

Dear Karen, Solitare is terrific! :-)

Maria, interesting. I think to each of us, in some way something in a piece of art speaks to us, and for some reason each style effects people differently. I do not know why my connection to paintings is so much stronger than the other forms, even though I love them all.
I still think it would be interesting to see what sparks more connection to people though. :)

karen that was brilliant, was going to echo it but decided it would spoil it. fav. back later

Thanks for the compliments Kelly and Jason. :)))
Dan, I am usually more inspired poetically by paintings. Some paintings instantly tell me a story.
I love photographs but they don't speak to me in quite the same way.

Karen, it is the same for me too.

This is the image and poem that Abbie was referring to




At The Lily's Heart

Within me (roguish brother!) lives a faun
Demure as any whom Arcadian bees
Made drowsy with their murmur, or the sea's
Far thunder woke on some Illyrian dawn;
And he the blue-eyed dryad on the lawn
Would fain allure with woodland sorceries,
But thou shalt see him on his bended knees,
O goddess by the bitter years withdrawn!

Lo! Passion here puts by her scarlet wreath,
And yet abideth Passion. In thy kiss
Nobility and rapture blend their hues
As stars might fashion in the flowers beneath
A symbol of my worship and its bliss,
Enmirrored for a night in earthly dews.

By George Sterlin

This is a photo I took. Now I am asking myself, did I see the poetry in the tree before the photo or after.






A Dancer on a Jewel Box


Naked.
Of life.
Beautiful remains
Of your writhing
To reach the sky
To spread your limbs
To display your leaves
Each crack and moaning split
I hear it!
Wizened with wisdom now
Rough to the touch,
A thick hard skin,
But hollow now,
Naked,
The destined map of a tiny seed,
Some thought of nature
Some need
That urges growth
From underground,
See the push!
To feel from one spot
All that's around
A dancer on a jewel box


Maria Disley 30/6/14
I was mesmerised by the twisting of the dead limbs which evoked so much movement. I began to think of something which I always think about when I see a kind of humanity in trees, and that is how all their lives they are rooted in the one spot, in all weathers, getting dressed and being stripped bare, with nowhere to hide or shelter, but their movements are visible in the shapes of their limbs, like a dancer on a jewel box. A poem of Jason's which I had read before writing also made me think of the tree as a dancer on a jewel box.

Magnificent paintings, Karen and Kelley, I can see why you would respond with poetry/prose to these.
Nola, I loved your mum's work, the paintings and poetry were so ONE, for her, I understand that very well and glad you shared it

THY HEART

Most important to body and soul
A pivot point for our emotions
The engine of our bodies
Pumping life's blood twenty-four seven
Equally vulnerable to a lover's tale
Simple feelings arouse desire for love
Thy gluttonous way of fine dine
Too much fine red wine
Too much roasted swine
More of a good thing is always too much
Refuting our inner voice
In lieu of the lustful choice
Feeling and wanting to believe
Deep down our intuitions whisper deceived
Thy heart is thou nucleus for life
Choose wisely

Craig Carter
7/8/2014

In this photo, which I could easily be swayed to write about, I feel the poetics are in the absence of people and the electric mood because of that absence, and the composition of the piece. Great photo. So, is this the first time you have written a poem about a photo? Or do you find that there's no difference between a painting or photo, that urges you to write? And, was it written because the photo asked to be written, or was it an experiment by you? I'm sure you'll agree there's a huge difference regarding what we are trying to discover about the relationship of art and poetry, don't you think Craig?

Maybe, I know I will, be thinking more about why I was driven to write a poem after viewing a piece of artwork, what was happening at that moment of connection.

Just thought of something, is it because you feel there is something missing from the image. I remember painting a picture of a dance scene which was about the last dance I had with my brother, like Ed's painting, the dancers ran over the edge of the frame, but I also wrote a poem. I will try and dig them both out to show example. So, another question, are the works that we feel we need to write about, are they just unfinished in our eyes, and others seen as complete, for the individual viewer? Hmmm!

Hi Maria......great,contemplative,thread. I hesitated to enter - you touched a chord. Even when I uploaded this painting, though I knew why I painted it, I was really unsure about putting my thoughts out there - it is from my depths and frankly, I didn't mind if nobody 'got it' on viewing it. But.....when I , myself, found the words for it, then, I braved up, and posted my ?verse?..........it leaves most folks speechless to reply - that's ok. It was cathartic and I feel safe discussing/sharing it here, where it is safe.

SEEDS.

Seven Seeds.

Seeds I have borne.

Seeds I have nurtured.

Seeds I have lost.

Seeds I have mourned.

Maria,
I didn't quite follow the rules. The writing came from the thoughts of how on one hand our heart is a strong living machine while on the other hand its a sensitive part of our emotions. But since I had posted it I was trying to find an image that would match. So, my next entry should be more fitting based solely on the image. The image as I see it at this moment is more of anticipation. I think I have the appropriate title: Lover's Prelude. Maybe I will give it a try when my mind is clear and see what I come up with.

Thank you guys for being so Frank and inquisitive about the subject. If it gets too dry and serious here :)). Please relieve yourselves at Abbie's new thread, I think it probably does the job. I'm being serious not sarcastic, humour and outlets are very important for balance, how dry is that :)))))))

Now to one of the most beautiful works of art I have seen. Why? Maybe because of its simplicity wonderfully fused, and inseparable from its poetry. How amazing that you were able to put it into words Vivian. I felt your grief, not in its whole ness of course but I was touched by it, the sharing moved me to tears. If nothing else comes of this thread, all of the above has been worth it IMO. Seeds Is similarly like the writhing tree, unable to part from its spot. It's art and it's poetry. I am composing in my head about your seeds, it's automatic but the tenderness of your unions, your unique unions of self, life, art and poetry asks me to be silent. So I am going to give myself up to that indescribable almost pure silence. Thank you so much. X

Craig,
Yes, please based on an image, but try if you can to not set this up, let the poetry, if it is in the work, ask to be written, sorry I can't yet explain precisely how it works, it's like the blind leading the blind :))))). Take Vivian's wonderful piece, she already had the emotions within her to be able to paint Seeds. If she had seen the painting in a gallery and then the feelings had her write the poetry, then those two experiences would have been different. I think she would have still associated the seeds with her losses and the outcome would have been the same, but the power would have been rooted in the art work alone with no precursor.
After I had written about your photo, the word anticipation was on my lips. I thought, yeah, the anticipatory mood was what flooded the scene. :))

Vivian,
On a completely technical point, just for impact, purely objective but something to think about, I couldn't help thinking that this poem should have seven lines beginning with the word seed. Seven little lines. Technical though it may be, there's a method in my madness and I know you will see it.

I did this one off from a painting of a young Fairy, that was painted in a Sepia tone. I have had people tell I should turn it into a children's story. :)

The Legend of the Sepia Fairy

When the world was young and magical life roamed free
There live a young fae with a heart of gold
But she owned a spirit of ribaldry and impish delights
She loved color that was lacking in those days

It is said that sometimes out of boredom
She would sing a spell to color the woods
The lass would sing to spread many colors
Trying each to se if they fit her delectation

She would color the trees with red leaves and orange trunks
But that just did not seem to work well for her
So she tried other colors on different things
Mixing and matching the different hues

Reds and blacks and browns she tried
Greens and yellows and blues she painted
It gave such a pleasure to try the different colors
And purest of joy when she made a good match

Then one day while trying her spells
She by accident coughed while singing her enchantment
And the woods started to sparkle and shimmer wildly
The tiny fae turned with fear, oh what had she done

Colors blasted from everywhere and nowhere at once
A mass confusion in spectral spatter she had caused
When all was done and the bewitchment complete
The whole of the magical woods were now no longer bleak

But the color that covered the beautiful place
Was now emblazoned sepia!
Every tree and bush, even the roses were sepia!
The tiny fae sat down and cried

Her heart broken with what had happened
Even her gown of bright blue now hung sepia
And matched her skin and hair, oh she wept
She wailed for days at the distress she had caused
She cried until her mother found her alone on a sepia leaf
Her mother came and sat beside her and asked what had become
The tiny fae explained to her mother about her accident in singing her spell
Oh my her mother exclaimed with total dread

And knowing the pain of her youngest impish daughter
Then she rose and took her daughter’s hand, lets work together my child
And together they did, day and night neither slept a wink
But worked their spells even with horse voices long tired

But slowly they cleansed the woods of the sepia color
That was all but the tiny fae that would never change
She was all one color through and through
That no spell could change her color back

Then as she grew, to be a beautiful fae
She was known as the sepia fairy
Teased by all of the fae youths
Always different, always the joke

She took it to be her punishment for her play
And never got to know any of the fae lads
Never a love nor a true friend
She was the sepia fairy, always alone

Then one day as she floated through the woods alone
She thought of the pain the others had caused
Would it not be easier to just vanish from this world
And never to return, at least she would not feel so ignored

But on this day she happened to meet a young woman in the woods
No matter how the fae hid she was always found
‘Oh my darling young fae, do you not know me?’
The woman asked in a sweet song like tone

But the Sepia fae knew not who this was
‘Did not the elders teach you your lessons?’
The woman asked sitting on a log
They did not the sepia fae explained


‘For I am the outsider they only allow around
can you not see my color is wrong?’
‘Oh let me tell you this, no color is wrong’ the woman said
‘You were born with a magical gift’ the woman explained

The young fae was stumped by this news
Then together they talked about many things
Talked about the length of the days and the shades of pink
Talked of the many colors still lacking in the world today

Then the woman told the young fae that she was to work with her
She would be the queen of color and make sure everything was bright
The woman would teach her to use her powers of color
So she would never fear them again, nor create the mess she once did

So now young children, when you see a red flower or green caterpillar
You know it was not by chance this color happened to be
But now the young fae is old, but she still has an impish spirit of mirth
As she colors the world and every creature born to be its own

09/01/2004 © Pierre Richards

Thank you, Maria. I share your tears....it always happens. I couldn't get past those thoughts, knowing, yes, seven lines were required....with my trust and permission - and love of your poetic soul, I empower you to complete it for me........please..............I would be honoured....sigh

Wow! Viv, thats quite a request but i'll have a go.

Magical Dan, I can imagine children being engrossed in this as a story. The image really grabbed your imagination to be able to write so prolifically about it. I felt that you knew the little girl very well.

hi Maria, glad your back on the poetry, beautiful images as ever..
Saigon's classroom did resonate, both you and he are both teachers of English? what age groups? hey Saigon give us regular updates :-)

So are you doing a grand tour Maria? awesome, i did a month backpacking around the cities and sites of Europe when i was18, and Pilatus was the most amazing mountain station, highest in the Alps i think(is the mountain called Schilthorn?)! Was there swirling clouds that engulf the viewing station briefly opening like a shroud to reveal entire mountain ranges miles high, almost seemingly an arms length away? the journey through the Alps by mountain trains, fenicula and cable cars is probably one of the most beautiful journeys to be made!

bet your having a magical time, envious, hope to go back there in a few years, enjoy your travels!



Across mountains, a view unfolded
a shroud of mist lifted from the face of creation
a rock of time stood proud
touching skies, this giant smiled
lifting people upon their entranced minds..


This was the place of dreams
a magical place
planted within the woken mind
it stirs the night time dreams
as skies eddy and bellow...

The mists are of your dreaming mind...
where swans, within, might fly...
upon your highest skies!

(c) Jason Christopher 2014

Maria send us some post card better if its some genuine pictures or drawings!

@Jason..technically am a consultant now but actually doing some paper works on curriculum development and have an office inside a 2nd grader (opposite the class teachers table) hahaha hold your laughter a week ago am inside the science room. It was a joy to be where the actions are now.

Here's one latest blog entry i did in the other site.

"I got my new corner after i was first assigned in science room am now with the 2nd graders. I guess am immersing well with my new work place surrounded by this God sent little angels around They included me in their morning greetings(after prayers) and they respected my private space even though they are always privy on the story of my paint brushes in my pencil coffee mug.

My stuffs are on open display but I always wanted to keep my life's information ready for their queries.The other day on my 4th grader I was startled on my one girl request. "Can I hug you Mister?"..I answered back (while she already had my waist) "Why?" "Well am cold and it make me warm if I hug" she charmingly replied. I told her better bring a jacket next time, "I remember one of your classmate was in her pajamas's the other day." Everybody laugh recalling that incident.

Honestly, the girl's request almost melted me how this angel(s) found me like a ready father ready to give them a hug to warm them. Little do they know it gives me a glow on my disciplinarian heart, and felt I am am their guardian angel instead. Ah the reward of working in the academe."

-An entry in bubblews.com

We'll guys, just got back from a visit to the Eiffel Tower illuminated and at ten pm the whole thing sparkled with flashing lights, quite magnificent. I'd never thought about its steel fabrication much before but as I looked at the golden coloured metal, I wanted to go and click at every angle, but this was impossible, my coach awaited !!!!!
Everything is timed. I was astounded at the size of the Louvre, never expected that. If I can get to the Musee d'Orsay tomorrow I will certainly try. We drove down the Champs Elysse photographing from the coach!!!!!
The Seine!!!! I imagined the impressionists walking along there often. Paris pumps!!!! Tomorrow it's the left bank tour, including Notre Dame, and Versailles which I want to see as we hear so much about it and the treaty from the history classes. Then moulin Rouge. We went for dinner in a authentic looking hotel restaurant where an accordion player played....beautiful. I felt a part of the art books Paris I had only known til now. Still, there is too much to see and know. Can't send any photos just now. I have taken 700. Haha. Some just snaps, some blurred, some are inspiring me to paint, some may make good photos.

I have never considered myself a writer of poetry because I just love poetry. I have a complex internal dialogue about a subject and am moved to express it. I painted a series based on ancient old trees that I came to know in an area I lived. I studied and research them and came across trees 2000 + years old which connected me to biblical thoughts. i wondered about the significance of trees in biblical history and I was moved to paint images from this. I was also moved to want to write along with them. I find interesting things about many religious beleifs. Interestingly enough I chose to write Haiku poetry for my paintings that were based from christian scripture. Ha! hows that for a controversial combination. I think it was important to do this because I was being inspired to do so from an unexplained motive

Storm


When mystery and miracle become one
when man and woman stand under the sun
How can two who loved
love no more?
How can love give life
then live no more?

I can't see her
she is my eyes
I can't escape her love
her love is where I escape

Let her be like a song or the rain
so I can feel her again
Let there be snow,sand and flame

Happy touring Maria and it looks like you are in the Art mode.
Great writings here as always.
I just saw Viet Trans wonderful and interesting poem he put up on the theme of time in the Gathering thread.
I just finished this drawing recently so I thought of a little synchronicity.
Although I don't claim to be very much of a poet myself.

The Time Keeper

The wise man keeps time but without worry.
He tries to help those that don’t understand the precious gift.
The youth have plenty, the old not enough.
As it moves along it seems to gain speed.
It cycles through and into the next dimension.

Jim Taylor

This Jam Session Called Life...

Jim, love your drawings...as you know my fav is the old man going to the cemetery. About time...I have been Europe hopping and time has been of the essence...just returned from a much anticipated tour of the palace of Versailles WOW! But it was at times like herding cattle...so many people....but I stood in the hall of mirrors where the treaty of Versailles was signed in 1918. Lots of photos including Marie Antoinettes bedroom...she had good sense of decor....all so interesting...

I'm watching the clock
The bus arrives at 6.20
Tick tock tick tock
Is that my heart or what?
Lots of legs and frills
Lots of girls and thrills
At the moulin rouge
Then back to look up at the Paris sky
And the timeless stars float by
I've been in heaven
But it's been a rush
The irony of history
And it's effect on us!
I don't even know what day it is!

Oxo.....keep getting interrupted reading your poem.......maybe tonight Josephine! Haha!

An Ode to Adam Brulotte.

A product of a broken society, going down for living up..to low expectations.
Beginning of the end was that party.. then that fight. What the kids these days consider an average Friday night...
A year or two away from all that should teach the boy a lesson.. lets pretend there's no consequence of the long term segregation.
Incarcerated, segregated, irritated, self mutilated. Are we not just making it worse while emptying the public purse?
They say seg is better.. claim seg is necessary.."we do it for the others"..we do it by the letter.
Fishing with a thread for razors already bled. Fill the room with red or fill the boy with med.
What started at that party turned life into constant night. And seg has ended hope with walls blooded, smeared with shite.
87 days alone will do that to a boy. 87 holes to the bone for taking away all joy.


edit: Maria.. Cynical dad was from the fathers perspective! :-) (sorry I took so long to reply..been on a wee break(seg..lol)

LC, I am a bit confused. You say you don't write, but you love poetry, and you write haiku? It's great that you express through painting, but I find your comments about trees very poetic and am wondering if you have written haiku about this passion, if so, maybe you would like to share.

Robert, your portraits are quite powerful, lots of energy coming from them. I read your poem and couldn't help thinking love doesn't go, people move on but the love does not stop existing. We have to learn to live with its existence even though it may not be shared and Feel lucky for the experience.....some people have never known it.

Philip, last night in Paris, don't think I am going to be able to make it to the Musee D'Orsay....what a shame...so much I must come back to see. Had a great night at Moulin Rouge....London next.


Paris (1)

I saw a place
Trickled through its space
Like a bead, just broken from its string,
Hardly touching the ground
Spinning, bouncing, unstaying
Picking up no dirt,
Life dirt,
No life,
In passing,
No time lying with compassion
Upon the bridge walls
Allowing in my waiting for autumn leaves to fall
Upon my horizontal
My withall.
Seine, I wished to dribble my hands across your soul,
Historic soul,
But time trickled through my fingers
Regret lingers
Seine,
While benches kindly rest your beggars.
Suddenly you feel like ripe fruit
To me
I make an incision in your skin
And peel it back
You show me everything
To the core
Alas too soon, I leave with want of more.

Saigon...there will be paintings, drawings and photos...soooooon....lots to think about.

I just shared my poem(and an explanation of the inspiration) with friends in a group where it was described as "fascinating and horrifying".. Can't go into too much detail here due to forum rules.. but.. Firstly, apologies to all who are used to a less direct approach and less disturbing topics..(American prison system)..Sorry! Secondly...I feel art should open peoples eyes to issues such as this...
Anyhow... the next one will be a love poem..honest!

Edit: Seg is short for segregation or solitary confinement. Some of the guys in there are losing years at a time to this barbaric treatment. The boy(21) mentioned in the title got seg for a relatively minor offence..by the time his sentence was up he had developed serious mental "issues"..

Powerful Barry, cold, hard and brutal... now besides that biography of you, i will comment on your poem later.... ;-)

(joking aside, yeah i think poems should reflect real life, writing about cold hard and grimey topics inclusing death and misery is just as much poetry as flowers and love... implying these are otherwise is to deny the true depth and breadth of the human condition which is what poetry is about... i be back on such dreaded poems soon lol)

edit: should ALSO reflect real life

but many of mine don't

@Saigon, glad to hear of your success, and to be surrounded by such angels with dirty faces, metaphorocally of course, sounds idylic for your observational poetry lol, personally i would play chill out music constantly

Paris - a great city esp for romantics... i remember Notre Dame vaguely well Maria... a world unto it self and the river of burning candles in the cathedral was mesmerising..

AND of art.. the Louvre was actually where i was denied access - as it hit the exact time of closing on the turnstiles, my 2 pals were allowed in and i was not.. "MEET YA AT THE MONA LISA !!!" i shouted out, as i ran around the building to the exit and shoved my way in and ran through corridors pursued lol.. madness, but i got there and there we did our critique with the security guard now caught up with me, placating us as we all 3 gave our trivial childish critiques.. was it her eyes?.. or her smile?.. yeah yeah... lol he kind of laughed listening to us and let us stay 2 minutes, then we had to move it! At least we saw her in "real life", briefly!!

Moulin Rouge!? fabulous! wish we had, amazing how 2 words conjur up such amazing vibrant images and atmosphere!


Enjoyed these lines Maria

"No time lying with compassion
Upon the bridge walls
Allowing in my waiting for autumn leaves to fall
Upon my horizontal
My withall.
Seine, I wished to dribble my hands across your soul,
Historic soul, "

sounds like you are defintely immersed in Paris!!

Barry, the prison poem was thought provoking. My impression was....what else can be done to people who looking for joy end up on the self destruction road?
I need details...what caused the fight, the poem cries unfairness, but did anyone else get hurt, why didn't the boy have some self control, does he enjoy a good fight, I don't think anyone, in the right mind, gets a kick out of a young person being locked up for what seems will do him more damage than not being locked up, and some don't respond to other kinds of help, what's the answer???

Hi Maria.. I love your Paris 1 poem. Such vivid imagery.

Thanks for taking the time to share your thoughts provoked by my poem.

re: Seg..

This is a difficult subject to discuss openly here as it all boils down to politics. I can explain the background of the poem however.
Undoubtedly he was no angel.. my criticism is of these so called reformation centres which are actually making things worse for everyone..The boy featured was incarcerated for breaking someones jaw during a fight. A single punch while defending himself. When in prison he was involved in another incident and as further punishment was sent to Seg... it is a prison within the prison. Inmates spend 23 hrs each day in their 6x8 cell completely cut off from other people. His mental health rapidly went into decline. This is the issue! Seg turned him from an average guy trying to wait out his sentence, into a self-harmer with serious mental issues. His self harming and mental issues are "dealt with" by giving him even more seg. A vicious spiraling circle of decline. So... he went into prison an average guy...and came out 1 yr later a mere husk of the person he was and much more dangerous to society. The self destruction is imposed..so it's less of the "self" and more of the destruction. I don't know what the answer is..but I know it's not this.
The privatization of prisons has turned these men and women into commodities.. and now there is no incentive for reformation, but plenty incentive for adding to the problem.. This is where the politics come into it so I'll leave it at that :o)

'Defending himself'. Makes it a very sad experience and unintelligent way of dealing with the individual case. Each life is important to be respected if respect is warranted. It has been good on my travels to be spending less time on the machine and more time interacting with people. Machines are nothing without people and people are so much more without machines.

I cannot deny
How I felt my roots
Like a native flower
In its own soil
My camera unable to catch time gone
Though I heard long lost echoes inside the railway tunnel
All is done!

We teetered on the edge of the narrow kerb
Between the close traffic and the old church walls
Across the way, I spied between some metal gates
The churchyard, it's headstones, and the fates
Of my deceased and sleeping dears.
The grass, so velvet green, once wild and wiry and straying
Like the souls unseen in playing.

The traffic almost clipped our toes
Until we had a chance to cross the road.
I looked back at the medieval church's clock
It's broken graves, all chiselled epitaphs erased
By the tread of history's men and women, who'd left and entered for some celebration.
And been noted in the doomsday book,
I closed my look and it softly sat inside of its own accord
To wait on lines that might compose a poem
For those that understood.

Another day
For holding hands
For connecting in the flesh
But it's like squeezing a dress you can't dismiss
Into a hoarded wardrobe.
What shall I keep,
Let go? Regret and miss.
Clothes and shoes are soulless though
I want to wear these friends forever
See once again in flesh
My eyes meet theirs
Expressions exchange, emotions mix
Like loose change,
Easy and for saving.
To be counted
At my solo leisure
Even be exchanged for paper
In the form of priceless photographs
That fill my heart with pleasure.

Kunstverket av Andre Bjerke

What makes one an Artist?
No one knows for certain
But so often It is enough to have strange habits,
a hairpieces,full of vine and full of secrets.

A Conductor
A Painter
A Poet

Can fool even the vise flock of critiques
There is no certain way to measure
And to guarantee if it is a work of quality

The Art of Chess alone
. Have certain rules for good and bad
What are you strengths?
We all will see in victory

All bluff comes to light
. in every form.
So the true artist shall give one's life to
the true work of Art
A game of chess.

(translated from Norwegian,I hope I did a good job.Famous Norwegian writer,poet,master of color theory)

Blue Girl.

Blue girl with glass-like eyes
and sketchy careless hair
you own a look, a headstrong stare
upon a face of hollowed cheeks
and when I look I wonder if, there's
wonder in your line of vison,
A place, a fall of light, a person
or a mission,
whatever it is that catches you
that stops you in your tracks,
You leave for me the strangest
space........
Wherein, I'm soon immersed,
and in that place, imagination bursts,
til beautiful and elusive buds emerge
And tendrils of creation surge.

From a gondola was spied
a common line of washing
among the ruined architecture
it blazoned, sublime.
The gondola ride was silent-smooth,
and it did glide through cool canals,
a beautiful idyllic ride, a softening sway
from side to side.
Why did a line of washing not detract
from such a dream,
the owners plastered up behind the flaking walls,
the water rising up to meet their feet,
the green, wet moss, thick between the bricks,
was all a part of the atmosphere,
the intriguing way of living,
the romance of another way of life,
The foreigner's fix!
The lace verandah's curling metal,
the swirling drink,
the echo of the shady canal, round every curving corner,
under every bridge,
intensed my every sense to its unreached romantic edge.
And the common line of washing
made it real.

Maria Disley 12/10/2014

A bird began its nesting
in the gutter
of my home
I stopped in my tracks
while brushing my hair
to the flutter
of the expectant mother
and her song as she worked.
and I thought,
and I thought,
and I thought,
and I smiled.

x2

21 days is a long gap between posts. Think it's time to close this thread :). Maybe I will get started on that book of poems that I have been promising myself to write for some time now. Hope the regulars and blow ins are doing some other very interesting things that keep them away :))