Thursday, April 30, 2009

Poetry and Personal Meditation

Poetry is important to me.

When I read poetry, my mind is at peace. I liken it to a form of personal meditation as I find myself quite focused. I am able to be quiet. There are few things in life I do where I can say that. Once during a skiing lesson, my instructor stopped me, held my gaze and simply said ‘Try to keep your body quiet.’ This may sound strange to some, but I knew exactly what he meant and then I proceeded down that mountain unintentionally making a lot of noise. More practice required there.

Thankfully, staying quiet comes quite naturally for me while reading poetry.
I have read a few poems of late by Octavio Paz. In his lecture Poetry and Modernity he speaks of his passion for poetry and expresses “Poetry has been for me not only an everyday task and an invincible affection but also a vice, a fate, and ultimately, a cult, a personal religion.”

I feel his passion in his words. A wonderfully beautiful poem of his worth reading is titled Sunstone – it is quite lengthy and thus I am not including it here, but it is worth seeking out. For now, I would like to share this;


Between going and staying the day wavers,
by Octavio Paz

Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Poetry moves me a-lliteratively



Laughter lading in the labyrinth of lust
The lucent ladybird lands for luck
Lamenting low labial love
Love abundant
Lovelorn
Lovesome
Leaving
Loved


Loquacious languid lyricisms


by Janet Jarrell

We two are to ourselves a crowd. Ovid

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Mary Oliver

April is Poetry Month















Acid

In Jakarta,
among the vendors
of flowers and soft drinks,
I saw a child
with a hideous mouth,
begging,
and I knew the wound was made
for a way to stay alive.
What I gave him
wouldn't keep a dog alive.
What he gave me
from the brown coin
of his sweating face
was a look of cunning.
I carry it
like a bead of acid
to remember how,
once in a while,you can creep out of your own life
and become someone else-
an explosion
in that nest of wires
we call the imagination.
I will never see him
again, I suppose.
But what of this rag,
this shadow
flung like a boy's body
into the walls
of my mind, bleeding
their sour taste-
insult and anger,
the great movers?

Mary Oliver

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Getting Older

Sometimes when I
look in the mirror
and my hair hangs curled under
I look distinguished
That is a nice way of saying older

I like the look
but I am not yet ready to see it

It is at these moments when
I wonder what my young lover sees
Does his head cock to the side
in question

Doubts seeps in

I mention the age gap to a friend
She dismisses it with
“who cares?”

I am relieved but push on

I suggest maybe I should
give my young lover up
let him mature for a few years, let
him ‘sow some wild oats’

“Isn’t that what he is doing with you?”
She apologizes


A good truth told
By Janet Jarrell
Post poem; A mirror helps one reflect...
Postscript; Thank you to all of my family, personal friends and blogger friends whom have read, supported and contributed to my blog. Thank you to Dave whom encouraged me to get started. I have enjoyed this experience and I look forward to exploring the myriad of blogs, bloggers and communities I have encountered with similar passions.
With many emotions, my smile simply says 'thank you' in every language.

Our Clear Autumn



Our perfect August
Our lambent time
The hour, month, season
Hast thou passed so
Suddenly

Nay, in time
You have naught but slept
Wake now thee love
See how it has suffered
Under your euphoric spell
Comfort creates the nest
Complacency settles in

(…poem interrupted by life)

With Love
On Love

By Janet Jarrell