Sharing: “And Your Soul Shall Dance” by Garrett Kaoru Hongo

August 23, 2013 JaclynLeave a comment

And Your Soul Shall Dance

Walking to school beside fields

of tomatoes and summer squash,

alone and humming a Japanese love song,

you’ve concealed a copy of Photoplay

between your algebra and English texts.

Your knee socks, saddle shoes, plaid dress,

and blouse, long-sleeved and white

with ruffles down the front,

come from a Sears catalogue

and neatly compliment your new Toni curls.

All of this sets you apart from the landscape:

flat valley grooved with irrigation ditches,

a tractor grinding through alkaline earth,

the short stands of windbreak eucalyptus

shuttering the desert wind

from a small cluster of wooden shacks

where your mother hangs the wash.

You want to go somewhere.

Somewhere far away from all that dust

and sorting machines and acres of lettuce.

Someplace where you might be kissed

by someone with smooth, artistic hands.

When you turn into the schoolyard,

the flagpole gleams like a knife blade in the sun,

and classmates scatter like chickens,

shooed by the storm brooding on your horizon.

Garrett Kaoru Hongo (1982, p.69)

Sharing: “Dark August” by Derek Walcott

August 9, 2013 JaclynLeave a comment

Dark August

So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won’t come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don’t you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all will not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.

Derek Walcott

Sharing:”Bluebird” by Charles Bukowski

August 3, 2013 JaclynLeave a comment

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmWZOsVtqR0&w=420&h=315]

Bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

From Charles Bukowski’s book “The Last Night of Earth Poems”

(c) Charles Bukowski

Inspiration: Look Up More: The Shared Experience of Absurdity

August 13, 2012 Jaclyn8 Comments

I’ll just come out and say it, I love the absurd. There’s something magical and beautiful about frivolity that’s not tied down to reason and rationality. Absurdity has this detachment from the material world which makes me remember that I am not only a physical body that needs to eat and shit, but also a mind that needs to be stimulated and awed. There’s some sort of wizardry that the ludicrous possesses which can turn even the most mundane of situations and surroundings into a wonderland.

Take for instance Christo and Jean-Claude’s outdoor art, The Umbrellas. It instantly turns a brown, barren California landscape into a fairyland. And that’s exactly what’s amazing about absurdity. It’s play for adults. It’s a time when we are pulled out of daily routine and everyday life and invited to immerse ourselves in imagination and wonder. It invites us to see the world around us not as a hard, material setting but as a playground ripe with beauty and ready for exploration.

The magic and wonder of the ridiculous is never so powerful as when it is shared. In the TED Talk below, Charlie Todd, founder of ImprovEverywhere, discusses the power of sharing absurd experiences.

Here are some of my favorite quotes from the video:

“I love this moment in the video, because before it became a share experience, it was maybe a little bit scary, or something that was at least confusing to her. And then once it became a shared experience, it was something funny and something she could laugh at.”

“There is no point and there doesn’t have to be a point. We don’t need a reason, as long as it’s fun.”

[ted id=1269]

This video really inspired me because it made me think about how something just a little bit absurd lends itself to an entire story. The people who witnessed the no-pants subway ride (and all the previous ones that followed!) will forever have that story to tell — and to share. It will be something to connect over and an experience that they can give to others through the telling of that story for the rest of their lives.

All storytelling should have an element of this. Stories should leave you wanting to retell them, to share them. Good stories are instant bridges between people. They bring us together and link us in common experience.

And for me, I always want a little bit of the absurd. I want a little bit of play, a little wink at my reader. I want that moment when my reader and I are both frolicking in the playground of wonder and imagination and beauty that is the world we live in.

Because it’s really fun to play by yourself, but it’s even more fun to play with others.*

*Sexual innuendo absolutely intended. I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.

Creative Commons love to Jon Delorey for the photo and, of course, to TED for the video!

Sharing: First Post After a Long Absence

August 12, 2012February 1, 2022 Jaclyn19 Comments

I’ve been reprimanded quite a bit lately because I haven’t posted anything. But I promise, dear reader, I have an excuse! I’ve just moved from Bangkok to Wellington, New Zealand,* and I will admit that the energy of the move and house-hunting and job-hunting has kept me from blogging. I will also admit that I’ve been too wrapped up in exploring this lovely little capital at the end of the world to think much about writing or grad school. In my defence,** I am incredibly smitten with my surrounds and with people here and my mind has been elsewhere.

Part of why I am so smitten is that I didn’t properly anticipate how much I would love living in an English-speaking country again. I am struck by how much it means to me to be able to have connective little conversations with the baristas at the coffee shops I frequent or to flirt with the guy who works at WelTec. I really appreciated all the smiles I got in Thailand. But if Thailand is the Land of Smiles, New Zealand feels to me like the Land of Small Talk. And I am really loving it. I’d forgotten how those little conversations with friends-you-haven’t-met-yet can really brighten your day. Even if it is a wintry, drizzle-y day, as has often been the case.

In the spirit of appreciation for small connections with friends-you-haven’t-met-yet, I’d like to give a special thanks to Daniela, a fellow Wellingtonian, who blogs over at Lantern Post, who nominated me for the Twin Awards. These little moments of connection and recognition are just lovely and I really do appreciate them. I’d also like to share a bit of Daniela’s poetry, which gives a little bit of insight into my new hometown:

Street Performer

On Saturdays street artists are out,

downtown on Cuba Street,

marking their patches of concrete,

between market stalls,

amongst passers-by,

bending around corners,

not on the way, just in the view,

singing for nickels,

dancing for laughs.

And there he was,

all young and bouncy inside his sneakers,

pants low on hips with blue hearts sewn on knees,

his mum did it for him he tells me.

Just setting his circle right now,

but show will start soon,

and he is really good, he says,

excellent in fact,

real juggling acts, like in circuses,

and fire eating, real fire mind you,

made with kerosene, a real poison.

Really, if I will stay he will show me,

usually lots of people come and watch,

he has a regular crowed now,

and does acrobatics, dangerous staff and for real,

no tricks, like some others do,

no, not him,

he is for real.

Just stay for a while, he will start soon,

mind if I have a spare smoke and a lighter,

it will be real good,

he does this for living,

his folks are still in shock,

but he does what he loves, and that’s all that matters to him,

to make people laugh.

Just stay till the end of the show,

it is going to be awesome,

at the end he will pass the hat around,

you know how it is,

has to pay rent, buy beer,

loving what you do does not,

pay bills,

you understand.

*Why does WordPress not think that New Zealand is a word? Really, WordPress, it’s a real place! Not a fairy-Neverland. But, honestly, you wouldn’t know by this picture:

I mean, look at this! I live here!

**And now it seems I am spelling like them too….

Creative Commons love to mollyeh11 and PhillipC for the photos!

switching on your own electricity (from Make Believe Boutique)

March 4, 2012 JaclynLeave a comment

As I write this, I am sitting by the rooftop pool overlooking downtown Bangkok. It strikes me in this moment that even the dense, urban hive of this city feels calm and tranquil on a Sunday morning. It’s the kind of peaceful that still feels alive with possibility, the kind of gentle breeze that holds secrets of inspiration, the kind of quiet that pulls gratitude from somewhere deep in your chest. There’s something quite special about Sunday mornings.

This kind of tranquil, introspective mood makes me want to share. And today, I’d like to share something from someone to whom I am quite grateful. In Blue, from http://makebelieveboutique.com/, who is a fellow manatee-lover (!), nominated me for the Sunshine Award last week.

I feel quite honored, seeing as her blog is incredibly soulful and introspective. Each one of her posts is a tiny morsel of food for thought, that leaves your tongue rolling over the thoughts again and again so that you can grok the fullness of her words.

Here is one I particularly like, pasted from http://makebelieveboutique.com/2012/02/12/1162/.

Enjoy!

switching on your own electricity

Posted on February 12, 2012

to fly or not to fly

Attempts to unravel the labyrinthian dynamics of art’s propulsion according to the categories of the reasoning mind will never replace the mystery with an explanation. The phenomenon simply exists. According to Jung, ‘the bird is flown’ when we attempt to explain the mystery….Shaun McNiff

Art Making & the Shadows of Your Work….

the strange shadows over treetops sometime between dark & dawn (always a miracle)

little baby feet curled around themselves

that peculiar letting go just before sleep (knowing it’s already gone)

the distance felt in a room full of beloved friends, like a dream

looking in night windows; glow & mist & warmth

walking with hands in pockets, filled with treasures; pinecones, stones, feathers

opening a book to the perfect poem

a song flies you back to a time of converse sneakers & blue nail polish

cold hands find a warm teacup & the world is perfect

suddenly aware that you’re being & not doing (oh, that’s so rare & good)

In our night-time, there’s always the electricity switched on, we watch ourselves, we get it all in the head, really. You’ve got to lapse out before you can know what sensual reality is, lapse into unknowingness, & give up your volition. You’ve got to learn not-to-be before you can come into being…..D.H. Lawrence

there can be no doubt when you tiptoe through your own life gently…

Paper Angels, by Olive Twist

February 26, 2012February 1, 2022 JaclynLeave a comment

In my years living in Bangkok, I have found it difficult to meet others who also write in English (my Thai is not nearly good enough for Poetry) and are looking for a community in which they can work on writing. One of the things I love already about blogging is the immediate sense of community and camaraderie I feel with others who are also on here sharing their words with the world. It amazes me that this seems to happen so organically and easily on WordPress. In only a month or so of blogging, I have already met some inspiring, beautiful people who have encouraged me to write more and more.

One of these people is Sister Olive, at http://olivetwist.wordpress.com/. Her ‘twist’ on spirituality and delicate words bring beauty and emotion to heavy situations. Olive nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award, which really warms my heart. I feel so appreciative, especially since I am new to this whole realm.

Not being a rule follower myself, I am not going to bombard you with facts about me or with a giant list of other blogs I like. Instead, I am going to take this opportunity to slowly share some of the amazing writing I’ve found floating out here in cyberspace. Check back on Sundays for writers who are making me smile.

This Sunday is dedicated to Olive. Thank you, Olive, for really making me feel welcome in the WordPress community and also for encouraging me.

Here is one of my favorite gems from Olive’s blog.

Enjoy!

Paper Angels

http://olivetwist.wordpress.com/2012/02/23/paper-angels/

by Olive Twist at http://olivetwist.wordpress.com/

(The Iris Diaries)

The wind began sending messengers to Iris when she was very young. Wandering artisans always surrounded her, giving her poems and art and stories. One day as she sat in a café filled with smoke and laughter, a man with faded denim pants and a worn plaid shirt approached her. He had a familiar mystical flame about his brow, and his reddish hair was curly and matted.

Iris had been inking a picture of a snake climbing up a tree in her sketchbook when he approached her, pointed at her drawing, and said, “Get rid of that snake.” Then he handed her a piece of dirty folded up paper and went out into the street, as the wind blew open the door. She unfolded the paper and found these words written in blue ballpoint pen:

So long on this road back to the wall,

I’d pray I’d die before I’d fall;

Death wish in a land of hell,

Don’t want to cry, search for the well

That gives to me the truth of truth;

In it’s sweet light (don’t need no proof).

Walking middle ground

I found my song in a silent sound

Where eyes don’t hide behind

Masks that make you laugh when you should have cried,

That let you live when you should have died.

So long on this road but I hear the call,

I see the truth and with it walk tall.

It aint the stand I’m afraid to make,

It’s the illusion the world wants me to take

That sees the light and clouds the truth

With its lack of faith and search for proof.[1]

She could feel soft flowing air and a rustle of wings. There was something comforting and kind about the man.

A mysterious long-haired lady with wintery eyes handed her a poem scribbled on aged brown parchment:

The one who weaves the wind

Stood grey before me.

The woods were dawn-grey

Dripping, soft, and so quiet.

The wind-weaver

Was catching shadows and mist

For her loom…[2]

A young man wearing a purple tie-dyed shirt gave her a little poem as he passed her one day, and she sensed that protective spirit again:

Love is the vine

Given mankind

To help him find

His home divine.[3]

One breezy morning while she sat upon a squeaky porch in the ghetto, a man with soft green eyes and glasses approached her and offered her a poem:

The flowers open

At thy feet

Beads of

Dew

Wonderful and new

Angel of light

How many dawns

Have I drunk from your cup?[4]

The affection that the Iris evoked from strangers was disconcerting. Why did poets pop up like flowers wherever she went? Why did they all speak of spiritual things? She felt that someone was calling for her and wanted to be her friend.

A young man handed her this poem on a small piece of white paper with only his name “Sunrise” on the bottom:

The princess in purple

Carrying her guitar…

She shares her music

With all who’ll listen

Her gentle ways could be an inspiration to all

If only they would take time.

Even her ring is purple.

I’ve seen her on the streets

I’ve seen her in the parks

Always ready to share her music

And her heart…[5]

Iris knew that people were drawn to her, but she wondered why all of the writings were spiritual in some way. Did people see something that she could not see at the time?

Now she can see how the wind loved her long before she knew him. He had been loyal to her in a sorrowful land, and had filled her life with meaning.

One morning she talked to a man in the donut shop where she worked. He wore glasses and had curly blonde hair and a beard. She told him of her dream of meeting Christ in an elevator. A few days later he visited and as she was cleaning the counter, she found a story written which he tucked under his napkin:

Immediately and noisily the doors opened, a mild shock far exceeded by the presence of a man, dressed in a loose white robe, staring directly at her out of the elevator—so directly as to imply he knew in advance where she would be standing…And so it was, and the surrounding city with it, corners dissolving into a blizzardy whiteness, glowing brilliant for a moment and then fading, edgeless as the voice of this prophet, into gray, into black, into liquid- no light, no sound, no scent, no feel, no taste- only absence, vacancy, and peace: only the consciousness of a smile, the smile of God.[6]

[1] “Back to the Wall” by Jude

[2] “The Weaver of the Wind” by Margaret

[3] By Kelly

[4] From Michael

[5] By Sunrise

[6] By Al

***********************