Lydia and Lorde

                                                                     A brief tribute to two ladies (or should it be lords?) 

of language, who are my muses of the moment. I am currently taking inspiration from these great writers for being true artists who resist the pressure to be turned into generic products for the benefit of the powerful (often male dominated) systems they work for. They break boundaries and expose stereotypes, which all art should do and benefits from, especially women's art - if such a category of art can be considered. 

Thank you Lydia and Lorde. 

Also, Can't and Won't (2014), Lydia's latest collection of short stories, has to be the best titled book ever. Can and will read it -- everyone should.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Patience and Passion

Yin and Yang
Give and take
Live and die
Love and hate


Light and dark
Right and wrong
Good and bad
Weak and strong


Work together
Pull apart
Patience and passion
Make fine art

The Clue

      

She thought they wanted art


Turned out they wanted change


The clue was in the name





Small change

Photographic Fog

A few shots of last week's fog, with bonus window web to lighten the load on this wet, cold and rainy Monday. 

I think the Gothic one at the top is my favourite. 

Men and their Missiles

A big plane and all its little people are dead. Long live the little people!

Freedom at play

Freedom at play
runs along the beach,
in the wild rain
without end to reach.

With sand on its toes,
like diamonds in the rough;
wet windy hair,
a Wuthering touch.

A child's spirit unleashed
an adult freed,
to feel the fun
and forget the greed.

Brollies left behind
folded and dry,
all the better
for wide eyes to soak up the sky.

Freedom at play
is the freedom for me;
try this at home
and you too will see.





 

What will break, will break

I wish I could film the wild wind today (I don't have the tech savvy -- or time). But it's certainly not laughing. Arguing, more like. Positively ranting it is. Something has provoked its wrath and it seems almost riotous with a wild rage, bending our tall, skinny-teen cabbage tree half over, this way then that, as if it were one of those toddler toys designed for the purpose of bending without falling for the fun of watching it bounce back. But there's no fun watching this tree bend or bounce!

What will break, will break (though the photo
doesn't do the power of the wind justice)

My maternal urges are provoked in sympathy for that long lean tree, a mere bean pole with a shaggy head. How it stands its ground in defiance of the mighty gale seems contrary to all laws of nature. But then, he (or she) is a teen, and defiance of the laws of nature is their speciality.

But all the same I feel the strength of its defiance fading and want to throw out a rope of support (presuming I had one). I wonder would it thank me, or might my interfering rope, intended to steady it from breaking, be the rope that broke the lean tree's back? For those that dare contend with the laws of nature rarely win (in my experience).

If this wind is sent to try me, as my teens most certainly were, then it's working. I think I'd better keep my rope to myself and let nature take its course. What will break, will break.    

The wind laughs last

   
The wind inhales
exhales, pauses,
rises and prepares,
as if thoughtfully
for discussion.

Light shines
yellow on my page
Ink is insect black scribble

A blind thumps its base beam
dumbly against windowsill

Thud
Thud
Thud

The fridge turns off:
refrigerated
silence.

Huffs and puffs:
the wind laughs last

I like Day, I like Night

         

So sorry I've been off line for a while. My only excuse is I've been writing poetry. I can't say that it's any good poetry, just that it is poetry.  I will post them on this blog over the next few days.

I like Day; I like Night

The longer you look

at the night,

the lighter it gets

I ask myself: 

Do you want Day?

I cannot say:

I like Day/I like Night

The difference can be stark:

Night so quiet, Day so loud

Night so gentle, Day so proud

Night a think blanket

Day, a thin

Night seems prior to me

Day secondary

Night is cold