Credit: ESA/Hubble; Raghvendra Sahai and John Trauger (JPL), the WFPC2 science team, and NASA/ESA Used with Permission
Who Are You?
Stand in pregnant darkness
beneath a wind-stripped ash tree;
look up at emptiness.
Wrap yourself in a cloak of wonder.
Soak in mysteries of unknowing,
then look Within.
Joining up with the dVerse pub-poetic-prowlers and Lillian for this awe-inspiring prompt using photos from the Hubble Telescope. We hope you will join us here.
Today’s prompt for The Daily Post’s Weekly Photography Challenge: Dialogue
“Dialogue is an engaging conversational exchange. When it comes to photography, dialogue can be perceived as a consensual interaction between two images. Placed next to each other, each photograph opens up to meanings that weren’t there when viewed alone. Each composition reveals the photographer’s specific sensitivity to certain content or visual elements.”
It’s your turn now: for this week’s challenge, bring together two of your photos into dialogue. What do they say to each other?
“For where your treasure is, there also is your heart.” Mt. 6:21
Photo: V. Slotto
Photo: D. Slotto
Photo: V. Slotto
In French, the verb depouiller means to strip or to skin. It’s a harsh word. For me it conjures up images of bleeding or, at the very least, nakedness. It’s the word used to describe what happened to Jesus when they tore his clothes from his body before crucifying him.
That word came to me this morning when, during my quiet time. I sat facing the window, watching as a gentle breeze tore, one-by-one, the leaves from “my” tree. At this moment, the wind has become bitter and that same tree (now the upper branches outside my office window) is letting go of its leaves rapidly. It is being stripped.
I cannot but think of the Buddhist teaching of detachment, a teaching which seems to traverse all philosophies and religions–a concept that faces each of us as we age, begin to lose loved ones, strength, beauty, health, material and physical independence, perhaps even mental acuity. Life is, indeed a series of letting go’s.
I’m not Buddhist, but have always been drawn to many aspects of Buddhist practice. Today I came to understand with a bit more clarity, the importance of non-attachment. I’ve been struggling with an issue that I’ve perceived as a threat to my security and to something I hold dear. It dawned upon me that my attachment to that “something” was impairing my ability to enjoy the happiness of the moment and was messing, not only with my serenity, but also with my sleep. I made the intention to return to the present moment and its many joys. When the moment comes to let go, I hope to be like that tree, allowing the leaves to return to earth and nourish it.
I’m no longer young…or even, by most people’s estimation, middle-aged (though I don’t feel old). It’s time to accept those things in life that must leave us. I know myself well enough to realize that this won’t be the end of my wanting to hold on. But, perhaps, if I let go of the things I cling to, it won’t be quite so painful. Maybe I won’t even bleed.
Have a lovely week. Now I’m on my way outside to rake up some of those leaves.
Even though the calendar tells me it’s still spring, our weather doesn’t seem to have received the message. The temperatures are in the high 80’s and 90’s and the garden is coming alive with new growth. True, the irises are fading, the roses are behind time because I pruned them too late, most weeds have been tamed but the leaves on our trees are fully unfurled, there are green cherries taking in the sun, and the tomatoes my husband started from seed while we were in the desert are already giving us little green globes of promise. Oh, and then there’s the birds! The orioles and hummingbirds have now arrived home in full force.
Photo Credit: V. Slotto
Just so, I’m hoping to cultivate some new growth on my blog. When I first began blogging, it was my intention to include some inspirational essays–a desire, no doubt, related to my own introspective aging process. In addition, for a year or two, maybe longer, I enjoyed offering writing prompts–for both fiction and poetry. As I became (happily) more involved in poetry communities, especially as a monthly contributor to dVerse Poets’ Pub, I slipped into the languid waters of poetry and allowed other interests to wash away for a while.
Photo Credit: D. Slotto
Now I feel it’s time to reclaim those two original ideals. It is my hope to be able to add a Monday feature that will offer a reflection, a writing prompt, perhaps an occasional interview or even book review…whatever happens. When there is a prompt or an invitation to discuss, I will include a Mr. Linky and respond to comments and/or return visits.
I chose Monday with the thought that those who drop in to read my dVerse poems for Open Link Night might scroll on down for another shot of inspiration. I would love to see you there and welcome your thoughts today, in comments.
Photo Credit: thewritingpenn.com
WELCOME TO MONDAY MEANDERINGS!
Today at dVerse Poet’s Pub, Meeting the Bar, I’m happy to introduce Pamela Sayers, who makes her home in Puebla, Mexico. I’ve always been impressed with Pamela’s ability to capture a sense of place in her poetry. Today she shares with us a bit about her own process of bringing us into the heart of Mexico, and invites us to join her by sharing something of our own, about the place we call home.
Photo: David Slotto
Chaparral CC
While I make my home in the high desert of Reno, Nevada–a short 40 minute drive to Lake Tahoe, when those cold winter winds and snows start getting to our old bones, my husband and I pack up the dogs and head south with the birds to Palm Desert, California. The desert is in my blood from my childhood, when we would head east from the LA area each April to soak in the sun and get our first sunburns of the year (big mistake).This poem is more of a reflection on what the desert means to me, than a travelogue. If you have a sense of deja-vu, I have posted it before!
I look forward to reading as many of your poems as I can and Pamela will support me since my husband and I are currently in the midst of a small renovation project.
Photo Credit: Tim Laman
i
Sometimes something
we judge to be barren
throbs with life.
ii
Wind scatters sand
like gossips spread destruction.
iii
If you go to the desert,
you will see the stars.
Perhaps one of them
holds your life purpose.
Then you are no longer
afraid of the viper’s kiss.
iv
The power of thirst
consumes all other desires.
v
Shifting sands
are like people
who vacillate—
you don’t know
where you stand.
vi
The desert is a canvas—
open to splashes
of vibrant color.
vii
The desert is
a state of mind.
Are you alone?
Or lonely?
viii
The desert is
a place of temptation.
There the devil tempted
Jesus—
bread,
greed,
power.
Nothing has changed.
ix
If you try
to leave your mark
upon the desert,
Nature will erase it.
Wind.
Earthquake.
War.
We don’t really matter.
x
The hotter it gets,
the fewer people hang around.
xi
Many people
do not understand
the beauty of the desert
or of wrinkled faces.
xii
At some point
you will visit a desert
and discover
aridity.
xiii
When the desert blooms,
you will find grace.
Image via Wikipedia
Today I’ve been considering the sources we poets turn to for poetic inspiration–so today’s Wordsmith Wednesday is for poets although I’m sure that it can be useful to prose writers as well. I’m going to short-list some of the sources I turn to to be inspired in my writing. I’m hoping that you will add to it in the comments section.
I hope these will be helpful to you, especially if you are feeling stuck right now. There are more–help me expand the list if you will!
Image via Wikipedia
Thirteen Ways of Looking at Bread
i.
taste buds awaken
to the aroma enveloping our neighborhood
mrs. curry is baking
this morning
ii.
staple of generations
cultures
peoples
“staff of life”
a common denominator
across civilizations
iii.
some people
are like bread
a hard outer crust
protecting
a soft, warm core
iv.
other people
like bread
get stale
if not attended to
v.
sometimes
dough is sweet
sometimes sour
like people
vi.
bread as sacrament
food for the soul
manna
communion
transforming the mundane
into divinity
vii.
bread as dough
show me the money
divine
become
mundane
viii.
some people are like
unleavened bread
a bit dense
ix.
other people
are like yeast
just a lot of hot air
and they know how
to get a rise
out of you
x.
the beauty of bread
is in its texture
and color
rough
smooth
scarred
seedy
black
brown
golden
ruddy
white
like people
xi.
bread is a vehicle
butter
jam
sandwiches
xii.
bread fills
our emptiness
(for a while, anyway)
xiii.
eventually
people learn
we do not live
by bread alone.
Submitted to Poetry Potluck:http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/ for which this week’s theme is Food, Drink and Indulgences.
This is a poetry sequence: a poetic device recently discussed in The Writer magazine (October, 2010) by poet Marilyn Taylor. She discusses Wallace Stevens poem: “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” I couldn’t resist trying this form and hope some of you might enjoy playing with it as well. Other poets who have written poetic sequences include Edna St. Vincent Millay, Sharon Olds, Jane Kenyon, Ezra Pound, William Carols Williams and Walt Whitman.
Submitted to SiS’ Daily Haiku Challenge: http://pendownmythought.blogspot.com/ Today’s theme is the image shown above.
Nectar
Open your center
offer a taste of nectar
honey for the soul.
Image via Wikipedia
Submitted to SiS’ Daily Haiku Challenge: http://pendownmythought.blogspot.com/p/haiku-challenge.html Today’s theme is solitude.
Alone in dank soil
a tiny seedling gestates,
waits, bursts into bloom.
Submitted to Jingle’s Poetry Potluck: http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/ for which the theme this week is Peace, Relaxation, Spirituality. I chose to focus on one of the more difficult aspects of the spiritual life, termed by the Spanish Carmelite mystic, St. John of the Cross, as the dark night of the soul. Though it seems counterintuitive, this phase of spirituality can bring about a deep sense of peace.
“Oh, night that guided me more surely than the light of noonday to the place where he (well I knew who!) was awaiting me–a place where none appeared. Oh, night that guided me, oh, night more lovely than the dawn, oh, night that joined Beloved with lover, lover transformed in the Beloved!”
St. John of the Cross—Dark Night of the Soul
The Dark Night
When night is bathed in ebony
and even stars are wont to pierce
through veils of clouds,
you stumble forward,
grasping crumbled walls
that close you in.
Bleak thoughts now pummel you
like angry fists that rage against
injustice. You breathe oppressive air,
musty, stagnant, born of rank suspicion
that your need shall never know
relief, that hunger rests un-sated.
Today there is no morrow—
only haunting memories of days
unfolding without joy, Your faith
betrayed, you open wide your hand
and watch hope slip out between your
fingers, free of empty promises.
Tonight you stand alone,
shrouded by the chill of winter,
without clear vision. Death stretches
out his hand; you reach to take it,
but not before the nightingale sings.
Victoria C. Slotto, Author 