Waiting for the Hummingbird


hummingbird

 

Will you be tempted by my latest attempt

to lure you into my life?

The black lacquer hook secures the playful pedestal

I’ve erected in your honor

I’ve erected in your absence.

An erection in remembrance.

 

I’ve seen your rotating spin soar high above

The deep green weeping willow for me.

The one that shelters the violets.

The one that mimics my pain.

The one that forgets me not.

The one I know you remember.

 

Secretly, I watch you dive haphazardly into an amorous arc

Your wings beating 100 times a second, sometimes two.

Your body contorted into hopeful angles,

To attract the attention of the ruby throated one next door.

She is younger.  She is shiny.

But how can you want her? She’s not me.

 

The U shapes you form as you fly higher

Scare me

Excite me

Make me cry.

I offer you crimson nectar with the hope

This Summer won’t be another fly by.

 

 

 

 

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Beach Baby


My view from the Balcony

My view from the Balcony

The Gulf of Mexico calls….no the sands aren’t sugary white.  No the place I stay isn’t tourist ridden.  But there is calm.  There is rest.  There are sand dollars.  There is time to think.  And there is my love.

See you in a week!

 

On the Beach at Night, Alone. by Walt Whitman
ON the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining—I think a thought of the clef of the
universes,
and of the future.
A VAST SIMILITUDE interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets, comets,
asteroids,
All the substances of the same, and all that is spiritual upon the same,
All distances of place, however wide,
All distances of time—all inanimate forms,
All Souls—all living bodies, though they be ever so different,
or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes—the fishes, the brutes,
All men and women—me also;
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages;
All identities that have existed, or may exist, on this globe, or any globe;
All lives and deaths—all of the past, present, future;
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d, and shall forever
span them,
and compactly hold them, and enclose them.

 

 

The Sublimity of Techno-Communication


beach

Someone told me the other day that I’m more myself when I blog or write letters than I am when I tweet.  I suppose its the 140 character limit or maybe I’m just so verbose, I can get my point across better here sometimes!  Anyway, I just wanted to share a letter that I found very creative, very sweet and very thoughtful and edited for personal reasons!   I must admit, it was a bit of a corroboration as we had been discussing it for months.  But he beat me to it!  You have to click on the links to get the full effect, but I think it’s so sweet!   See what you think!  This is what I get for teasing someone about how little they say!  The links are underlined.

Dear Gayle,

I am so looking forward to our  vacation.  I’m so glad we are both enamored of the ocean and its music.   I know it will probably rain, but waves and rain are one of those communions you find romantic right? Wouldn’t it be nice  if we had thought of this years ago?  I just want you to know that I’m looking forward to that week more than a 40 day dream.  And since I know now what it really means to see, there are no more lies.  I want it that way.   And don’t worry, I still  find your BIG FIVE enticing but not as enticing as your green eyes!   Call me! xxooxx

I know, I’m a lucky person to have such creative people in my life aren’t I?  What do you think?

April is Poetry Month


flaming_june_1895

 

Time got away from me this month. I wanted to feature several of my favorite poems during Poetry Month. Unfortunately, April is almost over.  In my personal case, it’s FORTUNATE because this has been a horrid month for me.

Self portrait poems, like self portrait paintings, are always interesting to me. This one is from Lucie Brock-Broido, published in 2004. I hope you relate to or enjoy it as much as I do.

Self-Portrait with Her Hair on Fire

Now, it is as dark as the pathos of pushing a wheel-
Chair through the museum of a great metropolis.

I cannot tell you this, not now, not ever, even
In the letter I have written that is so epic

That if you were to open it, the pages would sail out
In the wind like confection moths being born

In the thousands out of their sacks, blowing
Away, page by page, in a wind the color of her hair

Across a medieval pillow endlessly scorched,
The singe of something living tinged with fire.

I will go on loving as I love the backs
Of things and the invisible,

As I love the hideous or an attention
So attentive it is next to worshipping.

Synchrony


I had it one time, okay maybe two. But never at the right time.
Or the right wing.
Or the right stuff. Because stuff is just that:
stuff.

It’s that woman who adores music you detest yet she has long blonde hair and a cleavage avatar. You adore her with social attention.
You don’t tell her you are nihilistic, unemployed and living with your Mother.
You stun the world with your wit and misspelled words because they give you character.
No degree, not even a high school one, but by God you have character. Americans appreciate such depth don’t they? Especially those behind the masks.

Simultaneously, a noble soul leaves the earth while you tap tap tap 140 characters to impress. The hole left in the souls of many can’t be dammed by the jargon juggernaut that holds no sincerity.
It’s just stuff. But you impress.

It’s mindless. It’s a catch-all. It’s the Lee Harvey Oswald of all conspiracies.

In the dark matter that holds my universe together is a clue. I sent you a map of it. I sent you a picture of it. I just need help to touch it again. I just need help that comes from nowhere to not lose it again.

And it spins in my mind like Binion’s million dollar makers. The reels always hitting bells
never any whistles. Or sometimes sweet cherries. They take the form of smiles, of understanding, of great sex. But that’s just stuff.

The stuff of dreams.

And I cry.

And you take off the mask, the sunglasses, the fake pride.
And you pull me up by the shoulders and wrap yourself around me because you feel my pain.

Coincidence? I think not.
It is Divine Synchrony.

Pre-Raphaelite Poetry and Painting for Good Friday


The Shadow of Death by William Holman Hunt

The Shadow of Death by William Holman Hunt

 

Christina Rossetti is one of my favorite poets.  Her poetry exudes a mixture of piety, sadness, feminism and philosophy.  Without trying to sound like a martyr, I relate to her renunciatory mentality:  that selflessness may not be an enjoyable state on Earth, but could help ensure a greater reward after death.   I felt this essay about her poem “Good Friday” is befitting of the day. Besides, I like scholastic articles and the Pre-Raphaelites.
From: The Victorian Web: http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/crossetti/carter2.html

In Chapter I, Section I of “Typological Interpretation in the Victorian Period,” George P. Landow states that the Evangelical branch of English Protestantism sought to attain an emotional, imaginative connection with Christ. Such a connection allowed the believer to “recognize his own innate depravity and then both project himself imaginatively into his Saviour’s agonies and feel their saving effect upon himself.” The sympathetic projection of the reader onto a character in literature seems akin to that of believer onto the object of his belief in Evangelical practice. A desired end product, in both religious and literary sympathetic projection, is catharsis — transporting the reader or believer into a vicarious experience that then directs the emotions to attain a more pure truth.

Interestingly, the High Church Christina Rossetti, who was definitely not an Evangelical, laments her inability to forge such a rich experience with Christ in “Good Friday.” She first sets up a double image that reflects the contradictions of her emotional limitations:

Am I a stone and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop
Thy blood’s slow loss And yet not weep?

She then demonstrates (in both form and content) how her coldness separates her from the deep grief of biblical and cosmological forces:

Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in the starless sky,v A horror of great darkness at broad noon — I, only I.

The final stanza gives a hopeful foreshadowing of future emotional break-through. Rossetti elucidates the initial contradiction between sheep and rock by referencing two methods of representing Christ. He is present as a symbol — the shepherd of the flock — and a type — Moses, who made water spring from rock during the Israelites journey out of Egypt.

Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more,
And smite a rock.

Mental Reminder: This is Why I Hate Dating


Ahhhh romance!  Ahhh, the newness of meeting someone you might really like.  Ahh, the lessons you learn when it doesn’t work out!!!!  Why do we not catch on faster to the speedbumps lying in wait to tip over the relationship?  Why do we overthink, overreact,  but never overcome those redlights that are blinking madly at you through your rose colored glasses?  Is it romance?  Is it the courtship?  Is it the budding realization that there really are sincere people in the world and they haven’t all gone attention-greedy mad?

I don’t know.

I’ve had my fair share of romance.  A man once wrote me a song.  Okay, it wasn’t the greatest song, it was more like a song that would have been on the Beverly Hillbillies Soundtrack, but it was written for me.  And the man hired a band to play it and cut a few hundred copies of it for….I guess me.

Another man courted me with quotes from Shakespeare and Greek tragedy and unbelievable sex.  We were electric.  We were in sync.  He begged me to be Penelope to his Odysseus.  Of course, Odysseus had multiple affairs while Penelope waited patiently for him to grow up and come home.  You know the story.  And you can guess how mine ended.

The last romance I had was again, electric.  This man was  (in my mind) an intellectual without a degree.  A man with a large Italian family but no home.  A rebel with many causes.  And he wrote poetry.  Lovely, heartachingly beautiful poetry.  A few he wrote for me.  He was much younger (which bothered me greatly) and had HUGE emotional issues, but I believed that “love would overcome”.  He didn’t.  He believed in Sugar Mammas.  The feminist side of me thought it okay.  I mean come on, there are many women who get involved with older, rich guys so why shouldn’t a man?   The problem was I was older, but not that rich.  Okay, not rich at all.   And the true part of me thought getting involved with another strictly for mercenary reasons quite crass.   And so the story ended.

Here we go again.

I went out last weekend for the second time with a nice gentleman.  Before yesterday, I thought of him as romantic, intelligent and a little spontaneous: all things I truly appreciate.  He filled my emails with thoughts, book excerpts, poetry I should read, interesting stories and he sent me sweet texts throughout the week.  (do you see a pattern here?)  On our first date he drank more wine than I.  On the second date, he moved on to Scotch.  Not that it bothers me, Glenlivet is a dear friend of mine.  But I noticed he was quite, let’s say, dependent on having a drink in front of him before he could converse with me.  Am I that scary?  Does my mere presence push men to drink?   There I go overanalyzing again.  But it’s one of those character flaws (or plusses) I own.  Overanalyzing is my way of making sense of the whole relationship thing, heck, of the world!  So I overanalyzed, then stopped and mentally berated myself for being so neurotic.

Then I got this text:

“Gayle, I heard this today and it made me think of you”

Attached was the the following video.  Listen to the lyrics carefully.

I guess he does have a drinking problem. I guess he does think this is romantic (um….it’s not!) and I guess this is why I hate dating.  I won’t be seeing him again.