Shine on you stunning light! :)
Fuckin’ chur….
Chur :) I am sitting on the only chair in the library, overlooking the rolling hills of Waitakere - Auckland. Feeling no less than part of the deep green pockets of bush and dancing treetops that kiss the graying skyline… While Tui fight above me for the right to mate, and the rain starts it’s afternoon patter across the room’s translucent roof with the sun still punching a strong heat across my chest, I’m just hanging out, writing, munching on potato chips and working on the line-up for my upcoming Velvet event… Perhaps I’ll pour another Pims. FML ;)
PEACE
Seastorm,
Where you swim
With the ease of the swirl
Ocean,
When the block colour bleeds
A sky pooling the vast at its feet
Skyline,
Where my hand, pointed tiresome
Towards the coming cloud
Yearns for you,
the dream.
Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience.
“If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it.”
Anais Nin
Write Club NZ - coming soon!
PEACE
So, I’ve been asked here in Auckland New Zealand to start a `writers night club’, not restricted to simply poetry, story writing or any other form, but indeed a free-form regular get together for all manner of writers, readers, philosophers, jokers and the like… With being presented an opportunity like that, who could resist?
Let’s see where this takes us.
PEACE
Then I woke softly,
And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream,
And questioning all those reminiscences—the tempest in its fury,
And all the songs of sopranos and tenors,
And those rapt oriental dances, of religious fervor,
And the sweet varied instruments, and the diapason of organs,
And all the artless plaints of love, and grief and death,
I said to my silent, curious Soul, out of the bed of the slumber-chamber,
Come, for I have found the clue I sought so long,
Let us go forth refresh’d amid the day,
Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real,
Nourish’d henceforth by our celestial dream.
And I said, moreover,
Haply, what thou hast heard, O Soul, was not the sound of winds,
Nor dream of raging storm, nor sea-hawk’s flapping wings, nor harsh scream,
Nor vocalism of sun-bright Italy,
Nor German organ majestic—nor vast concourse of voices—nor layers of harmonies;
Nor strophes of husbands and wives—nor sound of marching soldiers,
Nor flutes, nor harps, nor the bugle-calls of camps;
But, to a new rhythmus fitted for thee,
Poems, bridging the way from Life to Death, vaguely wafted in night air, uncaught, unwritten,
Which, let us go forth in the bold day, and write.
From Proud Music of the Storm by Walt Whitman - click the link in the picture to read the entire 15 verse poem… thunderous, beautiful!
"I am not Shaman. But perhaps I once was. I am not a healer, a teacher, a poet, an artist, a priest, a medicine man, a guide, a spirit animal, nor profit, warrior nor saint. But perhaps I once was. I would lay down my life in the blink of an eye for you when called to battle great darkness. I would give my blood to enable on more heart beat in your chest, and call the very waters from the deep to quench your thirst while you sing and dance and play under the fractal light I summonsed to your feet. No, indeed I am no-one and nothing but part of you, though I am not in your visions right now. But perhaps I once was…"
