Venetia's posts with tag: for the rat bastards
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 after ten thousand years of evolution
civilization
bigger brains
better weapons
sophisticated sciences
larger cities
elaborate rituals of faith
or myths
written words
grandiose gestures
still tiny, childish voices cry
in the night
defenseless in their weakness...
we grow our own monsters
for we are still
less than human note - The Ascent of Man: The title alludes to The Descent of Man by Charles Darwin. Over the course of thirteen episodes, Bronowski travelled around the world in order to trace the development of human society through its understanding of science rather than art. Although it was not written specifically as a refutation of Kenneth Clark's Civilisation (1969), in which Clark argued that art was a major driving force in cultural evolution, the two series can be seen as a dialogue between two fundamentally opposed philosophies. Both series had been commissioned by David Attenborough, then controller of BBC2, although he had moved on by the time The Ascent of Man was aired. The book of the series, The Ascent of Man: A Personal View by J. Bronowski, is an almost word-for-word transcript from the original television episodes, diverging from Bronowski's original narration only where the lack of images might make its meaning unclear. Just over a year after the series appeared, Bronowski died. Wikipedia art - http://www.joe-ks.com/archives_apr2006/EvolutionOfMan.jpg
I am an evil bruja...someone I know, daughter has been molested. I am angry. I write my anger...forgive me. Or don't, I really don't care...
   
little girl, little girl
why do you not flee
the falcon has taken wing
the vulture is hungry
and you are a tasty little morsel
little girl, little girl
the boys are outside playing
the sun shines brilliantly
while you sit cowering
under your robes and your veil
little girl, little girl
when you grow up
what will you be
a doctor, lawyer, mullah, rabbi, or priest,
sacrifice, possession, or silenced, murdered wife.
little girl, little girl
why do you not flee
the falcon has seen you
the vulture is circling
and you are a tasty little morsel
Note: the art is from Kidz on Canvas.
The Kidz On Canvas Story Eva Maria Fritz
"I was inspired to develop Kidz on Canvas by my own daughter's boundless creative energy. I wanted to capture her creativity in a way that my family and friends could enjoy. Something that would give permanency to these precious years and give my daughter a gift she will enjoy in the future".
Eva Maria Fritz is a Brisbane based artist but it was her work as a qualified educational psychologist and a mother that provided valuable insight that showed her how important it is to place value on children's art. Children of all ages draw and ascribe imaginative meanings to the marks they make. This wonderful natural expression is something to be encouraged. Kidz On Canvas gives value to this process making your children feel special and confident about personal expression. The Abused Child Trust
 | Trapped | Oct 18, '07 10:56 PM
for everyone |
After it is all over and he has gone,
I stare at the walls and ceiling
of this prison
that claustrophobically traps me
allowing no escape.
Squeezing my pillow spasmodically
among youthful fingers;
surrounded by debris of an unfinished girlhood:
teddy bear, favorite doll, pink comforter,
arranged artfully
gives credence to this staged life.
I think if I stare long enough and hard enough
a hole will appear,
and like the walls of Jericho
the walls will come tumbling down,
letting me slip thru
escaping his nightly depredations.
On other nights
childishly hoping,
innocently believing,
fervently praying,
to develop a superchild's strength;
able to kick and claw my way
through these confining walls and ceiling.
I am drawn to a freedom that beckons;
where the terrors of the unknown
pale against the terrors within
this prison
and then I sigh,
turn over,
and huddle into an uneasy sleep,
knowing that fairy tales, happily ever after,
and freedom
are just dreams.
Night terrors, monsters, and noises
that go bump in the night is real;
they wear the duplicitous
familiar face of familial love;
and that tomorrow never fails
to bring my nightly visitor
with only the walls and ceiling
witness to my silent screaming.
the apartment is small and empty of furnishings
or the small artistic touches
that make a place
a home
one's gaze is misdirected towards
a bed with rumpled sheets
it is the predominant feature
in the bedroom
a woman sits crumpled
in a darkened corner
an empty bottle has fallen
from her hand
at the sound of hearty laughter
heard
through thin walls
she raises her head and blearily
glances about
noticing her bottle is empty
she lurches to her feet
with that certain inebriated care
slowly staggers to the refrigerator
and grabs another bottled
universe
It seems the nutcase contingent, once again, has taken umbrage to my "decadent" poetry. A friend thinks that they are trying to "save" me...Well my holy little busybodies, grab your Korans, Torahs and Bibles...I am feeling a wee bit provocative... but I gotta question...if my poetry makes you crazed, why the hell do you keep returning to my blog?
The idiot contingent thought the poem, "Divinity" was a request to date someone from Africa/the Mideast...and sent garbled requests to have cyber sex/exchange emails/or chat via Yahoo messenger...um....LMAO...I think I am gonna stop reading messages from strangers...
On a serious note - the art is from Vera House and incorporates colorful images from adult & teen survivors of domestic and sexual violence.
Holding me by my hair,
believing his hands are caresses,
he carelessly unclothes.
In his haste to strip me
a button falls off;
I watch,
as it drunkenly,
rolls off the bed,
onto the richly carpeted bedroom floor,
where it lays abandoned.
Lips mouthed onto my grimaced face,
he whispers,
I love you;
still semi-frozen in an all too familiar shock,
my pleas and cries are alternatively heard,
as counterpoint in between,
the notes of a torrid love song,
playing on the radio.
Both the lyrics and cries,
fall on deafened ears.
It is a bizarre tableau,
where terror is suspended,
a second seems as long as,
an hour.
When finished,
he makes that male obscene grunt,
you know the one,
when they are satiated and ready for sleep.
As the wetness seeps against my leg,
he repeats again sleepily,
contentedly,
I love you.
Turning to the wall,
I mutter over my shoulders,
me too,
while wondering,
if I am a conveniet trash receptacle,
to my husband.
another poetry challenge from Sacred Songspace...another work in progress but to be truthfull, most of what I write, is revised constantly up to the point when it is submitted, to a publication...lol...surprisingly, some of my best works have been inspired by SSS. Jus' Tammy - the moderator and the people on that blog, tend to inspire one's best. But don't take my word for it, wander by, you would be pleasantly surprised:
the apartment is small and empty of furnishings or the small artistic touches that make a place a home one's gaze is misdirected towards a bed with rumpled sheets it is the predominant feature in the bedroom a woman sits crumpled in a darkened corner an empty bottle has fallen from her hand at the sound of hearty laughter heard through thin walls she raises her head and blearily glances about noticing her bottle is empty she lurches to her feet with that certain inebriated care slowly staggers to the refrigerator and grabs another bottled universe
| Trapped | Aug 24, '06 12:09 AM
for everyone |
After it is all over and he has gone, I stare at the walls and ceiling of this prison that claustrophobically traps me allowing no escape. Squeezing my pillow spasmodically among youthful fingers; surrounded by debris of an unfinished girlhood: teddy bear, favorite doll, pink comforter, arranged artfully gives credence to this staged life. I think if I stare long enough and hard enough a hole will appear, and like the walls of Jericho the walls will come tumbling down, letting me slip thru escaping his nightly depredations. On other nights childishly hoping, innocently believing, fervently praying, to develop a superchild's strength; able to kick and claw my way through these confining walls and ceiling. I am drawn to a freedom that beckons; where the terrors of the unknown pale against the terrors within this prison and then I sigh, turn over, and huddle into an uneasy sleep, knowing that fairy tales, happily ever after, and freedom are just dreams. Night terrors, monsters, and noises that go bump in the night is real; they wear the duplicitous familiar face of familial love; and that tomorrow never fails to bring my nightly visitor with only the walls and ceiling witness to my silent screaming.
I watched my surroundings carefully knowing of his malevolence if I could not live unhappily with him then he would ensure that I did not live at happily all I knew that he lurked in shadows like amanita phalloides thriving in darkness but I chose life and bloomed despite his presence. I felt eyes everywhere I went the scent of the evil almost smothered me the miasma of his disorder cloyingly parasitic as I walked down streets deciding to live my life. I knew he wanted to keep me a prisoner in my mind stalking me family enabling his insanities watching my every movement all the while declaiming his love for me inundating me with messages strangling me with his concern and trying restrict my freedom with bizarre controlling rages. he was a shark, a predator sniffing for blood and fear mindless in his lust for revenge of imaginary wrongs suffered. yet he never looked in the mirror and viewed the monster in the mirror that I saw every damn day until I cried enough
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