Venetia's posts with tag: sacredsongspace
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We all know the kind of people who take delight in tearing others down...out of envy, bitchiness, jealousy or other base reasons...every office, every neighborhood, every classroom has that type of person...they delight in whispering of mis-deeds, verified or not.
Sacred Song Space's challenge this week is about "interruptions. Insomnia. Writer's block. Periods of spiritual silence. The things that interrupt us in doing what we need to do, physically or mentally, to be our best selves and function at our highest levels". My poem is about spiritual silence. let me take a pass on your offer of malicious frivolity and spiritual silence thank you kindly please continue with your vicious character assassinations and the coffee klatch confusions let me decline your kind invitations to murder by insinuations and destroy by gross mis-directions please continue on your low road to perdition without me I am taking a pass thank you kindlyart lifted from - Burchard Galleries
This week's Sacred Song Space Challenge: write about incompleteness. I am intrigued by the creative process and anthropology...bemused by the critics, who inform people what is good and what is great music/art/books/dance...personally, I never listen to critics, preferring to make my own decision...I know what I like...this poem reflects this...
amorphous, a fragment waits to be shaped unbirthed child of solid stone - these indeterminate contours cry out for the adz, the obsidian blade the flame, the frozen wolf bone that which will cut yet define and complete ...and when the creator/sculpturer is satisfied when lines are chiseled - convex and concave
elbow and brows
muscle and limbs are rounded and smoothed
and I am unveiled the slavish crowd will oohh and aahh while they hold fluted glasses of Dom PerignonDom
prancing untalented critics will critique and creation will be reduced to a few murderous newspaper lines
The Sacred Song Space Picture Challenge, this week is titled "Clouds in the Sky". This challenge is not simply a picture challenge, but one where one throws off the clouds, in one's life...I tend to write of dark things, of hypocrisy, of innate violence, bigotry and the need to change...this is about as light, as I could get, today... 
Bleeding Cloud Tears there were tears in the skies rents in its silvered lining I watched as scarlet bled through blue tears accompanied by a deafening white noise - a noise that trumpeted and echoed my ancient anguish I had narrated that laundry list of sorrows in first, second and even third person I had justified and rationalized it with 20/20 hindsight proposed penance and acts of contrition abjectly presented restitution along with pounds and pounds of flesh I had brought the mountain to Mohammad and struck water from desert rocks all to no avail but when the clouds finally teared, misted and bled when the white noise ceased washed away were all of my misfortunes leaving me naked and pristine ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
Cloud Shapes others may contour cloud clowns, silly grinning faces and other narcoleptic, Rorschach images across cerulean cottony skies my cloud shapes scream warnings and scary admonitions that there be monsters there be thieves in the shadowed daylight that can steal dreams and the hopes of men
This week's challenge at Sacred Songspace was a picture interpretation, titled, "Dusk and Dialogue": It was the cynic in me
(he said)
I replied, it's the pragmatic
that makes me say no
he wanted a dialogue
(it was his attempt at foreplay)
daring me to see over the far horizon
with one eye cocked on tomorrow
the other, lost in some kind of quantum
probability
where love ruled,
impossible dreams commanded the heart
(as well as, the hormones)
and where the white knight rode away, on his destrier
with a fair maiden, in his arms
(deflowered, of course)
but, you see
when I lost my virginity
(and dreams of romantic happy afters)
to this boy-child
in the back seat of his car
the experience
left me
(eventually, he did too)
pragmatic
and pregnant
with no more time for useless dialogue
just a yearning for the dust
where ravens croon a beckoning dirge
and are the harbingers of all endings
art lifted from Turning Point Gallery
One of this weeks Sacred Song Space challenges, was to write about water...I had been working on this poem off and on, for two months...it never quite "came together" until SSS issued the challange about water...for some reason "water" opened up a floodgate...as always, my poetry is revised until I submit...I have been busy working on a book or two...I will visit your blogs, all this week...
the third degree of guilt
is characterized by the small lies one tells themselves - the tiny mis-truths and titillating tales and barely hidden smirks it calculates and figures that since no blood has been drawn
only insignificant hurts are inflicted one, two hours later to be forgotten hopefully the second degree of guilt declares with patrician demeanor all of the above as the person shakes hands, with the injured party
after all with sufficient remorse and mournful eyes all will be forgiven hopefully it is that first degree of guilt that concerns me
it is a maelstrom that consumes us with oceans of blood washing everything and everyone scarlet it would take an act of an omniscient godling to wash away its deposited detritus - this decay which clings unremitting it is a guilt that strews itself willy nilly
and fashions itself parasitically to every global and racial memory it is Oedipal, Elektra it is Jungian and Freudian
it is false, eidetic genetic, cellular and muscular and we glorify it culturally
in all its horrific honorifics
we are beguiled by its crescents of fertility
its odes to Remus and Romulus
and paeans to David, the heroic murderer
its tales of Two Cities
and Babylonic comeuppances
we never forget we can never forgive because this guilt -
is never, ever sincerely
penitent
I wrote this poem, in response to some very nasty pm's from men, on Yahoo. Being that I have a wicked sense of humour, I went OVERBOARD in retaliation...well maybe, not retaliation, but I felt that responding to their silly stereotypes with some of my own stereotypes, would be fair play...It just so happens that Sacred Songspace has an interesting newchallenge...one has to compose a poem about something, that incites/inflames....and even more interesting, my friend Karen, has a very interesting and provocative blog post...soooooooo...sometimes ya just have to laugh...by the way, I have decided to self-publish through Amazon; this poem will be in the book, which is titled, "Beyond the Veil"...
I, Am accused of female misogyny,
Of abusing the XY segment of the human race,
And belittling ego/id/dick, Western driven, and implied superiority.
I stand accused of slandering their lives and sexcentric identities,
Of trivializing their historical contributions and revisions,
And snickering at midlife absurdities and flaccid senior sensibilities. I stand accused of reviling their petty blood engorged man things,
Laughing at pretenses of civil behaviors,
And revealing the practice and perversity of legal hypocrisies. I stand accused of mocking the arrogant, swaggering gaits,
Of deriding justifications of bullying jingoism,
And exaggeration of their chauvinistic excesses. I stand accused of misrepresenting their familial obligations,
Making false accusations of forgotten, unsupported, clandestinely begotten children,
And questioning their inbred, tribalistics identities.
I stand accused of misunderstanding their contextual violence,
Misconstruing the limitless capacity for domination,
Of ignoring religiously given man rights,
and not comprehending a woman’s place.
I. Am. Guilty. As. Charged.
 Sacred Song Space has weekly writing challenges; this week's challenge is to compose something about a guilty pleasure...
there it lies
within layers of obsequiousness and obscurity
a timid kernel
embryonic
beneath refined porcelain skin and limbs
that if breathe on, baby breath softly
would flare
inciting riotous, scorching
heat
but no - the mouse fears the predation
it abhors brashness and boldness
it fears the flame
finding monotonous comfort, in cool certainties
perhaps the kernel remains disguised
for those reasons
yet
it wants to burn and feel the fire
that lies hidden and
embryonic
Note: Sacred Songspace has weekly challenges and this week, the challenge was to compose something about writing: 1. The first poem was published by The Amistad, a Howard University magazine http://www.coas.howard.edu/english/Amistad/Spring08/content/poetry1/ghozlan_mad.html. 2. The second poem is an evolving piece...  The Mad Writer It seems that I am a mad writer
having moments of sheer genius
able to comprehend with a crystal clarity
the world
then
only to descend to a nadir
where skill is doubted
and incoherent thoughts lay
as over grazed heather
on the moors of my mind
the next morning
I can awaken
with an insouciant smile
certain
of my words
mercury encased letters
inked on paper
an insanity driven desperation
to compose
no drug exists to cure this madness
it is a thin line
I teeter on
sanity and madness
so
keep in mind, my dear reader
this is my blood you scoff at
my soul you read
my sanity and madness
you dismiss art lifted at - incarna.andablog.com/2007/12/the-mad-hatter.php
Addictions I cast my indiscriminate offerings before all -
outpourings
that have been birthed in anger and joy,
rage, remorse and even
revenge
taking my insides and turning them out
for all to view
it is not merely veins and organs
gristle and muscle
it is more than the blood raging
or neurons misfiring
it is more than that beguiling demon
that rides my ass
and my soul
whispering like lover, in my ears
“write, woman write”. I hate it
I love it
I am driven by it
this addiction to the odd turn, of a descriptive
phrase
a compulsion that can be seduced by context
conjoined by conjunctions
and enervated by orgasmic verbs
it is verbiage that lives and breathes and pulsates
yes, this is me
all of these punctuated and truncated parts
this is me – though I pour my heart out
to an indifferent world
this is me
  when it has been all said and
done
tears have been shed
doors slammed, feet stamped
and recriminations tossed
when all the rejoinders have been caught,
received and returned
and you are ashamed and angered by some unnamed
defeat
yes, my child
when it is the day after,
and yesterdays words and memories
are shortened by sleep's repast
and your eyes sleepily open
to greet the morn -
eagerly breaking and pristine
young and fresh
my child, do not forget
I love you
though my blood has become sacrificial wine
Poetry Wednesday can be reached here:
http://sanssouciblogs.multiply.com/journal/item/335/
Sacred Song Space is invitation only except on certain days.
 glancing up
by happenstance
I see a cloud floating
on the periphery of my eye
and think of prisms and prisons
breath defying girdles and strait laced stays
all these Victorian moralities
and certainties
sitting quietly
camouflaged
by normal
everyday
monotony
my whimsy
obscured
and nudged aside
by 9 to 5 tedium
on saturday and sunday
I rise to clean
shop for food
launder clothes
and tighten the screws
of the masque
hiding fey notions
that struggle daily, to squirm
free
when I try to breathe
art - www.gorgiaspress.com
 My dear friend, Tammy, just had a birthday...this poem is dedicated to her...uh...let me make a few disclaimers. Tammy is a devout Christian and I TOTALLY respect this. Tammy also has very fair skin, freckles and light, red hair. She is also unswervingly loyal. Honest. Funny. A multi-facted, talented writer. And I love her dearly. I am a secular Jew. Have many Wiccan friends. A pacifist. Not sure if love between a man and woman can last past the lust phase. Multicultural. When you put all these things together (me & Tamster), you get a weird poem..LOL. Happy birthday Tammy and many, many more... love,
will you, too
be just another
in my book of names,
an inky black blood
on sacrificed virgin vellum?
shall I mouth a magical number
72*, squared and cubed,
parsed on a Sabbath,
peruse each numbered letter
penned
oh so religiously, diligently?
dare I carve these words, in wiccan oak -
he loves me,
heart sore
when the gods whisper -
he loves me
not?
shall I, then display bold defiance,
will this love
rival a meteor's fiery flight
across their heavens
only to land, on the earth
magnificence -
reduced to grave rock and ashy stone?
and when the gods laugh
at me
once haughty and proud
will I whisper your name
still defiant? Notes: From the Kabbalah Center "One of Kabbalah’s most important teachings is that we are not alone in life’s tasks. There are powerful tools to help us, including the Bible itself. Kabbalah teaches that the Bible is neither a topic for academic study nor a book of commandments and prohibitions meant to be taken literally. Rather, the Bible is a coded document in which the true underpinnings of the universe lie hidden — including the amazing spiritual technology known as the 72 Names of God. What exactly are the 72 Names? According to Kabbalistic teachings, 72 unique combinations of Hebrew letters from Chapter 14 of the book of Exodus create a spiritual vibration that is a powerful antidote to the negative energy of the human ego. This revelation is a crucial step forward in the work of Kabbalistic masters over thousands of years."
1. This is a Sacred Song Space offering. The challenge was to use the words, "Night Falls", a song by Angie Hart. 2. I chose to use a Soji; the poetic form is explained wonderfully, by Wikipedia - With the rise of Joseon nationalism (starting in 1392), three-line poetry, called sijo, became more popular and reached its apex in the late 18th century. Sijo is a modern term for what was then called dan-ga (literally, "short song"). The sijo having a strong foundation in nature in a short profound structure. Bucolic, metaphysical and astronomical themes are often explored. The lines average 14-16 syllables, for a total of 44-46. There is a pause in the middle of each line, so in English they are sometimes printed in six lines instead of three. Most poets follow these guidelines very closely although there are longer examples.
 
night falls, darkness shadows beckoning beguiling azure waters
lunar light contours my anguished form, while I try to walk on water
baptizing sorrows, in Poseidon's seductive arms
This was largely inspired by Linda & Sharon of Sacred Song Space, and the last poem, I will have composed, in Seattle...see ya'll in New Jersey! Poetry Wednesday can be found here: http://sanssouciblogs.multiply.com/journal/item/230/142._Poetry_Wednesday_sign_in_and_sit_by_the_fire Sacred Song Space is in my groups list.  Walking down the school hallway
I feel their eyes
staring
the contempt and supercilious sneer
obvious,
on their patrician faces
as they claim territorial rights
of an insignificant, worthless
corner.
Cringing
and self conscious
I pull at my pants
picking imaginary lint
off, of the cheap polyester.
They don't know me
I whisper to myself
I am bravecleverwisemicheviouscourageouswitty
I will be an astronautdoctorlawyerscientist
diplomatnurseteacherwritermuscianartist
one day.
They don't know me
the hoyden
that hears music, in the wind, as I dance under the pale moon,
or lay in fields of flowers, dreaming of possibilities and improbabilities
they only knew the cringing
me
that walks pass them -
(these arbitrators of what is cool and what is not)
in polyester pants picking
at imaginary lintas children, claim territorial rights of
an insignificant, worthless corner.
art - http://www1.istockphoto.com/file_thumbview_approve/3225272/2/istockphoto_3225272_lonely_girl.jpg
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