tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51006408785810814032024-03-15T02:30:50.169+13:00. . . All Finite Things Reveal Infinitude . . . Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.comBlogger565125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-18337542385161337512023-07-05T15:49:00.006+12:002023-07-05T15:58:32.343+12:00MAPLE<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <span style="color: #3c605b; font-weight: bold;">MAPL</span>E | <span style="color: #3c605b; font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Robert Frost</span></span></p><div style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 20px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Her teacher's certainty it must be Mabel<br />Made Maple first take notice of her name.<br />She asked her father and he told her, "Maple—<br />Maple is right."<br />"But teacher told the school<br />There's no such name."<br />"Teachers don't know as much<br />As fathers about children, you tell teacher.<br />You tell her that it's M-A-P-L-E.<br />You ask her if she knows a maple tree.<br />Well, you were named after a maple tree.<br />Your mother named you. You and she just saw<br />Each other in passing in the room upstairs,<br />One coming this way into life, and one<br />Going the other out of life—you know?<br />So you can't have much recollection of her.<br />She had been having a long look at you.<br />She put her finger in your cheek so hard<br />It must have made your dimple there, and said,<br />'Maple.' I said it too: 'Yes, for her name.'<br />She nodded. So we're sure there's no mistake.<br />I don't know what she wanted it to mean,<br />But it seems like some word she left to bid you<br />Be a good girl—be like a maple tree.<br />How like a maple tree's for us to guess.<br />Or for a little girl to guess sometime.<br />Not now—at least I shouldn't try too hard now.<br />By and by I will tell you all I know<br />About the different trees, and something, too,<br />About your mother that perhaps may help."<br />Dangerous self-arousing words to sow.<br />Luckily all she wanted of her name then<br />Was to rebuke her teacher with it next day,<br />And give the teacher a scare as from her father.<br />Anything further had been wasted on her,<br />Or so he tried to think to avoid blame.<br />She would forget it. She all but forgot it.<br />What he sowed with her slept so long a sleep,<br />And came so near death in the dark of years,<br />That when it woke and came to life again<br />The flower was different from the parent seed.<br />It carne back vaguely at the glass one day,<br />As she stood saying her name over aloud,<br />Striking it gently across her lowered eyes<br />To make it go well with the way she looked.<br />What was it about her name? Its strangeness lay<br />In having too much meaning. Other names,<br />As Lesley, Carol, Irma, Marjorie,<br />Signified nothing. Rose could have a meaning,<br />But hadn't as it went. (She knew a Rose.)<br />This difference from other names it was<br />Made people notice it—and notice her.<br />(They either noticed it, or got it wrong.)<br />Her problem was to find out what it asked<br />In dress or manner of the girl who bore it.<br />If she could form some notion of her mother—<br />What she bad thought was lovely, and what good.<br />This was her mother's childhood home;<br />The house one story high in front, three stories<br />On the end it presented to the road.<br />(The arrangement made a pleasant sunny cellar.)<br />Her mother's bedroom was her father's still,<br />Where she could watch her mother's picture fading.<br />Once she found for a bookmark in the Bible<br />A maple leaf she thought must have been laid<br />In wait for her there. She read every word<br />Of the two pages it was pressed between,<br />As if it was her mother speaking to her.<br />But forgot to put the leaf back in closing<br />And lost the place never to read again.<br />She was sure, though, there had been nothing in it.<br /><br />So she looked for herself, as everyone<br />Looks for himself, more or less outwardly.<br />And her self-seeking, fitful though it was,<br />May still have been what led her on to read,<br />And think a little, and get some city schooling.<br />She learned shorthand, whatever shorthand may<br />Have had to do with it--she sometimes wondered.<br />So, till she found herself in a strange place<br />For the name Maple to have brought her to,<br />Taking dictation on a paper pad<br />And, in the pauses when she raised her eyes,<br />Watching out of a nineteenth story window<br />An airship laboring with unshiplike motion<br />And a vague all-disturbing roar above the river<br />Beyond the highest city built with hands.<br />Someone was saying in such natural tones<br />She almost wrote the words down on her knee,<br />"Do you know you remind me of a tree--<br />A maple tree?"<br /><br />"Because my name is Maple?"<br />"Isn't it Mabel? I thought it was Mabel."<br /><br />"No doubt you've heard the office call me Mabel.<br />I have to let them call me what they like."<br /><br />They were both stirred that he should have divined<br />Without the name her personal mystery.<br />It made it seem as if there must be something<br />She must have missed herself. So they were married,<br />And took the fancy home with them to live by.<br /><br />They went on pilgrimage once to her father's<br />(The house one story high in front, three stories<br />On the side it presented to the road)<br />To see if there was not some special tree<br />She might have overlooked. They could find none,<br />Not so much as a single tree for shade,<br />Let alone grove of trees for sugar orchard.<br />She told him of the bookmark maple leaf<br />In the big Bible, and all she remembered<br />of the place marked with it—"Wave offering,<br />Something about wave offering, it said."<br /><br />"You've never asked your father outright, have you?"<br /><br />"I have, and been Put off sometime, I think."<br />(This was her faded memory of the way<br />Once long ago her father had put himself off.)<br />"Because no telling but it may have been<br />Something between your father and your mother<br />Not meant for us at all."<br />"Not meant for me?<br />Where would the fairness be in giving me<br />A name to carry for life and never know<br />The secret of?"<br />"And then it may have been<br />Something a father couldn't tell a daughter<br />As well as could a mother. And again<br />It may have been their one lapse into fancy<br />'Twould be too bad to make him sorry for<br />By bringing it up to him when be was too old.<br />Your father feels us round him with our questing,<br />And holds us off unnecessarily,<br />As if he didn't know what little thing<br />Might lead us on to a discovery.<br />It was as personal as be could be<br />About the way he saw it was with you<br />To say your mother, bad she lived, would be<br />As far again as from being born to bearing."<br /><br />"Just one look more with what you say in mind,<br />And I give up"; which last look came to nothing.<br />But though they now gave up the search forever,<br />They clung to what one had seen in the other<br />By inspiration. It proved there was something.<br />They kept their thoughts away from when the maples<br />Stood uniform in buckets, and the steam<br />Of sap and snow rolled off the sugarhouse.<br />When they made her related to the maples,<br />It was the tree the autumn fire ran through<br />And swept of leathern leaves, but left the bark<br />Unscorched, unblackened, even, by any smoke.<br />They always took their holidays in autumn.<br />Once they came on a maple in a glade,<br />Standing alone with smooth arms lifted up,<br />And every leaf of foliage she'd worn<br />Laid scarlet and pale pink about her feet.<br />But its age kept them from considering this one.<br />Twenty-five years ago at Maple's naming<br />It hardly could have been a two-leaved seedling<br />The next cow might have licked up out at pasture.<br />Could it have been another maple like it?<br />They hovered for a moment near discovery,<br />Figurative enough to see the symbol,<br />But lacking faith in anything to mean<br />The same at different times to different people.<br />Perhaps a filial diffidence partly kept them<br />From thinking it could be a thing so bridal.<br />And anyway it came too late for Maple.<br />She used her hands to cover up her eyes.<br /><br />"We would not see the secret if we could now:<br />We are not looking for it any more."<br /><br />Thus had a name with meaning, given in death,<br />Made a girl's marriage, and ruled in her life.<br />No matter that the meaning was not clear.<br />A name with meaning could bring up a child,<br />Taking the child out of the parents' hands.<br />Better a meaningless name, I should say,<br />As leaving more to nature and happy chance.<br />Name children some names and see what you do.</span></div><div style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 20px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 20px;"></div>Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-31331418893440350542019-10-03T11:43:00.002+13:002019-10-03T11:44:18.482+13:00What the earth bequeathed us<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"><b> What the earth bequeathed us</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> This is what was bequeathed us:</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> This earth the beloved left</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> And, leaving,</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> Left to us.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> </span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> No other world</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> But this one:</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> Willows and the river</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> And the factory</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> With its black smokestacks.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> </span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> No other shore, only this bank</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> On which the living gather.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> </span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> No meaning but what we find here.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> No purpose but what we make.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> </span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> That, and the beloved’s clear instructions:</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> Turn me into song; sing me awake.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(96, 96, 96);"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i> Gregory Orr</i></span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-46513270411018923142019-09-30T07:29:00.003+13:002019-10-12T20:17:46.526+13:00On what cannot quite be said <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A couple of days ago, I stumbled on the site of '<i>The Open Ears Project</i>': </span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">'</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.8);">Part mix tape, part sonic love-letter, the Open Ears Project is a daily podcast where people share the classical track that means the most to them. Each episode offers a soulful glimpse into other human lives, helping us to hear this music—and each other—differently.'</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://www.listennotes.com/podcasts/the-open-ears/6-on-what-cannot-quite-be-said-ifAS0Ue6uGg/" target="_blank">In episode No. 6</a>, author Ian McEwan chooses the slow movement of J.S. Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And in <a href="https://www.listennotes.com/podcasts/the-open-ears-project-wqxr-wnyc-studios-w3Qm6z4jRGl/" target="_blank">Episode 16, </a><i><a href="https://www.listennotes.com/podcasts/the-open-ears-project-wqxr-wnyc-studios-w3Qm6z4jRGl/" target="_blank">On Forgiveness</a>, </i><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">Mezzo-soprano J’Nai Bridges shares what she learned about memory and forgiveness from Henry Purcell’s <i>Dido’s Lament</i>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">This morning I woke abruptly from a dream, startled into wakefulness. The first thing I read was a post from Caroline on FB - an acknowledgement of Jessye Norman's death with a recording of her singing <i>Dido's Lament</i>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">Further reading took me to an article in The Guardian. "</span></span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">17 hours ago</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">; Jessye Norman died at Mount Sinai St Luke's Hospital in New York." Her rendition of <i>Dido's Lament</i> is being played all around the inter-web. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">May she rest in peace.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="pron-spell-content css-ws0uc1 evh0tcl2" style="vertical-align: super;">[ graft, grahft ]</span></span></div>
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<a class="css-br0hq7 e12fnee32" data-linkid="oowy0r" href="https://www.thesaurus.com/browse/graft" style="color: #f5a623; position: relative; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="css-1msjh1x e12fnee33" style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-style: italic;">noun</span><br />
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<span class="one-click-content css-1p89gle e1q3nk1v4" style="color: #1a1a1a; cursor: pointer; position: relative; z-index: 1;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="luna-labset"><span class="luna-label italic" data-linkid="nn1ov4" data-term="Horticulture" style="font-style: italic;">Horticulture</span></span>.</span></span><br />
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<li style="margin-bottom: 4px; padding-left: 20px; position: relative;"><span class="one-click-content css-1p89gle e1q3nk1v4" data-linkid="nn1ov4" data-term="bud" style="color: #1a1a1a; cursor: pointer; position: relative; z-index: 1;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">a bud, shoot, or scion of a plant inserted in a groove, slit, or the like in a stem or stock of another plant in which it continues to grow.</span></span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 4px; padding-left: 20px; position: relative;"><span class="one-click-content css-1p89gle e1q3nk1v4" data-linkid="nn1ov4" data-term="operation" style="color: #1a1a1a; cursor: pointer; position: relative; z-index: 1;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">the plant resulting from such an operation; the united stock and scion.</span></span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 4px; padding-left: 20px; position: relative;"><span class="one-click-content css-1p89gle e1q3nk1v4" style="color: #1a1a1a; cursor: pointer; position: relative; z-index: 1;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">the place where the scion is inserted.</span></span></li>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="one-click-content css-1p89gle e1q3nk1v4" style="color: #1a1a1a; cursor: pointer; position: relative; z-index: 1;"><span class="luna-labset"><span class="luna-label italic" style="font-style: italic;">Surgery</span></span>. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> a portion of living tissue surgically transplanted from one part of an individual </span><br />
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> to another, or from one individual to another, for its adhesion and growth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="one-click-content css-1p89gle e1q3nk1v4" data-linkid="nn1ov4" data-term="one" style="color: #1a1a1a; cursor: pointer; position: relative; z-index: 1;"><br /></span></span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-85744604467024353652019-09-26T13:38:00.004+12:002019-09-30T20:18:11.582+13:00Advancing Women Artists <div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "lora" , "lora" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 20px;">"Interestingly, women make up the majority of art restorers in Florence. </span></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #414141; text-align: -webkit-left;">This professional dominance can be traced back to the mid-60s, when a catastrophic flood laid waste to millions of the city’s art treasures. </span><span style="color: #414141; text-align: -webkit-left;"><i>'It was the first time women began wearing trousers in Florence,'</i> Linda Falcone, AWA’s current director told A</span><span style="color: #414141; text-align: -webkit-left;">rtnet. </span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "lora" , "lora" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 20px;"><i>'</i></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #414141; text-align: -webkit-left;"><i>Women’s liberation in Florence is deeply linked to the art restoration effort.'</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #414141; text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Many of the artists in the database were self-taught, barred from seeking formal training or studying anatomy on account of their gender. They could not hope to make a living from their talents when women were forbidden from issuing invoices. And then, of course, there were the demands of marriage and motherhood.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #414141; text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Small wonder they have been so underrepresented in museums and art history books."</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/T78n9xojsh4" width="560"></iframe><br /></span>
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<a href="http://www.openculture.com/2018/11/prepare-online-database-600-overlooked-female-artists-15th-19th-centuries.html?fbclid=IwAR3vLxiMpzUTevKZ5t9i5_8g8YDQhbFhhb7QwMHQITZBfkS_SmkwRJvNYcc&fbclid=IwAR0soj8wjvP8BVQGScI1Y1MgLuK2QTySNeJOiTmi2sh2BJNSKCTuvz-fHEU" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">LINK to article in Open Culture</span></a><br />
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-23909246478614977312019-09-20T07:54:00.004+12:002019-09-26T13:46:11.185+12:00How You Remain <div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">“<i>I will not surrender my heart,</i>” the tenderly ferocious poet ire’ne lara silva has said. <i>“I will not surrender my art. My poems and my stories are what I have to give in this world.”</i> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">Here, in her invocation for the endangered axolotl — <i>Ambystoma mexicanum</i>, also known as the Mexican walking fish (an amphibian resembling a smiling, translucent salamander) — she praises the intrinsic healing power of beings, a power greater than all governments or public pronouncements. It’s the gentle force of organic, elemental restoration; the song that keeps people singing even when the news grabs them by the throat. [<i>Poem s</i></span><span class="css-2fg4z9 e1gzwzxm0" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: italic; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">elected by Naomi Shihab Nye, for the NY Times - 12 September 2019]</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCehJ5Zvou46lJDKSq9P1xTg361OJaSHvy3qa5BVYvqkx7rqHbIu7WOOhen2JAFjflkcQrhUXcvCEnX1aXHMf-NIoKSkThWhhFTYDcm7m2EHPSAYQ_1KuNdyu4gFFOIIEmPnoIJj39jnE/s1600/images-1+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCehJ5Zvou46lJDKSq9P1xTg361OJaSHvy3qa5BVYvqkx7rqHbIu7WOOhen2JAFjflkcQrhUXcvCEnX1aXHMf-NIoKSkThWhhFTYDcm7m2EHPSAYQ_1KuNdyu4gFFOIIEmPnoIJj39jnE/s400/images-1+2.jpg" width="299" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="color: #444444; font-size: medium;"><b>axolotl</b></span></div>
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little warrior</div>
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almost imperceptibly</div>
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scarred<br />
from so much healing<br />
how many regrown limbs<br />
how many repaired organs<br />
even precious<br />
brain tissue<br />
created anew<br />
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teach me this<br />
little warrior<br />
how you remain<br />
tender and<br />
infinite<br />
soft and eternal<br />
in the face of struggle<br />
how it is the healing<br />
has already begun<br />
even before the wound<br />
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<i> ire'ne lara silva </i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jDuipRTCEX7CkZeBdlIw2eeqDAYn3EqTucubWrHWhWKUv8EEewchknJ5O-rF47BzkQJRsiVUcWt-rKc1G3gjdMC6AW17BMMa7qxwSqDox9uof0YkV2KNbwCs6hvCGd5hfFsAIEG6Y5s/s1600/image-1343535-galleryV9-auqj-1343535+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="850" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jDuipRTCEX7CkZeBdlIw2eeqDAYn3EqTucubWrHWhWKUv8EEewchknJ5O-rF47BzkQJRsiVUcWt-rKc1G3gjdMC6AW17BMMa7qxwSqDox9uof0YkV2KNbwCs6hvCGd5hfFsAIEG6Y5s/s400/image-1343535-galleryV9-auqj-1343535+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-16373459405368753612019-09-10T08:18:00.001+12:002019-09-10T10:47:59.232+12:00All This | Elizabeth Brooke-Carr <div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"> All this</span><span style="color: #262626;"><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"> Winter beach, desolate. Wind-whipped, exhilarated, salt</span><span style="color: #262626;"><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> air stings our faces. Sand, marshmallow-soft winkles</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> out our toes. A gull swoops low, querulous, edgy,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> screaming at us, <i>this is mine!</i> We throw back our heads,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> laughing, tease, <i>it’s ours!</i> But we know all this</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> is only ours to care for, our kaitiakitanga, as we pass,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> pressing footprints into the wild, southern afternoon.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> You see it first. A lumpish, static shape on the shoreline.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> Kelp? Driftwood? An old jacket, lost long ago, returned</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> by the tide, hunched shoulders, bunched lining, seams</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> split by a careless shrug of sea? Our footsteps track to</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> the hump. Collars up, we huddle into curiosity. A pup</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> shark, dark biscuitchip eyes glazed with ancient fog,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> leafbud ears. Kneeling, I whisper its beauty.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> Perfect parabola, black velvet shading to ashy grey,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> white belly curve stained with a blush of weeping pink.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> Did the waves carry you here to finish your struggle,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> lay you out on this cold sand slab, for us to marvel at,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> as if wonder was a last rite we might perform for you?</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> Far out, at the edge of my spindrift mind you swim</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> again, intrepid, in a school of gliding fins.</span></span><span style="color: #262626;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #262626;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"><i> Elizabeth Brooke-Carr [1940 - 2019]</i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><iframe allow="autoplay; fullscreen" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/84751352" width="640"></iframe></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 23px;">"... Our harbour and peninsula held a special place in our friend Elizabeth’s heart. When we </span>first met I was living in an old villa in Ravensbourne; the house stood - still stands - directly opposite the Lone Soldier. Many of you will be familiar with our harbour sentinel. I was intrigued by him – took to painting and photographing him in all-weathers and waving to him from my bathroom window. Then one morning in early 2009, a poem landed fully formed on the page, as if the soldier had somehow called it forth. It was a love poem. I <span style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">took</span> it along to <span style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">our</span> next writing meeting and read it to the group. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 23px;">Fast forward several months - possibly even a year or two - and</span> <span style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">out of the blue,</span> Elizabeth sent me a letter. '<i>I'm not sure how to tell you this,'</i> she said, '<i>but the soldier has written a response to his poet.'<span style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"> </span></i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">She'd attached a Word document. As was her way, she had meticulously followed the same stanza- shapes and line- lengths as in the original poem; the voice of the soldier echoed back at me from his hill across the harbour. His words brought me to tears. And to laughter. I wrote straight back to her saying, <i>‘MsLiz, we have to do something with these poems – this pair, their relationship’</i>. And so we wove the two poems together, stanza by stanza; I added visuals and a music track and turned their conversation into a small film. Our mutual friend Paul Sorrell agreed to read Elizabeth’s soldier’s lines. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 23px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Elizabeth was a relationship-builder with a fierce sense of justice. An open-hearted warrior woman in a tiny physical frame, there was something utterly solid and reliable about her –<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 23px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">'<i>If you call, I will answer'<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 23px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">— which is essentially the same reassurance - and invitation - the characters in these poems extend to one other and to each of us."*</span></span><br />
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Ms Liz</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Writing Group: Maxine, Jane, Paddy, Kath, <span style="color: #bf9000;">Elizabeth</span>, Martha, Claire, Carolyn, Huberta </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Penelope, Eva, Beatrice, Shirley and Jenny weren't present for this pic)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 23px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>*excerpt from A Tribute to Elizabeth. Her memorial service was held in Dunedin on Saturday 7 September.</i></span></span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-31106226839496514652019-09-08T12:14:00.003+12:002019-09-09T10:27:56.206+12:00Love Liberates <div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">ANK</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #666666;"> <i>R</i></span><i><span style="color: #666666;">est in peace, dear woman</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;">29 January 1932 - 31 August 2019</span></span><br />
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-86839432379874934632019-08-25T11:42:00.001+12:002019-09-10T09:01:19.929+12:00For the Sleepwalkers<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;"> Tonight I want to say something wonderful</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;"> for the sleepwalkers who have so much faith</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;"> in their legs, so much faith in the invisible</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;"> arrow carved into the carpet, the worn path</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> that leads to the stairs instead of the window,</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> I love the way that sleepwalkers are willing</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> to step out of their bodies into the night,</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> to raise their arms and welcome the darkness,</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> palming the blank spaces, touching everything.</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> Always they return home safely, like blind men</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> who know it is morning by feeling shadows.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> And always they wake up as themselves again.</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> That's why I want to say something astonishing</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> like: Our hearts are leaving our bodies.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> flying through the trees at night, soaking up</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> the darkest beams of moonlight, the music</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> And now our hearts are thick black fists</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> flying back to the glove of our chests.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> walkers who rise out of their calm beds</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> and walk through the skin of another life.</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> We have to drink the stupefying cup of darkness</span><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> and wake up to ourselves, nourished and surprised.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> <i>Edward Hirsch</i></span></span></span><br />
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OIl on paper <i>(detail of larger work)</i> </div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-77342538739819089342019-08-23T11:42:00.001+12:002019-08-25T11:48:28.162+12:00HAPPY MANDARINS <br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33);">Some years ago, I</span> was Artist-in-Resident for a week in the Caselberg Trust's cottage on the Otago Peninsula. In the kitchen cupboard were two old, pale and slightly brittle egg cups. A pair of hens, as you will see. Before leaving the cottage at the end of my stay, I photographed the egg cups on the kitchen windowsill along with my two last mandarins. Something about those photographs always made me smile -- and so this truly odd little vid. came into being.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The world is - quite literally, in places - on fire. We're daily tasked to somehow gather the bitter and the sweet together and to hold all manner of uncertainties and extremes alongside in the same oddly-shaped basket.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm posting this quirky wee vid. as a gift (and with just the faintest flutter of trepidation). My hope is it will bring joy, a moment's reprieve, some welcome lightness. It's not attempting to say or reveal anything about anything - nope, it's as simple and innocent as can be; two mandarins in two egg cups dancing in sunshine on a kitchen window sill. That's it. It's also not intended to be in any way 'flip' or irreverent - <i>especially</i> given<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"> current world realities. I know for myself (with my inborn 'PFI '- Propensity For Intensity) that there's something immeasurably uplifting about laughter. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's often said, isn't it, that joy and sorrow stand back-to-back; each can spin/give way/allow us access to the other. </span></span></div>
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<br />Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-68067468184101309692015-03-24T18:05:00.003+13:002015-03-24T18:36:33.539+13:00TUESDAY POEM | BIRD by Pablo Neduda <div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Artist Unknown</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> BIRD</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> It was passed from one bird to another,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> the whole gift of the day.<br /> The day went from flute to flute,<br /> went dressed in vegetation,<br /> in flights which opened a tunnel<br /> through the wind would pass<br /> to where birds were breaking open<br /> the dense blue air -<br /> and there, night came in.<br /><br /> When I returned from so many journeys,<br /> I stayed suspended and green<br /> between sun and geography -<br /> I saw how wings worked,<br /> how perfumes are transmitted<br /> by feathery telegraph,<br /> and from above I saw the path,<br /> the springs and the roof tiles,<br /> the fishermen at their trades,<br /> the trousers of the foam;<br /> I saw it all from my green sky.<br /> I had no more alphabet<br /> than the swallows in their courses,<br /> the tiny, shining water<br /> of the small bird on fire<br /> which dances out of the pollen. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> Pablo Neruda</b></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2015/03/new-margins-by-joan-fleming.html"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4xvuhNT4irwV9jaQWhgujcS-HwryNy3IyB-e7I6i_Hb8yLv-ZjQwI77Yux3lxHdwtYAX6RkJSig-1P2OBq4g9PfMYKDzwMtDpbwmODQI6ouNaKbNBKQ62AFblvRySDcZZOEJpXpJ-sEU/s1600/badge120.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This week on the <a class="profileLink" data-gt="{"entity_id":"118119581535200","entity_path":"\/profile_book.php"}" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=118119581535200" href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Tuesday-Poem/118119581535200">Tuesday Poem</a> hub, Helen Rickerby has chosen a prose poem I find riveting - '<i>New Margins</i>' by Joan Fleming.</span></div>
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"On the way home from art school she stopped to shave off a piece of
her hair. The skin was new</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> under there, soft as soft bristle, a new
field of thought. . . "</span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-79040024371592413162015-02-17T09:24:00.002+13:002015-02-17T13:23:09.259+13:00TUESDAY POEM | I Saw Her Dancing by Marge Piercy <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNoUHl9pikHJ6aE42xJM0a1foOJDF2Ai96GtjpnDWNZ_tv3SKvj5L8EBmBT_C0BfCscTPOY_D70AwIJlhI8xvar_ZjK_hxOMzEtVhI32DrLCy7anvluWTcE9u06lZxwCNcaV-x75512A/s1600/P1070885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNoUHl9pikHJ6aE42xJM0a1foOJDF2Ai96GtjpnDWNZ_tv3SKvj5L8EBmBT_C0BfCscTPOY_D70AwIJlhI8xvar_ZjK_hxOMzEtVhI32DrLCy7anvluWTcE9u06lZxwCNcaV-x75512A/s1600/P1070885.jpg" height="400" width="327" /></a></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><span style="border: 0px; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;"><b> I SAW HER DANCING </b></span></span><br />
<span style="border: 0px; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><span style="border: 0px; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;"> Nothing moves in a straight line,<br /> But in arcs, epicycles, spirals and gyres.<br /> Nothing living grows in cubes, cones, or rhomboids,<br /> But we take a little here and we give a little there,<br /> And the wind blows right through us,<br /> And blows the apples off the tree, and hangs a red kite suddenly there,<br /> And a fox comes to bite the apples curiously,<br /> And we change.<br /> Or we die<br /> And then change.<br /> It is many as raindrops.<br /> It is one as rain.<br /> And we eat it, and it eats us.<br /> And fullness is never,<br /> And now.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2015/02/from-pen-pal-by-sugar-magnolia-wilson.html"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXuPXfvBmrUY72VOawh-PJ5kFbxQY2YBLxF1uZzPZc15IA_U1onMCuCLdQxhuGzXsQ3RzENhutEqxqDmaoYFiyZKelNfhdBmtDcld4qMzyM-MFS3joYFmU8G_T6T0Q1ISS6rpvadHwL4Y/s1600/badge120.jpg" /></a></div>
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This week’s editor on the <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=118119581535200" href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Tuesday-Poem/118119581535200">Tuesday Poem</a> hub is Wellington poet and publisher, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=570331733" href="https://www.facebook.com/hrickerby">Helen Rickerby</a>. Sugar Magnolia Wilson, her chosen poet, is from a valley called Fern Flat in the Far North of New Zealand.</div>
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"Pen Pal, by Sugar Magnolia Wilson (or Magnolia, as she is generally
known), is a rather twisty sequence of poems, in the voice of a young,
not-so-sweet, not-so-innocent, and actually very real girl. . . " </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7oynabvnnLI2QK-sMNpyqWgUwj60NNEfxvN7n5L8kCjBlnrZcu8-9LE3I9NAFUJQbCrkkxkHUQ8RGd0teHvx3RGHchdS0UvdVNNpdlT7TZ4TU4V9SDECBrmhkwa5OVDcPf3VidqsJY7E/s1600/Magnolia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7oynabvnnLI2QK-sMNpyqWgUwj60NNEfxvN7n5L8kCjBlnrZcu8-9LE3I9NAFUJQbCrkkxkHUQ8RGd0teHvx3RGHchdS0UvdVNNpdlT7TZ4TU4V9SDECBrmhkwa5OVDcPf3VidqsJY7E/s1600/Magnolia.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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Today's selection from 'Pen Pal' includes a car crash, mangroves, guine<span class="text_exposed_show">a pigs, a falling meteorite and a 'spell for apology'. Enjoy! </span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-36746860914328524912014-09-02T10:06:00.001+12:002014-09-02T10:09:07.501+12:00TUESDAY POEM | Earth by Derek Walcott<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5nTO8JkUerC1fMnYhFCH06DvXEaHmhFjXHR-P_yrwW9xy-owqWT5XsO9u4ss_DXH0BOosgGdkjI6Bdlzig2oROVE0kRk4Vmqjc2p9Df10xdsRoBpYzu8S_IHHWEBo_AghyphenhyphenyZGXs7gzs/s1600/P1130472+-+Version+2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5nTO8JkUerC1fMnYhFCH06DvXEaHmhFjXHR-P_yrwW9xy-owqWT5XsO9u4ss_DXH0BOosgGdkjI6Bdlzig2oROVE0kRk4Vmqjc2p9Df10xdsRoBpYzu8S_IHHWEBo_AghyphenhyphenyZGXs7gzs/s1600/P1130472+-+Version+2.JPG" height="200" width="190" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> EARTH </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Let the day grow on you upward</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> through your feet,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> the vegetal knuckles,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> to your knees of stone,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> until by evening you are a black tree;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> feel, with evening,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> the swifts thicken your hair,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> the new moon rising out of your forehead,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> and the moonlit veins of silver</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> running from your armpits</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> like rivulets under white leaves.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Sleep, as ants</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> cross over your eyelids.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> You have never possessed anything </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> as deeply as this. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> This is all you have owned</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> from the first outcry</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> through forever; </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> you can never be dispossed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> Derek Walcott </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> (<i>from the collection </i>'Staying Alive - real poems for real times', <i>edited by</i> Neil Astley) </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibKP773mT3SXX0H2W-rUlPEN5AZzhhJIh5qkPJozs5L22aIyz534DqPR_nRAef3MP_4a_0W9Ls6kTHlGIbTm5UodE0iuxyKRk24npvTxykVfYJCI6llJuzdVksHB4fpPiLOzaWxthsVkU/s1600/P1130083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibKP773mT3SXX0H2W-rUlPEN5AZzhhJIh5qkPJozs5L22aIyz534DqPR_nRAef3MP_4a_0W9Ls6kTHlGIbTm5UodE0iuxyKRk24npvTxykVfYJCI6llJuzdVksHB4fpPiLOzaWxthsVkU/s1600/P1130083.JPG" height="364" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> ". . .<i> It's so hard to write the poem of grief or absence, to make it
approachable and fresh, and not to push the reader too hard to feel the
deep upwelling ugly thing. 'candle' is powerful for its restraint and
its ranging unexpectedness. For its cavernous, versatile waha that does
everything except cry. . .' </i>Stunning commentary by <span style="color: #b45f06;"><a href="http://mary-mccallum.blogspot.co.nz/"><b>Mary McCallum</b></a></span>, this week's editor on the <span style="color: #e69138;"><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/09/candle-by-hinemoana-baker.html"><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">Tuesday Poem</span></b></a></span> hub. Mary's chosen poem is '<i>candle</i>' by mightily-multi-talented <span style="color: #e69138;"><a href="http://www.hinemoana.co.nz/free-stuff"><b>Hinemoana Baker</b></a></span></span>.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> '. . . The boat was a mouth, the word was a whale,<br /> the moon was a flying fish, the swoop of a letter. . .' </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/09/candle-by-hinemoana-baker.html"><img alt="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/09/candle-by-hinemoana-baker.html" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBPhR5flVNxj8C2YZ50lgIwMvOBA_caRJbdXhz8pAkOaRq-yl-VAmmQdbiu7H9Y4VpyDKUD4RRa01rb2Nhyphenhyphen0gh2XHikiEqgbCtinjo4rnJ0JqsJ000s4VFeMprQ_88vg1N6j3XwWwupE/s1600/badge120.jpg" /></a></span> </span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-26027192997138508562014-08-19T08:38:00.000+12:002014-08-19T08:40:54.402+12:00TUESDAY POEM | Happiness by Stephen Dunn<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUGo8nXKJ80_EtqvwbKTCX-Jb7gCp2Gf4QuzEguMWbzRY0CtNscZB_ox-1LYkPw1LS_ygBPbAlNP4yczLTAHXbU44YvxxxmxasVsdtybju7Os798l02pv7x8XRpppsxkpXIGj3Hcorsyg/s1600/P1050483.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUGo8nXKJ80_EtqvwbKTCX-Jb7gCp2Gf4QuzEguMWbzRY0CtNscZB_ox-1LYkPw1LS_ygBPbAlNP4yczLTAHXbU44YvxxxmxasVsdtybju7Os798l02pv7x8XRpppsxkpXIGj3Hcorsyg/s1600/P1050483.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #444444;">HAPPINESS</span></b><br />
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A state you must dare not enter<br />
with hopes of staying,<br />
quicksand in the marshes, and all<br />
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the roads leading to a castle<br />
that doesn't exist.<br />
But there it is, as promised,<br />
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with its perfect bridge above<br />
the crocodiles,<br />
and its doors forever open.<br />
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<i>Stephen Dunn</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjKEi55TvokE1qWVCICwuvV_HRZRSSXJoOtBSZ_kOFYn9oR63JDdO8L7eQHZ8goK7zv8oq5CTapoSFXD-4RFuSoe8K7B0ZsP6Q616I98nABsZzmguZahrB69tZfFp8V3qVKSDesZzTh5Y/s1600/P1050486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjKEi55TvokE1qWVCICwuvV_HRZRSSXJoOtBSZ_kOFYn9oR63JDdO8L7eQHZ8goK7zv8oq5CTapoSFXD-4RFuSoe8K7B0ZsP6Q616I98nABsZzmguZahrB69tZfFp8V3qVKSDesZzTh5Y/s1600/P1050486.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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This week's editor on the <a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/08/lost-and-found-on-b-train-in-winter-by.html"><b>Tuesday Poem</b></a> hub is <a href="http://michelleelvy.com/"><b>Michelle Elvy</b></a> with <i>lost and found on the b train in winter </i>by <span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Walter Bjorkman - </b><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">writer, photographer, book & web designer and editor from Brooklyn, NY - living now in the Ad</span></span>irondack foothills.<br />
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<span style="color: #666666;">* <i>details from various paintings in progress - Oil on Paper | CB </i></span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-31368069376537952572014-08-12T13:32:00.000+12:002014-08-12T13:32:20.762+12:00TUESDAY POEM | EIGHT by Lao Tsu<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg21jm6e9gMseSah1kmDqqYFfZd97bhstCZRnreq3kFdHu5AluWhAjEcrjs8tc77WphIp6fx9lCAn-13u0ww_cPhU6375sGtuC2Sa8BHJUoLWVNLMUF_7980wpxmoEVYaO6Kwr-iKLV2do/s1600/P1110986.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg21jm6e9gMseSah1kmDqqYFfZd97bhstCZRnreq3kFdHu5AluWhAjEcrjs8tc77WphIp6fx9lCAn-13u0ww_cPhU6375sGtuC2Sa8BHJUoLWVNLMUF_7980wpxmoEVYaO6Kwr-iKLV2do/s1600/P1110986.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;">Untitled | Pastel on Paper | CB | c. 1987</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> EIGHT</span></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> The very best we can be is like water.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Reflect on the value of water:</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> It benefits all creatures, without competing,</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> It settles in places people dislike;</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Yes, this is very close to the way.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Goodness in a house is its foundations,</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Goodness in a mind is its depth,</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Goodness in companions is their kindness,</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Goodness in speaking is sincerity,</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Goodness in government is straightforwardness,</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Goodness in work is skill,</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Goodness in movement is timing.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> It is only by not competing</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> that we can avoid going wrong.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Lao Tzu</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/08/a-whimper-after-bang-by-emily-manger.html"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHCE7JTMJk6bljz0P8VtZ7feDv0hUud-vULbMZXd_INNup-sHKNH0gUG3YdLi2eYz0WKtZWrAHthvWysO1GtkMOGFUqpZEdOe9NVeKQJLVd0WNP-9eZoqe_WbKVL_M7dyRyarxlfLOW-E/s1600/badge120.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">This week's editor on the <b><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/08/a-whimper-after-bang-by-emily-manger.html">Tuesday Poem</a></b> hub is <b>Tim Jones</b> with <i>A Whimper After a Bang </i>by Emily Manger. Tim writes</span></div>
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<i>". . . What I like most about this poem is its swagger. Most post-apocalyptic
poems are, believe it or not, something of a downer, but - at least on
the surface - the protagonist of this poem is full of vim and vigour,
tough as biltong, a kickass predator perfectly adapted to her
environment. The toughness of the character is mirrored by the toughness
of the poem, a landscape of spiky lines.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><i>Look a little closer, though. . . " </i></span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-34929483484859410042014-07-15T13:42:00.002+12:002014-07-15T14:09:43.721+12:00TUESDAY POEM | Two stanzas from A Fiordland Notebook by CB<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhTEAUtGaj_2uEamhKnTyA-eYtRBPKQMsw-MpGlq0DZlBsOIm5_9qJJvxjONkrbjZJTtjhF_XrLjMZhLUFDLS3cl0trwaJKKAUIIS_-UosILNzhwa5huAe95RypnN0KFzbx4w6OdHL80/s1600/P1120959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhTEAUtGaj_2uEamhKnTyA-eYtRBPKQMsw-MpGlq0DZlBsOIm5_9qJJvxjONkrbjZJTtjhF_XrLjMZhLUFDLS3cl0trwaJKKAUIIS_-UosILNzhwa5huAe95RypnN0KFzbx4w6OdHL80/s1600/P1120959.JPG" height="640" width="444" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">T</span>he mountains do not remember</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> asking the forests</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> to shelter birds</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> with silent tongues</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> and leaves of bark.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> CB | <i>Camelot River, Dusky Sounds, Western Fiordland </i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkeCjMusdLWfnLItTVXLu1r0i6n7pmX-oGuZ05QqPUdvsgSl2molUyaQN3y5d-l1VetqsfRxgKGGOOEwywLx6uiWYkE6T3CHwMpGoxAJLBM_t-h1kddnE-pQqtjfUBnmoSVnIBLhvNgE/s1600/P1120960.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkeCjMusdLWfnLItTVXLu1r0i6n7pmX-oGuZ05QqPUdvsgSl2molUyaQN3y5d-l1VetqsfRxgKGGOOEwywLx6uiWYkE6T3CHwMpGoxAJLBM_t-h1kddnE-pQqtjfUBnmoSVnIBLhvNgE/s1600/P1120960.JPG" height="640" style="cursor: move;" width="450" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> W</span>hen dawn comes and the ruru return</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> we will cast our bodies</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> on your banks and</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> with spines to the ground</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> and eyes wide open, wonder</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> at the tenacity of moss, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> the complex miracle of breathing. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> CB | <i>Camelot River, Broadshaw Sounds, Western Fiordland</i></span></div>
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This week's editor on the <a href="http://www.tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/07/another-exile-paints-spring-portrait-of.html">Tuesday Poem</a> hub is UK-based poet <b><a href="http://www.kathleenjones.co.uk/">Kathleen Jones</a></b> with <i>Another Exile Paints a Spring Portrait of Katherine Mansfield </i>by <a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/transport-by-riemke-ensing.html">Riemke Ensing</a>. Kathleen writes, <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px;">This poem takes me straight to Mansfield’s account of being in John Fergusson’s studio - her descriptions of the china, the way the light fell across the room, all the colours, but it is actually a dialogue with one of Frances Hodgkins’ still-life portraits.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px;"> . . "</span></span></i></div>
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~ please click on the quill ~</div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-42761785581077611092014-04-30T08:48:00.001+12:002014-04-30T08:59:13.679+12:00TUESDAY POEM | Man Eating by Jane Kenyon <div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg60XLtnmLZFMTSlWzXo6IoBZ8WNFxyoDoZG101fAyH8zeuyTDfd-eOWFTup5evCkOvEj5RWpuIJQQcQ5l761R1toMcLiBGrLQyIUMN5rntaYSixyaMJM7UnEc47TylmUiUDANImfuIato/s1600/P1100807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg60XLtnmLZFMTSlWzXo6IoBZ8WNFxyoDoZG101fAyH8zeuyTDfd-eOWFTup5evCkOvEj5RWpuIJQQcQ5l761R1toMcLiBGrLQyIUMN5rntaYSixyaMJM7UnEc47TylmUiUDANImfuIato/s1600/P1100807.JPG" height="400" width="156" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">(Okay, so this is not the poem's pearl-white plastic spoon; it is, however, a spoon I love!)</span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">MAN EATING</span></span></h3>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #3d4446;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> The man at the table across from mine</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> is eating yogurt. His eyes, following</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> the progress of the spoon, cross briefly</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> each time it nears his face. Time,</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> and the world with all its principalities,</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> might come to an end as prophesied</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> by the Apostle John, but what about</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> this man, so completely present</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> to the little carton with its cool,</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> sweet food, which has caused no animal</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> to suffer, and which he is eating</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> with a pearl-white plastic spoon.</span><br style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #3f3a23; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"> Jane Kenyon</span></b></i></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/04/the-noise-by-lee-posna.html"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSri3sunRYy-5ap5JqQohyrIrxnqFu9aWgkH98JDSoKvLkGMHDl4CC2mZq-ER6_8Swu4cKIG3oIR3esES1JS_2Fgh9ldqEMWGeZonJT9Gq7GZTy1DdqGq5wy9l08qWZ2I-lRpJBXfEZb8/s1600/badge120.jpg" /></a></div>
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This week's editor on the <a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/04/the-noise-by-lee-posna.html"><b>Tuesday Poem</b></a> hub is <a href="http://theredroom.org/"><b>Sarah Jane Barnett</b></a></div>
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with <i>The Noise</i></div>
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by <b>Lee Posna</b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #cccccc;"> x !! x</span></b></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-31377988168100362752014-04-01T07:58:00.000+13:002014-04-28T04:47:27.305+12:00TUESDAY POEM | Grapefruit (a birthday poem) by CB <div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #999999; line-height: 25px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Photo: </span><a href="http://www.shutterstock.com/cat.mhtml?lang=en&search_source=search_form&version=llv1&anyorall=all&safesearch=1&searchterm=grapefruit&search_group=#id=51229558&src=5dd58c85c2771c6b90e77027f0fa4d51-2-81" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; line-height: 25px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #f4cccc;">Shutterstock</span></a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"></span><b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"> GRAPEFRUIT</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"> </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">for Daniel</i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> He has two wishes for his sixth</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> birthday; a pocket of ruby grapefruit</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> and a citrus knife with a bend in it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> It is the Fast of Ramadan - the twenty-eight day</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> in - and the weather shows no consideration.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> Flies and an irreverent heat</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> nudge Mr. Salie the fruit seller</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> and his carthorse up the street.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> The children are waiting. They know</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> he will come. He will spoil them</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> with a fistful of pomegranate, a slice of ice</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> green melon. Upside down they wait</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> dangling limbs and rinds of chatter</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> from the purple crown of a jacaranda</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> tree. They swing from a sandpit sky</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> scuffed toes bare, swishing through</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> a thick mirage of air.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22px;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> Up at the gate, in the postbox shade</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> beach buckets brim with the horse's drink.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> Ramadan. And today is my boy's</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> sixth birthday. He drops to the ground</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> with a ripe fruit sound, runs</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> pelter, pelter down the street.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> There's a horse, a cart and an old man</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> to meet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22px;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> Of course he's remembered. He whistles</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> and grins, heaves the grapefruit down.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> Next week - they agree - when the Fast</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> is complete, they will sit on the pavement</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> enjoy a pink feast.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22px;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> "Why, Mr Salie?" I hear my son speak.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> "Why do they smell so wet</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 22px;"> and so deep?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"> </span><b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">Claire Beynon </b></span><br />
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<a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/04/three-plus-one-four-poems-for-birthday.html"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQ7MAxKlYvetHoTz53m_5IggXOoi2Z8AGlYUt-OTjwG6gqGnzXH8F6wrg059phNvkTfav3Glib2FHyJ9iIqvWvAzNIUfCWxBkM1TgNOrCy8FtyCExnCMpIcO8BMXGecD4PX57uvOymVI/s1600/badge120.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today we celebrate <a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/04/three-plus-one-four-poems-for-birthday.html"><b>TUESDAY POEM</b></a>'s 4th Birthday! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">As a collective we celebrate poetry every week but birthdays are special as each year during March/April we come together to build a collaborative poem in one giant poetry celebration. This year, we ask</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">ed contributing poets to send a line that included something about either food or birthdays or both, and to send the line 'blind' - that is, without seeing any other contributions. As our most excellent sub-hub editor Michelle Elvy asked, "<i>How to fit blue cake with a clarinetist's curls, or fairy bread with the explosion of candles? Four vignettes fired together to form one whole that includes a birth and a light, a cake and a secret, a moment and a memory, anticipation and celebration.</i>" </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> TORCH </b><br style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> I was born the day my mother stopped being pregnant</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> a full-baked warm wetness taking its first breath</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> flame flickering, a miniature torch; a moth fluttering</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> against the pane, the porch. She held: a curved moon-nail,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> thistle-like lock, darkened milk; and the clarinetist curled</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1b1a19; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> slow circles around the moon</span></span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Visit the <a href="http://As a collective we celebrate poetry every week but birthdays are special as each year during March/April we come together to build a collaborative poem in one giant poetry celebration. This year, we asked contributing poets to send a line that included something about either food or birthdays or both, and to send the line 'blind' - that is, without seeing any other contributions. How to fit blue cake with a clarinetist's curls, or fairy bread with the explosion of candles? Four vignettes fired together to form one whole that includes a birth and a light, a cake and a secret, a moment and a memory, anticipation and celebration. Visit the TP hub to read a poem guaranteed to surprise and delight you!">TP hub</a> to read <i>Three plus one: four poems for a birthday</i> - guaranteed to surprise and delight you!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><i>Extra cause for celebration: </i></span><b>Tuesday Poem</b> has had 335, 130 page views since its inception (on Mary McCallum's blog, <a href="http://mary-mccallum.blogspot.co.nz/">O Audacious Book</a>) in April 2010 with 16, 280 page views on the hub this past month. Contributing poets hail from New Zealand, the US, UK, Australia, Italy and Lesotho with visitors to the blog from places as far flung as the United States, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, India, Indonesia and Russia. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Happy Birthday Tuesday Poem! </i>And a heartfelt '<i>yes</i>' and '<i>thank you</i>' to <a href="http://mary-mccallum.blogspot.co.nz/">Mary</a>, <a href="http://michelleelvy.wordpress.com/">Michelle</a>, TP poets and readers and writers of poetry everywhere. </span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-12334307338723658012014-03-25T11:53:00.001+13:002014-03-26T12:28:30.771+13:00TUESDAY POEM | Antarctica by Katherine Glenday<b> </b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;"><i>Sounding bells</i> | 80 feet below the ice - Explorers Cove, New Harbor, Antarctica 2008</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">Katherine Glenday (with a little help from her friends!) Photograph by Shawn Harper</span></div>
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<b> ANTARCTICA</b><br />
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Our thoughts form us</div>
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And like the forams</div>
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And the caddis creatures</div>
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We live in our</div>
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Patterned habits</div>
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I can run with this</div>
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And do</div>
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Away from text and fact</div>
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And the common herded wayfare</div>
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Of thought and learned behaviour</div>
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It is too dense for me</div>
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I am overwhelmed already</div>
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And the truth of it</div>
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Scampers off somewhere</div>
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And snarls in the brambles</div>
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Beneath the woods</div>
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Of a forest of trees</div>
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I would rather drop my sounding bells</div>
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Below a frozen sea</div>
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And watch with my long distance heart</div>
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As my friends swim them down</div>
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To sing an angelus</div>
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On the ocean bed</div>
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Here all things are weighed</div>
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In the company of creatures</div>
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Who build their hearts on the sleeves</div>
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Of their houses.</div>
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<span style="color: #0d0600; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"> </span></span><b style="color: #0d0600; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><a href="http://www.katherineglenday.com/">Katherine Glenday</a></b></div>
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Katherine and I met at the age of eighteen as we embarked on a degree in Fine Arts at the University of Natal, Pietermaritzburg. Our lives have been woven together in ways mundane, mysterious and magical ever since. During our 2008 season in Explorers Cove, Antarctica, scientist <b><a href="http://www.icelabyrinth.blogspot.com/">Sam Bowser</a></b> and I traveled with a series of porcelain forms created by ceramic artists <b><a href="http://www.christinabryer.com/assets/content-page.php?id=home">Christina Bryer</a></b> and Katherine. (You can see some of these on my new, very-much-still-under-construction, website <b><a href="http://www.clairebeynon.com/antarctica.html">here</a> </b>-<b> </b>scroll down to the bottom of the Antarctica page).<br />
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Katherine lives in Kalk Bay, a quaint fishing village in Cape Town (SA). Last weekend she opened the doors of her home and studio to the public for an extensive retrospective - 30 years of her exquisite porcelain work. The words 'numinous' and 'luminous' come immediately to mind. She is an artist in light, her work at once grounded in the natural world and occupying a space that's 'beyond' form. Weightless. Metaphysical. It needs to be seen to be believed --- please visit <b><a href="http://www.katherineglenday.com/">Katherine's website</a></b>, prepared to be moved, awed and - <i>yes</i> - altered.<br />
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This week's editor on the <b><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/03/tuatara-by-nola-borrell.html">Tuesday Poem</a></b> hub is <b><a href="http://janisfreegard.com/">Janis Freegard</a></b></div>
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with <i>Tuatara </i>by <b>Nola Borrell</b></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-88899906854469377462014-03-18T12:31:00.000+13:002014-03-18T12:35:03.198+13:00TUESDAY POEM | Who Learns My Lessons Complete? by Walt Whitman <span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> Who learns my lesson complete?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> Boss, journeyman, apprentice, churchman and atheist,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> The stupid and the wise thinker, parents and offspring, merchant,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> clerk, porter and customer,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> Editor, author, artist, and schoolboy--draw nigh and commence;</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> It is no lesson--it lets down the bars to a good lesson,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> And that to another, and every one to another still.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> The great laws take and effuse without argument,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> I am of the same style, for I am their friend,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> I love them quits and quits, I do not halt and make salaams.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> I lie abstracted and hear beautiful tales of things and the reasons</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> of things,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> They are so beautiful I nudge myself to listen.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> I cannot say to any person what I hear--I cannot say it to myself--</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> it is very wonderful.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> It is no small matter, this round and delicious globe moving so</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> exactly in its orbit for ever and ever, without one jolt or</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> the untruth of a single second,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> I do not think it was made in six days, nor in ten thousand years,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> nor ten billions of years,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> Nor plann'd and built one thing after another as an architect plans</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> and builds a house.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> Nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> Nor that years will ever stop the existence of me, or any one else.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> Is it wonderful that I should be immortal? as every one is immortal;</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> I know it is wonderful, but my eyesight is equally wonderful, and</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> how I was conceived in my mother's womb is equally wonderful,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> And pass'd from a babe in the creeping trance of a couple of</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> summers and winters to articulate and walk--all this is</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> equally wonderful.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> And that my soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> without ever seeing each other, and never perhaps to see</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> each other, is every bit as wonderful.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> And that I can think such thoughts as these is just as wonderful,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> And that I can remind you, and you think them and know them to</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> be true, is just as wonderful.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> And that the moon spins round the earth and on with the earth, is</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> equally wonderful,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> And that they balance themselves with the sun and stars is equally</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"> wonderful.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;"><b> Walt Whitman</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/03/bonsai-by-cecily-barnes.html"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqedzK1qXvoiadAem702rsnnFcKCoYKiGJSF1537GJcfIf99uTdCmtMxmKqPQ0RvmNFwYDl5l0MKb8gb0dSiYUN5Gpioo4sYpCZq1_NE4dAC8EMBy1iRMceA9Ou_IP-lPXsmG1svairN4/s1600/badge120.jpg" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">To read this week's <b><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/03/bonsai-by-cecily-barnes.html">Tuesday Poem</a></b>s, click on the quill then make your way down the list of poets on the Left-hand side of the TP page. <b><a href="http://www.zireaux.com/">Zireaux</a></b> is this week's editor. <i>Bonzai</i> by Cecily Barnes begins - </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"> Who needs your stunted style, your tiny jewels</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"> of thwarted art, to snatch a kite flown loose</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"> or bad-thrown ball? Or your unsayable rules</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"> of infinit</span></span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">e pleasures unknown, delights abstruse,</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"> to feel soft feathers, their talons' sponsal band? . . .</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #595b5b; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e; line-height: 18px;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">Zireaux's commentary is anything but stunted! He takes the reader on what I think you'll agree is a fair romp of personal disclosure.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-41834314058996815642014-03-11T07:29:00.001+13:002014-03-11T07:50:58.850+13:00TUESDAY POEM | Faithful Woman by Louise Marie Prochaska<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSTlOeHRBhIyVqvot61GeblXePqk8rLc2nN_ErWXdZuOxITSuLcUARdVmaE7MVxeFCsASdUqEE3dfRi0wkGBaLioAiZizB9ILSfYwATsqnrX_PoO77dYcFftXGQ8lfL6SFqVZAt4KVoA/s1600/P1020170.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSTlOeHRBhIyVqvot61GeblXePqk8rLc2nN_ErWXdZuOxITSuLcUARdVmaE7MVxeFCsASdUqEE3dfRi0wkGBaLioAiZizB9ILSfYwATsqnrX_PoO77dYcFftXGQ8lfL6SFqVZAt4KVoA/s1600/P1020170.jpg" height="640" width="312" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;"><i>Faithful Woman</i> | CB | Charcoal and acrylic on paper & canvas </span></div>
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<b> FAITHFUL WOMAN</b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> (Proverbs 31: 10 - 31 for the Nineties)</span></i></div>
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When one meets a faithful woman,</div>
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the moment is an awakening. </div>
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She has committed her heart</div>
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to goodness, and the world</div>
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has an unfailing friend. </div>
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She develops her gifts with joy:</div>
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she empowers those around her. </div>
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She will dance in response to song;</div>
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she will grieve in response to pain. </div>
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She knows she is wounded</div>
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and needs healing;</div>
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She cannot do all things. </div>
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Life, for her, has purpose and pattern,</div>
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yet she bows her head before its mystery.</div>
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She is sometimes feared</div>
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by men who meet her</div>
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until they discover and embrace</div>
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the woman within themselves. </div>
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<b> Louise Marie Prochaska SND</b></div>
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<a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/03/the-votive-angel-by-moira-wairama.html"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuspJQ8KrUanSkzIdvKwrcp79yPrp_9dcTWDG84KkjE3wiZJw8cR4M5AxF2Zl3g6r3jmdVqnktkL2KHqS1Z0pziHwa4mYbppWuE1GTxuEbUfkohp6XcMZKD_wGRAaRANS2ldddpulIvp4/s1600/badge120.jpg" height="178" width="200" /></a></div>
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Christchurch-based <b>Andrew M. Bell</b> writes poetry, short fiction, plays, screenplays and short fiction. Andrew is this week's editor on the <b><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/03/the-votive-angel-by-moira-wairama.html">Tuesday Poem hub</a></b>. He has chosen <i>The Votive Angel </i>by <b>Moira Wairama. </b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;"> Thinking it’s the delivery pizza,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 200%;"> he opens the door <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 200%;"> to The Votive Angel, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i>News</i>: TP curator <b><a href="http://mary-mccallum.blogspot.co.nz/">Mary McCallum</a></b>'s <span style="font-family: inherit;">new children's book, <b style="font-style: italic;">Dappled Annie and the Tigrish</b> - beautifully illustrated by Annie Hayward - was launched by Jane Arthur (<a href="http://www.geckopress.co.nz/ProductDetail.aspx?CategoryId=11&ProductId=421">Ghecko Press</a>) at the Wellington Writers Week. A pic of this must-have book followed by Jane's launch speech --- </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpb5dF2OxcREcrImTim0DEEfm6vne5u_LDgyOSS4gNr2HfC7A0-UBKdfzGO-ozjxC7QM0n579iN7R6itpdlDCyUyuMA3uGa1m1OGCPPkdFfJHkMrOttjP9Usze0RIUlnSzhOcYncYhc2I/s1600/1489619_10151870399366312_793117294_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpb5dF2OxcREcrImTim0DEEfm6vne5u_LDgyOSS4gNr2HfC7A0-UBKdfzGO-ozjxC7QM0n579iN7R6itpdlDCyUyuMA3uGa1m1OGCPPkdFfJHkMrOttjP9Usze0RIUlnSzhOcYncYhc2I/s1600/1489619_10151870399366312_793117294_o.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Launch speech for Dappled Annie and the Tigrish</i><u></u><u></u></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Jane Arthur from Gecko Press.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For those of you who know me even a little bit, you’ll know I don’t do this. I don’t stand in front of crowds and talk. You’d usually find me at the back of the room in the corner quite happily invisible.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So the fact that I’m standing up here means that this book must be pretty special.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s a real honour that Mary asked me to launch Dappled Annie and the Tigrish, because I’m pretty sure she wrote it especially for me, even though she hadn’t met me yet.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This book is truly beautiful, and speaks to my inner child, who is eternally nine years old. I think Mary’s is too, which is why the character of Annie rings so true.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nine is an important age. It’s the last year of being in single digits. Nine year olds still see things in fresh metaphors, like how when Annie spends time with her dad, “It felt like being wrapped up in a big blanket made of wind and grass and clicking cicadas.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nine’s the age when summers are still endless and full of adventure, and imaginations are free from timetables. It’s before you realise that summers merely mark the time between school years, and it’s before they become too short and too boring all at once.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But summer at nine felt exactly as it does for Annie, when time stretches on, and one event becomes “always”, like how her little brother Robbie “always seemed...to be chased by a bull”. Even with the characters of the hedges who are people – or should that be the people who are hedges – and the elusive tigrish (he’s like a tiger, but he’s not a tiger; he’s tigrish) – even with these elements, the book feels utterly true and authentic.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I recognise myself in Annie. Passages like “The quieter Annie was, the more she saw and heard – which suited her just fine.” I mean, that’s nine year old me! (It’s basically me, now.)<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dappled Annie interprets the world in a beautifully descriptive and evocative way. She makes connections between parts of her world with a child’s brilliant intuition. Fantails knit their nests, making the same sounds as Annie’s mother when she knits socks. Another connection I love, between Annie’s school life and her life in nature, is when the character of Mrs Hedge – an actual hedge – says “Ready”... “as if she were writing the word down with a very sharp pencil.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The physical book is beautiful, too. Luke Kelly has done a perfect design job: we wanted something that looked and felt classic, but not old-fashioned. Annie Hayward’s illustrations are wonderful. There are four colour plates, like books in the olden days, which still excites us. And her line drawings at the start of each chapter turned out even better than we hoped. We used some of them on the endpapers of the hardback edition, and I can’t stop looking at them. (Unity has some of the hardbacks for sale here, as well as the paperback.)<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Congratulations, Mary and Annie, for creating this magical world, for it now being forever part of my world, and for allowing it to be part of the world of some new, actual nine year olds. Thank you.*" </span></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(*from<a href="http://beattiesbookblog.blogspot.co.nz/"> Graham Beattie's Bookblog</a>)</span></span></i></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-23707981293155889632014-02-18T12:12:00.000+13:002014-02-18T12:12:00.086+13:00TUESDAY POEM | Pond by T. Clear <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Cup of Water, Cup of Sky </i> | CB 2014</span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626; letter-spacing: 1pt;">
POND</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626; letter-spacing: 1pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> We roamed beyond
subdivisions<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> to this rain-brimming
vacancy in some<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> city planner’s
scheme. Not lovely,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> but a version of
heaven wet enough<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> to lure amorous toads
whose eggs <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> we scooped into
Folger’s cans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> Sloshed home, the rank goo<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> dripping a slithery
trail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> We set them hatching
in a fishbowl,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> floated bits of
boiled romaine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> This is a
common story:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> a patch of
forest slashed in an afternoon, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> a clearcut
of nettles, salal, bracken. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> Tiger
lilies in their forgotten glade wrenched, ripped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> Lots
flagged, foundations poured.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> And then into the
worm barrel<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> out back, growing
less finny each day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> Finally springing
high enough<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> they leapt beyond
borders <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> into what remained of
murmuring woods,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> the decrescendo of
frogsong<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> becoming the planet’s<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> inexorable hum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> <a href="http://premium-t.blogspot.co.nz/"><span style="color: #2d6516; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">T. Clear</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">Pond</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> was first published in <a href="http://cascadiareview.org/category/t-clear/"><i><span style="color: #b07f06; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Cascadia Review</span></i></a> in
their June 2013 issue, the first of five of <a href="http://premium-t.blogspot.co.nz/"><span style="color: #2d6516; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">T. Clear</span></a>'s poems to appear in the journal
over the course of a week - each one finely, tautly-wrought; each one
differently atmospheric, graceful and gritty. These are poems in which noise is
hushed and the earth's subtler music is allowed to come through.</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> </span> </div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">In<i> Holy Week</i>, T writes</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">
All was new or new to me</span></i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">this one line a distillation or container
for her ever-alert poet's eye, ear and heart. She writes into and out of our
always-in-motion, oft chaotic, ever-renewing world. </span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">Friend and fellow poet, <a href="http://melissagreenpoems.blogspot.co.nz/">Melissa Green</a>,
posted a comment on the <a href="http://cascadiareview.org/category/t-clear/"><i><span style="color: #b07f06; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Cascadia</span></i></a>
site that reiterates these qualities of T's sensibility and voice -
"</span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #434343;">How wonderful
to have a week’s worth of your poems available all at once. Congratulations! So
many of your themes are familiar–apple picking, fishing with your father (so
moving! the gifts of that day!), a Catholic Easter– but the details of your
language color them as yours and no one else’s, and beautifully
poignant." </span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> </span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">In her <i>Statement of Place </i>on the <a href="http://cascadiareview.org/category/t-clear/"><i><span style="color: #b07f06; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Cascadia</span></i></a> site, T
writes, "<i>I was born in Seattle and have lived joyfully in the Pacific
Northwest for fifty-six years. In my travels to other landscapes across the
planet, there is always the ache to return to this topography of foothills and
craggy peaks, of saltwater and freshwater always in easy reach." </i></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqRtXfg3SGDDQ7XuebwpxaLEf1Y0Hjcvxd619KEUocC6rnXr_fBVgqi1relJDyO2_K5GuzD8VhcY57TlOxlduw1CKQ8c5hfVAcwnHm8zJBYdhOenFaIduQkHcuG8NK4jIZlWTomqu1Ho4/s1600/P1050649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqRtXfg3SGDDQ7XuebwpxaLEf1Y0Hjcvxd619KEUocC6rnXr_fBVgqi1relJDyO2_K5GuzD8VhcY57TlOxlduw1CKQ8c5hfVAcwnHm8zJBYdhOenFaIduQkHcuG8NK4jIZlWTomqu1Ho4/s1600/P1050649.JPG" height="153" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><br /></span></i></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">Please visit the <a href="http://cascadiareview.org/category/t-clear/"><span style="color: #b07f06; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Cascadia Review website</span></a> to
enjoy more of T's poems and click on the quill below for this week's <span style="color: #0000e9;"><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/02/uncoupling-by-jac-jenkins.html">Tuesday Poems</a></span></span><!--EndFragment-->
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
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<a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/02/uncoupling-by-jac-jenkins.html"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibj6cP2PtrBOIV6DzC1cn0I0wBDVIyU7_O057nQf2LSRyMKE2LKyQrKl3s4B8GtqK4w-GRrDxMffjoudcYl_G3Y28RlyYIAD_ZCKHPaACks5y_NCLtfe3PFVGe3bkIdUr3atTv39pWXAs/s1600/badge120.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://michelleelvy.com/"><span style="color: #0000e9;">Michelle Elvy</span></a> is this week's <a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/02/uncoupling-by-jac-jenkins.html">Tuesday Poem</a> editor - and hub-sub editor for the coming three months. She has chosen this year's <a href="http://www.takahe.org.nz/competitions.htm"><span style="color: #0000e9;">Takahe</span></a>
prize winning poem <i>Uncoupling</i> by <b>Jac Jenkins </b>-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> "Ice clasps
its thorny cloak with filigreed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> brittle lace
against my breast<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> bone. The pin
sticks my skin when I inhale. . . "<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626; font-size: 16pt;"><b><br /></b></span>Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-72903279278930156362014-02-12T11:02:00.000+13:002014-02-12T11:07:24.765+13:00TUESDAY POEM | Ithaca by Constantine P. Cavafy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-weight: bold; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span> ITHACA</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> When you set out for Ithaka<br /> ask that your way be long,<br /> full of adventure, full of instruction.<br /> The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,<br /> angry Poseidon - do not fear them:<br /> such as these you will never find<br /> as long as your thought is lofty, as long as a rare<br /> emotion touch your spirit and your body.<br /> The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,<br /> angry Poseidon - you will not meet them<br /> unless you carry them in your soul,<br /> unless your soul raise them up before you.<br /><br /> Ask that your way be long.<br /> At many a Summer dawn to enter<br /> with what gratitude, what joy -<br /> ports seen for the first time;<br /> to stop at Phoenician trading centres,<br /> and to buy good merchandise,<br /> mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,<br /> and sensuous perfumes of every kind,<br /> sensuous perfumes as lavishly as you can;<br /> to visit many Egyptian cities,<br /> to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.<br /><br /> Have Ithaka always in your mind.<br /> Your arrival there is what you are destined for.<br /> But don't in the least hurry the journey.<br /> Better it last for years,<br /> so that when you reach the island you are old,<br /> rich with all you have gained on the way,<br /> not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.<br /> Ithaka gave you a splendid journey.<br /> Without her you would not have set out.<br /> She hasn't anything else to give you.<br /><br /> And if you find her poor, Ithaka hasn't deceived you.<br /> So wise you have become, of such experience,<br /> that already you'll have understood what these Ithakas mean. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">We decided to keep last week's poem <i>Bogong Moth</i> by Joe Dolce up for another week over on our <b><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/02/bogong-moth-by-joe-dolce.html" style="color: #a8e128; text-decoration: none;">Tuesday Poem</a></b> hub. Do visit the TP blog to read Joe's poem and explore the sidebar on the left-handside of the page for a rich repertoire of international poets and consistently fine poetry. </span></div>
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</span>Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-53240786384003617752014-02-04T15:56:00.000+13:002014-02-12T11:14:45.366+13:00TUESDAY POEM | The Soldier & The Poet by CB and Elizabeth Brooke-Carr <div style="text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">High on the peninsula hills directly opposite my house stands a lone soldier. A welcome part of my everyday landscape, I have wondered often about him and his - as far as I know - untold story. In early 2009, a poem arrived, landing on the page as if the soldier had called it forth, as if he had turned his face to my window and was listening. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A month or two ago, my friend Elizabeth sent me a letter. "I'm not sure how to tell you this," she said, "but the soldier has written a reply to his poet. . . "</span></div>
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<i>"Every love poem is also a peace poem."</i></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #999999;">Kevin Clements | National Centre for Peace & Conflict Studies, University of Otago</span> <span style="color: #999999;"> </span></span></div>
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This week's editor on the <b><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2014/02/bogong-moth-by-joe-dolce.html">Tuesday Poem</a></b> hub - with our second post of the new year - is Jennifer Compton. </div>
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Jen has chosen <i>Bogong Moth</i> by <b>Joe Dolce</b>. The second stanza of this heart-stopping poem reads. . . </div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I look up from my book</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> accepting the immortal,<br /> fatal dance<br /> of life and light,<br /> like Icarus’s father<br /> resigned to watch<br /> his flying boy<br /> hurl against brilliance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To read Joe's poem and Jen's zippy commentary, please click on the quill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A belated <i>HAPPY NEW YEAR</i> to us all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">(<i>I've been a distracted blog writer and reader this past month and more; immersed in various projects prompting the building and rebuilding of a website or two - exciting things are in the wings, the details of which will follow. . . ) </i></span></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-61733967751119674692013-12-10T06:49:00.000+13:002013-12-10T21:25:02.793+13:00TUESDAY POEM | I Who Love Mountains and All They Signify by Heidi Rose Robbins <div style="text-align: center;">
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<b>Heidi Rose Robbins</b>'s new collection of poems -<b style="font-style: italic;"> This Beckoning Ceaseless Beauty</b> - will be launched in Los Angeles today, 10 December 2013</div>
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the launch will be a <b>live-streamed event (</b>from around 7.30PM PST<b>)</b>. To join the celebration, click on this link and follow Heidi's directions - <a href="http://us1.campaign-archive1.com/?u=b5071a96458f93f510487294e&id=e4cbc89719"><span style="color: #e69138;"><b>http://us1.campaign-archive1.com/?u=b5071a96458f93f510487294e&id=e4cbc89719</b></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> I WHO LOVE MOUNTAINS AND ALL THEY SIGNIFY</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I who love mountains and all they signify </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> find sanctuary in valleys,<br /> where quiet truths are<br /> echoed back
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I ask a question<br /> and reflection<br /> careens off<br /> sides of earth<br /> allowing my breath to steady </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> and body to calm.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Here in the valley </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> closer to the beat </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> of the heart<br /> of the earth,
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I hear the essential.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I who love mountains and all they signify </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> choose here<br /> to lay the earth of my body<br /> on the body of the earth
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> in this sanctuary of silence.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> And only<br /> only<br /> only<br /> in this deep surrender </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <b>Heidi Rose Robbins</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3g4vAhdZSsPlHardw_QHIEBTCXh1z0xRPYX5YGTUlCg7vZU-5SUFOX3ssTf0yC8xkxVFFAN9ZwsxDwDuX0W3yPQxGab2hpJU_b9PN4G4TcWsSzqTrOA6D4d48jahnDzgA6kqVKvRZyQM/s1600/IMG_4691-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3g4vAhdZSsPlHardw_QHIEBTCXh1z0xRPYX5YGTUlCg7vZU-5SUFOX3ssTf0yC8xkxVFFAN9ZwsxDwDuX0W3yPQxGab2hpJU_b9PN4G4TcWsSzqTrOA6D4d48jahnDzgA6kqVKvRZyQM/s200/IMG_4691-1.jpg" width="150" /></a>I had the pleasure of meeting <b><a href="http://www.heidirose.com/"><span style="color: #e69138;">Heidi Rose Robbins</span></a></b> at a conference in Mesa, Phoenix a couple of years ago. Poet, esoteric astrologer, mother, group facilitator and actress-by-training, Heidi's beautifully-paced, full-hearted conference presentation* revealed a no-nonsense woman of huge heart and considerable intellect. I found her passion and openness inspiring - not only was she stimulating to listen to and talk with, she was also fascinating to observe at work. </div>
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Words for Heidi are not small, bite-sized shapes that emanate from the mouth alone; rather, they are elements for creative expression that may - or may not - involve her whole body. She is one of those rare individuals capable of being still and in motion at one and the same time - poised and poised to spring. </div>
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I posted Heidi's poem <i><b><a href="http://icelines.blogspot.co.nz/2011/05/tuesday-poem-let-me-say-it-straight-by_8719.html">Let Me Say It Straight</a></b></i> on <i>All Finite Things</i> in May 2011. In a letter, she explained, '<i>This poem was written one morning in Ojai, California. I'd just attempted to read a poem in an unnamed publication that was about as impossible to understand as they come. And I felt frustrated. Poetry has the capacity to blast the heart wide open and I felt like I was trying to solve a riddle whose ultimate answer wasn't going to be very satisfying anyway. </i></div>
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<i>I was simply ready to cut through everything and sing of the power of poetry. I was ready to speak to everyone who had given up on poetry because it felt elitist or removed. I wanted to sing my love of poetry from the rooftops and invite everyone to bring their whole selves to steep in the beauty of the language of the heart. And - as I write in this poem - it doesn't matter how broken we feel or how crinkled our heart is. All we need do is arrive and allow our hearts to unfurl.'</i></div>
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Heidi has a thriving astrology practice in Los Angeles, California. She was one of the founding members of the <i><a href="http://helloloveexperiment.blogspot.co.nz/2008_07_01_archive.html">Hello Love Experiment</a></i> and offers regular <i>Radiant Life Retreats</i> for women in which she combines her love of astrology and poetry with dynamic group work and movement. Her first poetry collection <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><a href="http://heidirose.com/sanctuary-book/">Sanctuary</a></span><b style="color: #f1c232; font-weight: normal;"> </b></span></i></span></span></i></span></i></i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">(2011) comprises a soft-covered, hand-bound book with a CD of Heidi reading her poems and articulating her creative process. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Heidi's poems are a sturdy and capacious container - an invitation through innocence into eros; a place of whispers and exclamations, of fire and breath, grit and courageous exploration; of heart and listening, expansion and balm. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">We meet her and we meet ourselves. Turning ourselves and the world around, we remember, lament, marvel and see anew. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I'd love to come across Heidi and Mary Oliver walking and talking together in a garden or forest somewhere. I</span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> hope they get to meet each other some day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <b>NAMELESS</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> We are not who we say we are. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> There are no words for that name, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> none full enough. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Our name is a symphony, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> a sunrise. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> It is a name that holds all the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> sounds of silence.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Forum; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> We are not who we say we are</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> though we insist it is so. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Maybe we should listen for the name </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> the sky has to offer,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> or the redwood.<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> It would be loving and infinitely simple. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> Let's lay each name</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> we've spoken </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> into a greater flame. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> Let's soften the grasp</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> on what is only ours</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> and breathe the terror,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> the flush of freedom.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> Let's be nameless</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> for a time</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> and listen.</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <b>Heidi Rose Robbins</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">We wish <i><b><span style="color: #e69138;">This Beckoning Ceaseless Beauty</span></b></i> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">well on its way, Heidi!</span></div>
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And this week on the <b><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2013/12/the-biography-of-mr-carrot-daucus.html">Tuesday Poem</a></b> hub, editor <b><a href="http://aotearoasunrise.blogspot.co.nz/">Andrew M. Bell</a></b> has chosen <i>The Biography of Mr. Carrot (Daucus Carota</i>) by fellow Christchurch poet <b>Frankie McMillan </b><br />
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<span style="line-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Our family was large; when we met</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-NZ" style="line-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> we embraced six hundred times. . . </span></span></div>
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<a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2013/12/the-biography-of-mr-carrot-daucus.html"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2GI-3YA3OYODR-_aszZ4qqiE0t62b51AMIJXCvqFWXv9hpvHF5Q0HkbHK4xEk5oNDOidJQMMP3ekR_Xa2X9fTyoWXrvRX8VjERYV0SOB_X1OwcEPtEicMcqnW-iUEw-S7SvsKvjYl260/s1600/badge120.jpg" /></a></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5100640878581081403.post-88216835590898097652013-11-19T22:07:00.002+13:002013-11-19T22:56:40.657+13:00Tuesday Poem | Variation on a Theme by Rilke <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBBt1td5Ae500gKbG0ANTpW5gSr6FTEkXyjZW_2FpilpDBZv82vd28MvttG8weuz6oQcKCza-BIV7h1Qs4qIHTv7ux-7VRumha0ebKVgtkan-Wia27AWFzUIr-gFI-T8H3IdsbQgRLeBw/s1600/P1050058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBBt1td5Ae500gKbG0ANTpW5gSr6FTEkXyjZW_2FpilpDBZv82vd28MvttG8weuz6oQcKCza-BIV7h1Qs4qIHTv7ux-7VRumha0ebKVgtkan-Wia27AWFzUIr-gFI-T8H3IdsbQgRLeBw/s400/P1050058.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Oil sketch | CB 2013</span></div>
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<b> Variation on a Theme by Rilke</b><br />
<i> (The Book of Hours, Book 1, Poem 1, Stanza 1)</i><br />
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A certain day became a presence to me;<br />
there it was, confronting me - a sky, air, light:<br />
a being. And before it started to descend<br />
from the height of noon, it leaned over<br />
and struck my shoulder as if with<br />
the flat of a sword, granting me<br />
honor and a task. The day's blow<br />
rang out, metallic or it was I, a bell awakened,<br />
and what I heard was my whole self<br />
saying and singing what it knew;<i> I can. </i><br />
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<b> <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/denise-levertov">Denise Levertov</a></b><br />
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I love<i> </i>the music and measure of this fine woman's fine writing. She's a pleasure to listen to, too. . .<br />
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<a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2013/11/pigs-by-les-murray.html"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3iN2-JESEt-o690b-ikPcr4dELXQMU2ZHkrHEkvDFvAtvNqhJQA7Z61BDTOXl2A7-vGqsQLX6A_w2-VgqNfRMYozlS7wIGPH2cuFxJkL27UwZQq3aq2S4XDFsg_765HueEB0i_uu9yA/s1600/badge120.jpg" /></a></div>
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This week's editor on the <b><a href="http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2013/11/pigs-by-les-murray.html">Tuesday Poem hub</a></b> is the inimitable and fiercely eloquent <b><a href="http://www.zireaux.com/">Zireaux</a></b> (his the title of this blog is <a href="http://www.immortalmuse.com/">Immortal Muse</a>) with <i>Pigs</i> by Australian poet <b>Les Murray.</b></div>
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Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com4