This Side Of Paradise: "And perspective it is the painter's art."

To Reach The Green Light At The End Of The Pier

FOR AS LONG AS IT TAKES: "We are saving ourselves through the words," says Eleanor, the leading lady of a novel-in-progress. This exploration into the creative process -- which includes plenty of distractions/tangents /thoughts & rants by Eleanor, her Biographer, and selected guest artists -- will continue until Eleanor is certain her story is "right." (But we dare not jump ahead of ourselves.)

There will be the occasional typo (as Eleanor points out), and much of this is intended to be "original draft" -- what comes out of our mouths (heads) first, and then set down in that order. Not all of it will be included in the novel, but all of it is happening in real time.

The Postings:

Monday, June 2, 2008

"And perspective it is the painter's art."

"Sonnet # 24"
by William Shakespeare

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

No comments:

Shakespeare & Longfellow

Loss and Gain
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.
I am aware
How many days have been idly spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned aside.
But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

Sonnet #109
William Shakespeare

O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

Tecumseh

"Live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart.

Trouble no one about his religion.

Respect others in their views and demand that they respect yours.

Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life.

Seek to make your life long and of service to your people.

Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.

Always give a word or sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend,

or even a stranger, if in a lonely place.

Show respect to all people, but grovel to none.

When you rise in the morning, give thanks for the light,

for your life, for your strength.

Give thanks for your food and for the joy of living.

If you see no reason to give thanks, the fault lies in yourself.

Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools

and robs the spirit of its vision.

When your time comes to die,

be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death,

so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time

to live their lives over again in a different way.

Sing your death song,

and die like a hero going home."

-- Tecumseh (1768-1813) Shawnee Chief

Poetry by Cher Bibler

"Rain in September"

Like rain in September
it washes the world, pours
down from the sky,
catches on the wind
drives into cracks and seeps through.
This little hope rages,
envelops us,
holds us in her embrace.
The world is clean, new washed,
fresh, because of it.
Doubts cloud like mosquitos, but
dissipate in the sun.
Like rain in September hope
washes over us;
we cling to our dreams and it
feeds us.

"Death"

Death was casual, like a door opening,
and you going in. Too casual, I guess,
I still wait for your return.
I have things stored up to say to you,
I have things to show you.
New music, books.
My children are grown up -
I have grandchildren now.
You wouldn't even recognize me -
you would think I was my mother
(who is thankfully dead).
You have missed so many years
and I still can't grasp the
finality. I wait for your footstep
outside my door, here in a
house you've never seen,
in a city where you've never been.
You'll jump out from behind a tree
and say, "fooled you!"
and we'll all laugh.

David Shevin Poetry

"Student Killed in Car Crash"

Said her friends, we will never
forget her. How she loved the show
and wanted to be
America’s Next Top Model.
How she laughed at Spongebob Squarepants.
They sang Happy Birthday.
They held candles.
They sent blue balloons aloft, flocking
round birds with drippy tails.

That one day I passed
the load of iron ore
which had just been that small blue car
going too fast
near the flooded, frozen ice fields of Providence.

What did she think in that place
under the big and unblinking blind eye
of dawn sun and fickle traffic?
What did she think, that child out of time
who never wrestled the coming
of those years, those years
that make America’s top model shabby,
mean and wrinkled.

She thought of the other side.
She thought of the tall steeple at the corner
church, pointing straight to the what’s-up-there.
She thought of the clouds
on the horizon, a string of twenty three
opening parentheses.
She thought of the scrub fir all huddled
like soldiers in foreign weather.
She thought of the frost on emerald grass.
She thought of the golden maize stalks
and the high bonneted heads of the sunflowers.

It’s a funny thing.
Inside the small blue car
you just couldn’t tell
what a mess it was.

"Sparky"

Far from the gates of the town
birds go wheeling and monkeys wail.
Stands there a school past the terrace.
Under umbrellas the problem
makers and problem solvers scribble their notes
in rivers of rain and blue ink.
Doctor Proctor, by no means a fool,
has no special skill, but great wit.
Like most things, he makes noise
when not at ease. At times
his groans and songs are mistaken
for wisdom.

Today his charges unravel their scrolls
poring over ballades and double sonnets.
Smart Porplern is listless. Muffy and Bruno
pass notes and long glances. Then
half a day tardy, Sparky bursts
into the room and sprawls on a bench.
He flings off his tall hat as Proctor asks him
to name the current hour.
Sparky is gasping for breath. Like the East
sky at dawn, that is how his eyes burn.
Have you seen the stream of bats
emerge from beneath the bridge on Mad River
at dusk when the insects abound? Just so
the words fly from Sparky’s mouth:

“Man, Doc Proctor, I had to get to your class.
I mean, I needed to be here, but you
won’t believe what happened to me. I was
kidnapped by Black Panthers, man. No kidding.

“I was walking in front of the student center,
and these Black Panthers, they shoved me in a van.
One of them was wearing a ski mask, and we were
halfway to the next town before I could get out.”
Muffy had eyes round as marbles. Bruno held
his sides. Sparky turned on him. “You can’t tell
any one. This doesn’t go beyond this room.
I swear.” Porplern said it did not sound
like Panther behavior. “These are NEW Panthers,”
insisted Sparky. “They do things like this.”

A species will adapt, to negotiate jagged crags
and thick-growing brambles, thought Proctor,
hardly realizing he was thinking out loud. A crane
was flying East, toward the river.
High on the mountain
crazy winds fought epic battles and birds
were losing their homes. The teacher shook his locks,
frosted by hardships. “I am grateful, young man.
You have been delivered this time.

“There is an impossible road. Behind its boulders
new panthers will always lie in wait.”

*

Reprinted with permission by the author
from the Fall 2007 issue of Heartlands,
published by Bottom Dog Press.

"Breathe," by Robyn Tipton

"Madame Muse"

"Madame Muse"

for Jason Archer

The siren song may lull you close,
but madame muse will save you
She'll beat you up inside your head
until you're black and blue

And in the end you'll hate her
and thank her for being there,
it's cool
to have your secrets told
like somebody wrote a book
about your life and all those girls
you loved and what you took
from them,
but also what they gave in return.

It's a bargain you make
when you let your heart speak
like it's the end of the world
and you've just been waiting,
marking your time,
walking the streets of this town
making eye contact with anyone
who ignores your eyes
and looking down when the
brave ones walk by,
their feet
striking the pavement like
your chest,
beating heart --
heartbeat.

And sometimes you want to let it all go
and shout to just let you be
but it doesn't happen
when you've got that siren song singing
in your ears, so sweet the sound
it almost makes the rest go away
until madame muse tells you
that everything is going to be fine --
okay? if only you stay true to
what your eyes tell you,
it's cool.

It's cool, she says,
to be so open to all that you see
and to be so wide awake
you're listening to those feet,
the footsteps of strangers
who could care less.

But wouldn't it be better
if you met those eyes,
you know,
the ones who ignore you,
and forget about
the brave ones,
because it all comes down to this:
madame muse and the siren song
are one and the same
and they're both in your head;
you have only yourself to blame

For all those girls you loved
and what you took from them
and when they ask you,
when it's all said and done,
when you begin to
forget who's so scared
and who's really REALLY so brave
and all you want to do is go back,
to the one girl you could save
from herself
and from you
and from everything,
then.

You've always be a thinker,
they've all said,
thinking about this,
and such,
and such and such,
you think too much, and that's your problem
isn't it? that
you think too much,
so forward is backwards,
and old is new and new is old,
and the stories in the book of your life
are no secret anyway,

'Cause they've already been told
by a thinker, who in bed at
night gets the shivers,
gets cold, and has nothing left to say
but think about it anyway.

It's cool, madame muse tells you,
it's so cool
that you can even GO
that far back in your life
to the one girl, that one girl who asked you,
when you were just sixteen,
if she could be your wife
and you shrugged her off
like any boy might do
but yes, it's so cool you can keep her
in the front of your head
like the siren song that lures you,
that lulls you,
and causes you
to make good on a promise
that it won't happen again.

It's been a long while after all
and these years have been good
but some not so
good
but you've still made it
through them somehow
to now
you've made it through them,
each waking night,
each night you dream,
and each word the siren song sings
for madame muse,
in total control of what you'll do next
to make good on a promise
that it won't happen again.

It's so cool,
madame muse says,
when you bring her to tea,
an afternoon picnic, all prim and proper
like anyone would beat a time like this,
in a place that you are
so ready to go forward
you think you're finally free
from all that happened once,
in that long ago place

It's so cool,
madame muse says,
that you can even remember
the girl's face.

The siren song may lull you close,
but madame muse will save you
She'll beat you up inside your head
until you're black and blue
And in the end you'll hate her
and thank her for being there,
it's cool

To have your secrets told
like somebody wrote a book
about your life and
all those girls you loved
and what you took
from them,
but also
what they gave in return,
for what you gave,
gave up,
for the one,
the one girl,
the one girl,
the one girl you could not save.

It's cool.

It's cool, that's right.
'Cause the siren song
may lull you close,
but hey --
somebody will save you,
she --
they --
they always do,
it's so cool.

10-9-2007 9:04 a.m.
Geoff Schutt

This Side Of Paradise

To Reach The Green Light At The End Of The Pier

Monday, June 2, 2008

"And perspective it is the painter's art."

No comments:

ELEANOR says: "Please turn the page. Keep reading."

"The Little Room," Olive Thomas In Background

Search "This Side of Paradise:"

from "Tiare Tahiti," by Rupert Brooke

Eleanor

About The Curator

2008-13: The Narrative

Our Guests:

Green Light

The Creative Process -- A "Thog," not a blog

"Thog" Definition

Copyright

CONTACT INFORMATION:

Eleanor's Birthplace, Through The Top Window

Page 43

Shakespeare & Longfellow

Tecumseh

Path To Creativity, Anywhere

Poetry by Cher Bibler

Postcard From Havana

David Shevin Poetry

And We Saw The Moon

Truman Capote:

"Cada Cabeza Es Un Mundo."

"Lady Of The Arch"

"The Reader's Soul"

Words From The Heart:

"Breathe," by Robyn Tipton

"Madame Muse"

Love

Love

Inspiration Beneath The Green Light

Strength & Resolve

Busking Tour #1, September 2007

Zelda

Saving Our Souls Through Words