Growing

For the kickass women of the world.

Those that are, and those that are growing up to be.

The daughters. The mothers. The sisters.

The fribblings – friends like siblings.

The wives, The girlfriends.

The aunts. The nieces.

The grand-somethings.

The young uns. The teens.

The women in your life.

Who love, lose, cry.

Laugh, heal, thrive.

Nurture. Create.

You.Are.Amazing.

As. You.are

Stronger than you know.

More beautiful than you think.

Worthier than you believe.

More loved than you can ever imagine.

Passionate above making a difference.

Fioery when protecting those you love.

Learning. Growing, Not alone.

Warm. Giving. Generous.

Quirky, Sexy, Funny. Smart.

Flawed. Whole. Scared. Brave.

And so, so, so. much.more

Be Strong. Be Confident. Be You.

~Copyright: Tia Sparkles Singh, 2011

There might be a bit more of that kind of stuff around here. Hope you don’t mind. Mothering a daughter has brought out the feisty woman-lover in me. And for the record, it’s not that I don’t love men. I do. I love them to bits actually. But girls, we have so much work to do in the learning and self-loving to make sure we etch out a space in this world to talk about how we want things to be. 

This is my beginning.

a poem on thursday : phenomenal women

A bit of woman's empowerment for the day...

Phenomenal Woman 

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

- by Maya Angelou

a poem on thursday : socks

The seasons have definitely turned around here.  I came home on Monday to find the fig leaves on our little tree completely golden.  We managed to get one tiny (but oh so delicious) fig off the tree before it started dropping it's leaves.  The rest of the fruit is slowly dropping off, unripe, along with the leaves.  Not such a great success at trying to grow a Meditteranean plant on a balcony in Berlin.   Better luck next year perhaps?   

But onto the poem.  

This week's prompt was "comfort".  To me, autumn means the beginnings of nights spent sitting on the couch, listening to the rain and feeling like knitting under a blanket is the only sensible thing to be doing.  I found this lovely war poem by Jessie Pope and loved the rhythm of the words intermixed with the knitting pattern, you can just imagine some mother, wife or girl-friend finding comfort in knitting socks for their 'fella' off at war.  

Socks

 Shining pins that dart and click
In the fireside's shelered peace
Check the thoughts the cluster thick - 

20 plain and then decrease.


He was brave - well, so was I - 
Keen and merry, but his lip
Quivered when he said good-bye - 

Purl the seam-stitch, purl and slip.


Never used to living rough, 
Lots of things he'd got to learn;
Wonder if he's warm enough - 

Knit 2, catch 2, knit, turn.


Hark! The paper-boys again!
Wish that shout could be suppressed;
Keeps one always on the strain -

Knit off 9, and slip the rest.


Wonder if he's fighting now, 
What he's done an' where he's been;
He'll come out on top somehow - 

Slip 1, knit 2, purl 14.

- Jessie Pope

a poem on thursday : tick tock

Image: Weheartit  - Bambikino

Tick Tock

I lay adrift on a wooden raft. Surrounded by the still, black sky of
my mind. Floating on the dark, dimpled water of time. There your face
twinkles above me. You shine. Stars so seemingly close, but
unreachable. The light glowing on my outstretched hands. Clawing at
the sky, but unable to grasp the source.

My heart ticks in time to the groan of the planks. It is a clock.
Counting not the day, but the moments since last we touched. Passion
in fingertips the world has not yet rendered. Promises unspoken by
lips that plead for fulfillment.

Tick Tock. I drift farther from your touch.
Tick Tock. Two more moments alone without you.

My heart is a clock. It's muscle and nerves the gears and pins. A
machine. A tool. But a clock is meaningless without time. Without
time, a clock would simply count. Valueless decimals discarded and
alone. My heart is a clock and you are its time. Giving purpose to a
machine empty without you. Your sweet song, the harmony to my meter.
Breathing life into the inanimate.

Tick Tock. My heart waits for you.

I lay adrift on the water of time, waiting for the currents to bring
me back to you.

- Beach Leanbh

This week Madeline Bea's prompt was Timeworn.  I stumbled across this poem and istantly feel in love. I had grand plans for a digital mixed-media piece but my week is a little crazy and it's still on the 'to do' list.  Instead a beautiful picture found at We Heart It - a great stop for when you need a little eye candy.

a poem on Thursday : Pi

Pi

The admirable number pi: 

three point one four one. 

All the following digits are also just a start, 

five nine two because it never ends. 

It can't be grasped, six five three five , at a glance, 

eight nine, by calculation, 

seven nine, through imagination, 

or even three two three eight in jest, or by comparison 

four six to anything 

two six four three in the world. 

The longest snake on earth ends at thirty-odd feet.

Same goes for fairy tale snakes, though they make it a little longer.

The caravan of digits that is pi

does not stop at the edge of the page,

but runs off the table and into the air,

over the wall, a leaf, a bird's nest, the clouds, straight into the sky,

through all the bloatedness and bottomlessness.

Oh how short, all but mouse-like is the comet's tail!

How frail is a ray of starlight, bending in any old space!

Meanwhile two three fifteen three hundred nineteen

my phone number your shirt size

the year nineteen hundred and seventy-three sixth floor

number of inhabitants sixty-five cents

hip measurement two fingers a charade and a code,

in which we find how blithe the trostle sings!

and please remain calm,

and heaven and earth shall pass away,

but not pi, that won't happen,

it still has an okay five,

and quite a fine eight,

and all but final seven,

prodding and prodding a plodding eternity

to last.

- Wislawa Szymborska

This is possibly the furthest "off" from Madeline Bea's prompt (for the record it was 'illuminate') that I've been.  But this is where I ended up.  I just wasn't happy with any of the poems that I found about light and illumination.  I was also interested in finding a 'happy' poem written by a women.  This is also an incredibly hard thing to accomplish which led me to thinking about why women seemed to be tortured souls when they write poetry (think Emily Dickinson as a prime example) and men can be all romantic and whistful.  If anyone knows of a bright and happy female poet, send her my way.

a poem on thursday : tea

The first cup caresses my dry lips and throat, 

The second shatters the walls of my lonely sadness,
The third searches the dry rivulets of my soul to find the stories of five thousand scrolls. 

With the fourth the pain of past injustice vanishes through my pores.
The fifth purifies my flesh and bone.
With the sixth I am in touch with the immortals.
The seventh gives such pleasure I can hardly bear. The fresh wind blows through my wings
As I make my way to Penglai.*

Lu Tong (A.D. 618-907) Tang Dynasty.

(*Penglai, a mountain in China, was the traditional home of the immortals.)

This week the theme from Madeline Bea was 'orient'.  My mum sent me this poem at the beginning of the year and I really wanted to use it this week.  A pot of good tea is medicine for the soul I think.

there is another sky

There is another sky 

There is another sky,

Ever serene and fair,

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there;

Never mind faded forests, Austin,

Never mind silent fields -

Here is a little forest,

Whose leaf is ever green;

Here is a brighter garden,

Where not a frost has been;

In its unfading flowers

I hear the bright bee hum:

Prithee, my brother,

Into my garden come!

by Emily Dickinson

This week over at Madeline Bea the prompt was "ethereal" - the picture is two photos blended together, both from the forest surrounding Vienna.  I like the way it looks as if you're looking from one world, into another - a brighter garden, where not a frost has been.

a poem on thursday : raw with love

This week Madeline Bea provided the prompt "raw".  I ended up using a poem by Charles Bukowski.  I've read quite a bit of his work during the year and I tend to find it a little, well, 'raw'.  He tackles some interesting themes in a pretty confronting manner.  But I decided to take a big breath and use his poem this week - the mixed-media picture used the poem as a springboard.  I played around alot with this picture trying to emphasise the eyes, give it a slightly haunting look and yet still keep it light, romantic and airy.  I'm not completely happy with the final product, but I think I'm getting better.

Raw with Love

little dark girl with

kind eyes

when it comes time to

use the knife

I won't flinch and

I won't blame

you,

as I drive along the shore alone

as the palms wave,

the ugly heavy palms,

as the living does not arrive

as the dead do not leave,

I won't blame you,

instead

I will remember the kisses

our lips raw with love

and how you gave me

everything you had

and how I

offered you what was left of

me,

and I will remember your small room

the feel of you

the light in the window

your records

your books

our morning coffee

our noons our nights

our bodies spilled together

sleeping

the tiny flowing currents

immediate and forever

your leg my leg

your arm my arm

your smile and the warmth

of you

who made me laugh

again.

little dark girl with kind eyes

you have no

knife. the knife is

mine and I won't use it

yet. 

- Charles Bukowski

a poem on thursday: man in orbit

This week over at Madeline Bea's 'Sunday Creative' the theme is "shapely".  Thanks to this prompt I have discovered this week that there is a whole genre of poetry that revolves around 'shaping' your poems to reflect the contents of the prose.  I like this idea and it gives the poems an extra dimension and a bit of fun.  

The image that follows is really just a bit of fun.

a poem on thursday: morning

Morning 

(Love Sonnet XXVVII)

Naked you are simple as one of your hands;

Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round.

Your moon lines, apple pathways, 

Naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba;

You've vines and stars in your hair.

Naked you are spacious and yellow

As summer in a goldern Church.

Naked you are tiny as one of your nails;

Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born.

And you withdraw to the underground world.

As if down a tunnel of clothing and of chores;

Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves, 

And becomes a naked hand again.

Pablo Neruda

This week's prompt over at Madeline Bea was "naked" - once again I started with the poem, which led to this mixed-media print.  The photo is mine, the woman is from Mum and Woman’s Body by Pan Yuliang*, texture used is Kim Klassen's 'simple things'.




*Pan Yuliang was one of China's first artists to paint in a western style.  She had an interesting life, some of which you can read about on Wiki.

a poem on thursday: high summer

This week Madeline Bea's prompt was traditional.  Keeping with "my tradition" albeit short-lived, I started with a poem - a traditional sonnet.  My mind immediately wandered to "shall I compare thee to a summer's day", but since this is supposed to be about me exploring unknown poets and poetry I kept searching.  Ebenezer Jones' High Summer was the answer.

No mixed-media image this week.  The creative juices weren't up to the challenge, so some pretty pictures instead.

High Summer

by Ebenezer Jones

I never wholly feel that summer is high,

However green the trees, or loud the birds,

However movelessly eye-winking herds

Stand in field ponds, or under large trees lied

Till I do climb all cultured pastures by,

That hedged by hedgerows studiously fretted trim,

Smile like a lady's face with lace laced prim,

And on some moor or hill that seeks the sky

Lonely and nakedly,--utterly lie down,

And feel the sunshine throbbing on body and limb,

My drowsy brain in pleasant drunkenness swim,

Each rising thought sink back and dreamily drowns

Smiles creep o'er my face, and smother my lips, and cloy,

Each muscle sink to itself, and separately enjoy.

a poem on thursday: the bridge

The Bridge by Russell Edson

In his travels he comes to a bridge made entirely of bones.
Before crossing he writes a letter to his mother: Dear mother,
guess what? the ape accidentally bit off one of his hands while
eating a banana. Just now I am at the foot of a bone bridge. I
shall be crossing it shortly. I don't know if I shall find hills and
valleys made of flesh on the other side, or simply constant
night, villages of sleep. The ape is scolding me for not teaching
him better. I am letting him wear my pith helmet for
consolation. The bridge looks like one of those skeletal
reconstructions of a huge dinosaur one sees in a museum. The
ape is looking at the stump of his wrist and scolding me again.
I offer him another banana and he gets very furious, as though
I'd insulted him. Tomorrow we cross the bridge. I'll write to
you from the other side if I can; if not, look for a sign . . .

I've started using Madeline Bea's Sunday Creative as a word prompt for a poem and digital mixed-media piece each week.  Seems as my thoughts are drifting on somewhat of a tangent lately, and the word is acting more like a springboard to another place than as a theme in itself.  

This week's word was connect; 'connect' means to unite, join or be associated.  Bridges connect.  And so I initially set about finding a poem about bridges and I stumbled across this curiosity.  Russell Edson is a contemporary American prose poet.  I'm drawn to his writing, it has a dream like quality that reels you in and yet there is something profoundly disturbing about it.  This poem makes me think of dreams and the line we sometimes walk between sleep and wake, psychosis and sanity, life and death.  And so to my mixed-media image.  A letter home, a tangled dream, a place where reality and dreams collide.

a poem on thursday (on a wednesday): little boy blue

Little Boy Blue
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

 

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
   But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
   And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
   And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
   Kissed them and put them there. 

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
   "And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
   He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
   Awakened our Little Boy Blue---
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
   But the little toy friends are true! 

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
   Each in the same old place---
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
   The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
   In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
   Since he kissed them and put them there.

a poem on thursday: to see the summer sky

To see the Summer Sky, by Emily Dickinson

To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie --
True Poems flee -- 

This photo reminds me of the clouds you see in the big masterpieces hanging in the galleries around europe.  Big, stormy, summer skies framing scenes from the Spanish Conquesta.  Photography, poetry, paintings. sigh.

A poem on Thursday : Blue Wings

Blue Wings, bu George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) Warm whisp'ring through the slender olive leaves Came to me a gentle sound,  Whis'pring of a secret found In the clear sunshine 'mid the goldern sheaves: Said it was sleeping for me in the moon,  Called it gladness, called it joy,  Drew me on 'Come hither, boy.' To where the blue wings rested on the corn. I thought the gentle sound had whispered true Thought the little heaven mine,  Leaned to clutch the thing divine,  And saw the blue wings melt within the blue!

A poem on Thursday : Count That Day Lost

Count That Day Lost, by George Eliot

If you sit down at set of sun

And count the acts that you have done,

And, counting, find

One self-denying deed, one word

That eased the heart of him who heard, 

One glance most kind

That fell like sunshine where it went --

Then you may count that day well spent.

But if, through all the livelong day,

You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay --

If, through it all

You've nothing done that you can trace

That brought the sunshine to one face--

No act most small

That helped some soul and nothing cost --

Then count that day as worse than lost.

A Poem on Thursday : Eat Your Heart Out

Image: pepography (via the drifter and the gypsy)

Eat Your Heart Out

I've come by, she says, to tell you

that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's

over. this is it.

I sit on the couth watching her arrange 

her long red hair before my bedroom

mirror.

she pulls her hair up and

piles it on top of her head-

she lets her eyes look at

my eyes-

then she drops her hair and

lets it fall down in front of her face.

we go to bed and I hold her

speechlessly from the back

my arm around her neck

I touch her wrists and hands

feel up to

her elbows

no further.

she gets up.

this is it, she says, 

this will do. well, 

I'm going

I get up and walk her

to the door

just as she leaves

she says, 

I want you to buy me 

some high-heeled shoes.

no, I want them

red.

I watch her walk down the cement walk

under the trees

she walks all right and

as the pointsetta drip in the sun

I close the door.

- Charles Bukowski

A Poem on Thursday : Narration

Narration 
by Emily Dickinson

An altered look about the hills;

A Tyrian light the village fills;

A wider sunrise in the dawn;

A deeper twilight on the lawn;

A print of a vermillion foot;

A purple finger on the slope;

A flippant fly upon the pane;

A spider at his trade again;

An added strut to chanticleer;

A flower expected everywhere;

An axe shrill singing in the woods;

Fern-odours on untravelled roads;

All this, and more I cannot tell;

A furtive look you know as well;

And Nicodemus' mystery

Receives its annual reply.