Inspiration, Thoughts

brown beans

Brown beans crackle and whirr beneath the plastic head of the coffee grinder.
It’s as if they’re lost in the waves of a dance, or the stinging staccato of an argument.

There’s something so seductive about that, y’know.

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
Art, Inspiration

Dare to dream…

In the last few weeks I’ve decided to give my blog more visual content such as videos and art. I love writing, although, it’s always handy to get a different source of inspiration for writers and artists alike.  😉

This morning after my morning thrust of coffee ignited my synapses, I flipped open my laptop and flicked through a swarm of tweets. An image caught my attention. Not just caught it, but engrossed me. My artistic brain started tripping…and time slowed down. I admit I’m a natural romantic and have a weakness for the fantasy world. A severe one. Mould those two together and…the inner artist starts to swoon.

We should all learn to dream a little. Put down the cellphone and let your creative mind slowly seduce you. Go have a look at these images below. If you want to learn more about this artist, go check out her Deviant Art account here: http://lanatustich.deviantart.com/  😀

 

a_call_for_a_flight_48_x_36_s_by_yantotzkie-d8lm8vn

 

alone_in_the_sea_by_lanatustich-d9iys47

butterfly_garden_by_lanatustich-d9ev2vg

 

christmas_tree_or_something_strange_by_lanatustich-d9jfxa2

 

d_r_e_a_m_c_a_t_c_h_e_r_by_lanatustich-d9rlyo0

 

forgotten_toy_by_lanatustich-d9rw9kq

 

perfect_flower_by_lanatustich-d9h3cz1

 

personal_world_by_lanatustich-d9sukb6

 

psychology_by_lanatustich-d9rbwfz

 

rose_by_lanatustich-d9fatp3

 

stardust_by_lanatustich-d9tj9bh

 

sunset_by_lanatustich-d987zy4

 

the_chair_by_lanatustich-d9jfhbs

 

the_hours_by_lanatustich-d9s75vl

 

to_be_continued__by_lanatustich-d9rrctv

 

to_the_light_by_lanatustich-d9t5s35

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

teach me to whisper

for Maggie Wojtarowicz

 

teach me to whisper
and weave slow scents into
the dark

there are voices i have not heard yet
fragile echoes are scattered
in the folds of your smile

teach me to whisper
talking won’t carry
a sliver of mystery or
a simple pause before words
grow out of our mouths

there’s a voice that needs to be heard
in between
our silences
before our conscious clocks
amble and trickle out softer songs

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
Art, Photography, poetry, Technology

what lies beneath (photo poetry)

Ever since my curious mind was thrust upon this world; ever since I discovered the ability to reason and not be satisfied with the answers given to me…This has always happened to me.

Say for example, I go to the doctor and he tells me, “you have osto-prosperous syndrome. Due to this specific condition I’ll gonna be putting you on ana-laxti-tri-syhp-phex-trazine to help you manage it.” Some people see he’s a doctor, realize he’s spent year doing this and just give the three-bags-full nod. Well, not me. (You might also realize I know very little about the medical world). I want to know what is beneath the common day veneer people throw over everything. I will question the doctor until I’m satisfied I understand the internal processes, or at the very least the words he’s using.

The other day I had a similar urge to do the same with a hard drive. Most of us, have held a hard drive before, understood it has two parallel spinning discs, whose data is read by a needle-like lever darting backwards and forth. If this description if lost on you, just think of the vinyl (or record) player that has an extended arm used to read the data from the disc. (A slightly more crude, yet simpler analogy).

The hard drive in question was a 2.5″ (laptop sized) and had given up the ghost months back. Holding this device in my hands, I became plagued by two thoughts:

  1. Why don’t I open it up, and see for myself what the innards of this object look like?
  2. Once I’ve dissembled the drive, I will make this mess look beautiful. Why not?

Below I’ve included the photos I’ve taken as well as a poem I wrote a while back about a computer. Free free to leave any comments, if you have any 😀

hard drive_01

the wires inside

i closed a coffin today,
it was black with
wires of time inside

it lay on the floor
the silver fan
(cooling its heart)
Stopped and sighed
It lay in the warmth
of my own curiosity

i was more technology than
this carcass, splayed before
me and the wooden desk
i could get off the floor
crawl away from the slow
undergrowth – over
our lives.

i wept more for the
numb life hiding in
the cage and its brain
my tears fell out

so did the battery

hard drive_02

hard drive_03

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard

What's really sexy?

Courtney E. Martin

Uncategorized

What’s really sexy?

Image
Rantings

There are mumbles beneath the bubbles

I spent today the way anyone should spend their lazy Saturday afternoon. I watched cartoons with my kid sister (while checking my twitter in between pieces of dialogue). I helped her out with her guinea pigs, and replaced their water. Finally the evening ended off with grilled chicken, not to mention my parents and I quaffed away at the ruby champagne in our goblets like suburban Romans. Sounds all very romantic. (I know I do have that effect.)

So dinner finishes, and I guiltily bolt to the kitchen sink (before my Dad’s domestic voice goads me on). Wiping away grime, stacking plates, sweeping dirt – I don’t think any decent person can agree it’s the best place to be in an evening.

There is something that hauls back the conscious reins, something that brings me to attention. While the cleansing commences, an artistic side of me peeks out. Very soon after my hand reaches the pearlescent neck if the champagne glass, and its gleaming rim. The way soap suds jostle together then plummet down the slopes. They squirm and slide off the tip of the circular base. They tell my artistic eyes to stop…pause…and listen to the beauty talking back.

Maybe it’s the whole process of cleansing, and wiping away everything that tells me I’m turning over a new leaf inwardly? Perhaps, giving my hands something to do, gives my brain space and time to breathe?

I’ve wrestled long enough with my own Muse not to question it.
Just sit down. Listen. See where it leads.

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry, Reviews

The world you recognize

Often you want to read something that feels natural. Like it was meant to be. For that reason I struggle to read magazines thoroughly, unless I’m taking a meaningful tour of the toilet in the early hours of the morning. In my area there’s a small second hand book shop that’s run by two elderly ladies. It’s one of those places where you find the most beautiful books, for a reasonable price. A few weeks back I found one of those gems.

This time a book of poetry. A painted field by Robin Robertson. All I can say is…wow. All my life I’m certain that my literary mind grew up elsewhere. I appreciate local and contemporary literature. However, the minute you bury me in anything of English, Irish, Scottish or Welsh decent, you have me intellectually weak at the knees. You remember the first time you met that girl you like, and you felt your legs swimming through a bowl of pudding…that’s me.

By Robin Robertson.
For a more detailed review, click here.

Robertson is Scottish. Well, that’s where he grew up and most of the book I’ve read is based there. The words are crisp and tight. From reading this book I know every word was firmly placed. Parts of it are a bit depressing, where he mentions dealing with suicide, and walking in on a friend of his who had an overdose. Other parts are damn intriguing, and rich. I get the feeling this poet is rooted. He has a firmness inside himself and is prepared to show us some of that. This is the world I recognize, the place I feel most alive in.

For those wondering what the hype is all about, I’ve typed out two of his poems. If you enjoy wrestling with words, this might excite you. 😛

 

 

Visiting my Grandfather

In a room as dark as his
you remembered color, in amongst
brown bakelite, teak,
and felt for furnishing,
the black-out curtains from the war.
I saw the blue cuneiform of the crossword
looming under the magnifier
for my father to finish;
the slow valves of the radio
warming like coals
into English voices;
the rainbow spills, for his pipe,
in a beaker by the hearth.
And the fire, of course, when lit,
full of all the usual pleasures:
caves, dragons, life.
But being children
we were out too far to feel the heat,
kicking our legs on the high chairs,
nursing our flat lemonade
and trying not to see our blurred ghosts
in the dresser’s unsilvering glass.

Once a year, though, it was summer,
and in the great window
were the white yachts of Stonehaven,
the yellow yachts in the bay.
As if colour TV
had come to Scotland, all afternoon
we watched a testcard
of acid primaries
on wavelengths of green
and a lemony blue.

It was a chill parlour, despite the fire,
but leaving was like opening
the door of a fridge: cold
dumping on your sandaled feet,
your bare legs.
Finding my way back from the kitchen,
arms out in the dark
for the connecting door.
I came against
a womanly thing,
some kind of shawl
or handbag dressed in feathers,
which I felt all over,
putting my hands down now –
till I touched the wetness,
neck and sudden beak,
left it swinging as I ran,
leaving half my life behind
with the hung pheasant
and half in my hands with blood:
cinnabar, carnelian,
rose madder, rust.

New Gravity

Treading through the half-light of ivy
and headstone, I see you in the distance
as I’m telling our daughter
about this place, this whole business:
a sister about to be born,
how a life’s new gravity suspends in water.
Under the oak, the fallen leaves
are pieces of the tree’s jigsaw;
by your father’s grave you are pressing acorns
into the shadows to seed.

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

blind

she blushes and runs off
between the towers of
checkered chips

Ed gawks at her breasts
moving like marbles in a silk pocket

i tell Ed to calm down to
have another slurp of beer

he agrees for ten minutes
until baby Narcissus stumbles
out of his tender pram
munching the morsels of
a marijuana mind
i continue to watch because

he just threw a rattle against the wall
it smashed and an ear shaped shard

ricocheted off and into the
warm lap of the pool table
she turned the fragment over in her
amber hands

the shard understood the
creases and mature fingerprints
it started to listen and dance
in the aching rain of her eyelids

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
Humour

Truth is female

Truth is female, since truth is beauty rather than handsomeness; this, Ridcully reflected as the Council grumbled in, would certainly explain the saying that a lie could run around the world before Truth has got it’s, correction, her boots on, since she would have to choose which pair – the idea that any woman in the position to choose would have just one pair of boots being beyond rational belief. Indeed, as a goddess she would have lots of shoes, and thus many choices, comfy shoes for home truths, hobnail boots for unpleasant truths, simple clogs for universal truths and possibly. some kind of slipper for self-evident truth. More important now was what kind of truth he was going to have to impart to his colleagues, and he decided not on the whole truth, but instead on nothing but the truth, whig dispensed with the need for honesty.”

– Terry Pratchett (Unseen Academicals)

Standard