Hugo Cabret

"Sometimes I come up here at night, even when I'm not fixing the clocks, just to look at the city. I like to imagine that the world is one big machine. You know, machines never have any extra parts. They have the exact number and the type of parts they need. So I figure if the entire world is one big machine, I have to be here for some reason. And that means you have to be here for some reason, too." - Brian Selznick, The Invention of Hugo Cabret 

Poesy: Thrice

Fragment

Perhaps when you came
you took it all:

the beauty, the youth,
the confidence.

You gathered them as a fresh-picked bouquet
and closed the gate behind you.
 

Sleeping sweetly beneath my mother's blanket,

your soft sighs sweeten the edges of the quilt.
I pop in to the room to check,

even for just a moment,

that you and I are still connected
and you haven't left yet,
and neither have I.

-RPJ

Poetry: Lots of Mine Lately Edition

Like all the ones I put up here, it needs work. Sometimes I just get impatient. 

 

 

(Untitled) 

 

You are a pretty day
chestnut-tousled,
sticky rice

smelling sweetly of
alphabet and aliens.

Give you a flashlight
and you will find
the notes in a cup

of Irish Breakfast tea.

Smiling over the rim
you just woke up
to a complex, windy day.

Life as puzzle and painting,

dancing a one-acre plot.

Your grey-blue eyes
chart my movements,

my inaccuracies and moods.

You are my Jiminy Cricket,
my gypsy conscience,

my comma and following sentence.

-RPJ

Poesy: One-of-Mine Edition

Muse

 

Rainy day as Chinese watercolor;

the trees are wild with wind.

A grey room, comfortable

with misty windows, condensation
and the audio of the bus line
which squeaks and squeals
bone-chilled passengers forward
whom could not stay indoors.

The houseplants are caught
with leaves against a chilly window,

variegated greens and yellows

silently shivering in the unusual May gloom.

A Saturday, bone-bleached empty,

hushed respite from the Spring.

An off-day to hide and listen to the hum

of the refrigerator, eat olives and fruit;

disappear.

Only the weather knows I'm here

pregnant with the rain outside my window.

 

Nothing - 

and then a car rips past,
black asphalt and dripping wet,
a train coming in with far-off clacks.
My a.m. song of gooseflesh
and dark brown branches,

trembling leaves.

 

-RPJ

Zelda to F. Scott

"Darling, darling I love you so - Today seems like Easter, and I wish we were together walking slow through the sunshine and the crowds from Church- Everything smells so good and warm, and your ring shines so white in the sun-like one of the church lillies with a little yellow dust on it-We ought to be together this Spring-It seems made for us to love in-"

Poesy: It's Been a Long Time, But It's One of Mine (Edition)

An unedited poem of mine. It needs work, but here goes anyway:

Fear

Baffled of the ephemeral Time and Space,

I shun them, laugh it off.

I avoid their glances and pretend the stars

are simply decoration, and a watch,
merely for appointment-keeping.

There is no comprehension,
only fear
at the enormity of a thing
able to swallow me up

and disappear into the universe,
small as a pebble, quiet as the wind.

Perhaps I am afraid it will bully me,

and call me names in my non-scienceness.

Leave me for dead on a planet exploding,

or left to drift ageless in lack of oxygen

through the black night forever cloaked in stars.

In truth and secret,
I revere it. From afar.

I add asterisks when not needed
and count seconds in velvet-toned sweetness,

lining them up in my pockets

where I can feel the edges of their numerals,
their infinite tick-tocking
against the pads of my fingers.

I place memories besides other memories

in visual remembrance of dates we spent together.

I watch my child grow quickly, time lengthening her feet

and the curls of her tri-colored hair.

Please don't forget me, Space and Time,

Please don't forsake my stuffed-language self.

I am a babe, an unversed scientist, a girl scared

of the immensity of the dark.

I respect your steel claws and physics
and hope, when the day comes,

you will treat me kindly.

- RPJ

Lights

Art & Philosophy

Monkey see, monkey do.

Painting

Pavane! C'est bon!

C'est Lindor, c'est Tircis et c'est tous nos vainqueurs!
C'est Myrtille, c'est Lydé! Les reines de nos coeurs!
Comme ils sont provocants! Comme ils sont fiers toujours!
Comme on ose régner sur nos sorts et nos jours!

Faites attention! Observez la mesure!

Ô la mortelle injure! La cadence est moins lente!
Et la chute plus sûre! Nous rabattrons bien leur caquets!
Nous serons bientôt leurs laquais!
Qu'ils sont laids! Chers minois!
Qu'ils sont fols! (Airs coquets!)

Et c'est toujours de même, et c'est ainsi toujours!
On s'adore! On se hait! On maudit ses amours!
Adieu Myrtille, Eglé, Chloé, démons moqueurs!
Adieu donc et bons jours aux tyrans de nos coeurs!
Et bons jours!

Instruments

A Very Patton Christmas

From one artist to another -MamaSue gave Lil some art supplies.

Moments of Pooh

Reading Winnie the Pooh while Lillian falls asleep in my lap for her morning nap, there is no greater feeling. Light symphonic music playing, the intermittent clamor of outside goings-on, her breath getting deeper and deeper and she is eventually gone from the story - gone from me and into that special restful place where she backs up and stores all we've done for the morning.

I am thankful for my life. I have always tried to appreciate what wonderful things I've been given, but sometimes, I am swept away by the immensity of it.

And, I am thankful for Pooh. How did I never read this book when I was little? How is this my first time with the story? It is so quiet, thoughtful, egocentrically perfect for two or three-year-olds. 

Posey: A Haiku-A-Day Challenge

I've been doing a photo a day challenge with a friend on Instagram and to help me kickstart my writing, I've decided to add a haiku a day challenge to it. Each day I will attempt to write a haiku (or a bastardized version of it if it isn't suggestive of a season as haikus are generally classified) relating to the picture for the challenge. I'm excited. Here is my first attempt, and please note that these are just for fun - so don't judge me for their inanity:

If I could teach you

Anything, let it be to

Open every door.

Poesy: William Blake

Auguries of Innocence

To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour A Robin Red breast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons Shudders Hell thr' all its regions A dog starvd at his Masters Gate Predicts the ruin of the State A Horse misusd upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fibre from the Brain does tear A Skylark wounded in the wing A Cherubim does cease to sing The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight Does the Rising Sun affright Every Wolfs & Lions howl Raises from Hell a Human Soul The wild deer, wandring here & there Keeps the Human Soul from Care The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife And yet forgives the Butchers knife The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that wont Believe The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbelievers fright He who shall hurt the little Wren Shall never be belovd by Men He who the Ox to wrath has movd Shall never be by Woman lovd The wanton Boy that kills the Fly Shall feel the Spiders enmity He who torments the Chafers Sprite Weaves a Bower in endless Night The Catterpiller on the Leaf Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly For the Last Judgment draweth nigh He who shall train the Horse to War Shall never pass the Polar Bar The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat Feed them & thou wilt grow fat The Gnat that sings his Summers Song Poison gets from Slanders tongue The poison of the Snake & Newt Is the sweat of Envys Foot The poison of the Honey Bee Is the Artists Jealousy The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags A Truth thats told with bad intent Beats all the Lies you can invent It is right it should be so Man was made for Joy & Woe And when this we rightly know Thro the World we safely go Joy & Woe are woven fine A Clothing for the soul divine Under every grief & pine Runs a joy with silken twine The Babe is more than swadling Bands Throughout all these Human Lands Tools were made & Born were hands Every Farmer Understands Every Tear from Every Eye Becomes a Babe in Eternity This is caught by Females bright And returnd to its own delight The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath Writes Revenge in realms of Death The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air Does to Rags the Heavens tear The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun Palsied strikes the Summers Sun The poor Mans Farthing is worth more Than all the Gold on Africs Shore One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands Shall buy & sell the Misers Lands Or if protected from on high Does that whole Nation sell & buy He who mocks the Infants Faith Shall be mockd in Age & Death He who shall teach the Child to Doubt The rotting Grave shall neer get out He who respects the Infants faith Triumphs over Hell & Death The Childs Toys & the Old Mans Reasons Are the Fruits of the Two seasons The Questioner who sits so sly Shall never know how to Reply He who replies to words of Doubt Doth put the Light of Knowledge out The Strongest Poison ever known Came from Caesars Laurel Crown Nought can Deform the Human Race Like to the Armours iron brace When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow A Riddle or the Crickets Cry Is to Doubt a fit Reply The Emmets Inch & Eagles Mile Make Lame Philosophy to smile He who Doubts from what he sees Will neer Believe do what you Please If the Sun & Moon should Doubt Theyd immediately Go out To be in a Passion you Good may Do But no Good if a Passion is in you The Whore & Gambler by the State Licencd build that Nations Fate The Harlots cry from Street to Street Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet The Winners Shout the Losers Curse Dance before dead Englands Hearse Every Night & every Morn Some to Misery are Born Every Morn and every Night Some are Born to sweet delight Some are Born to sweet delight Some are Born to Endless Night We are led to Believe a Lie When we see not Thro the Eye Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light God Appears & God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in Night But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of day

- William Blake
via poets.org

Birmingham

I love our little building.

Poesy: Marilyn Krysl

Sutra 

Looking back now, I see 
I was dispassionate too often, 
dismissing the robin as common, 
and now can't remember what 
robin song sounds like. I hoarded
my days, as though to keep them 
safe from depletion, and meantime 
I kept busy being lonely. This 
took up the bulk of my time, 
and I did not speak to strangers 
because they might be boring, 
and there were those I feared 

would ask me for money. I was
clumsy around the confident, 
and the well bred, standing on 
their parapets, enthralled me,
but when one approached, I
fled. I also feared the street's 
down and outs, anxious lest 
they look at me closely, and 
afraid I would see their misery. 

I feared my father who feared 
me and did not touch me, 
which made me more afraid. 
My mother feared him too, 
and as I grew to be like him, 
she became afraid of me also. 
I kept busy avoiding dangers 
of many colors, fleeing from 
those with whom I had much 

in common. Now afternoon, 
one chair in the garden. Late
low light, the lilies still open,
sky beyond them preparing 
to close for the night. I'd 
made money, but had I kissed

a single lily? On the chair's
arm my empty cup. Its curved 
lip struck, bright in late light. 
I watch that last light going, 
leaving behind its brief burning
 which will come to nothing. 

The lilies still open, waiting.

Let me be that last sliver of light.
Let me be that last gleaming sliver of silver, 
there for an instant on the lily's petal, 

light speaking in tongues, tongues of flame.

- Marilyn Krysl 

via poets.org  

She Doesn't Look Sick...

Little Lil

1/365

I'm Not Lion

Dear Elizabeth Taylor,

It's been so long, so long since we've talked through letters.

My life has changed so much, and I am humbled by the work it takes to have a little (big) one such as you.

I put in the mix I made for us before you were born. It was supposed to be my "hospital mix" to greet you into the world but when it was time to greet you I was in full swing of delivery and the music was forgotten. Now it is a reminder of that time, and of the subtle hint of you, of your personality. We drove through McCalla singing and drumming drums to Chicago, (the band of course), Kris Kristofferson, some random ragtime music, and I was moved to tears. It seems it takes only that these days.

You are almost two. It is insane you walk down the steps alone. You speak clearly and communicate exactly what you want and I am in awe. You are pure rock and roll with your dancing and sentiment and I am slain by your commitment. You write music with every move you make.

You are asleep on our bed and I almost want to wake you, just to say,

Thanks.

Thanks for changing my life.

Thanks for loving the way that you do - for singing alone in the back seat, for smiling mischievously, for never really falling asleep. For loving Chicago and the Rolling Stones.

Love,

Cabbage

Poesy: Federico Garcia Lorca

Arbolé, Arbolé . . .

Tree, tree
dry and green.

The girl with the pretty face 
is out picking olives. 
The wind, playboy of towers, 
grabs her around the waist. 
Four riders passed by
on Andalusian ponies, 
with blue and green jackets 
and big, dark capes. 
"Come to Cordoba, muchacha." 
The girl won't listen to them. 
Three young bullfighters passed, 
slender in the waist, 
with jackets the color of oranges 
and swords of ancient silver. 
"Come to Sevilla, muchacha." 
The girl won't listen to them. 
When the afternoon had turned
dark brown, with scattered light, 
a young man passed by, wearing 
roses and myrtle of the moon. 
"Come to Granada, muchacha." 
And the girl won't listen to him. 
The girl with the pretty face
keeps on picking olives 
with the grey arm of the wind 
wrapped around her waist.
Tree, tree
dry and green.

- Federico García Lorca

translated by William Logan

Savor Things

Current list of things I love:

• The library

• Choctaw Indians

• My sweet girl who loves to draw all of a sudden. And by draw, I mean use markers to write on every surface possible. Her hands being her favorite. 

• Closing the blinds on ridiculously hot days and pretending we are underground. 

• We are playing music regularly again. 

• Feeling like I have come out of a haze and all of a sudden Saturn isn't on my shoulders. 

Lillian doing one of her favorite things - collecting leaves and rocks. This was taken a month or so ago.

You Should Go To -

Alabama Goods in Homewood.

Get yerself some local gifts.

Who doesn't want an Alabama-shaped cutting board?

The Ham in the 'Ham

Rocking Kyle's sunglasses at Rojo

We don't have internet access these days, so it's extremely hard to get to a computer. But the babe is one, walking, talking, going crazy, and everything is great. And it's almost spring!

This was taken a month or two ago in Cheaha.

I'm never on here anymore.

Sorry - I'm just too busy.

But here's our little girl:

We love you, Danny.