Weekend Challenge: Blarney Me

As the story goes, St. Patrick banished snakes from Ireland and saved his adopted homeland (he was born in a Roman settlement in North Britain) from paganism. He also saved Eire from the Christian fangs of Pelagian heresy, which taught that original sin was fake news. (Pelagius, whose name is based on a Greek word meaning “of the sea,” was said to have been Scottish in origin.)

We know now that snakes hadn’t been in Ireland since the glacial period, and some of us suspect that following Pelagius would have resulted in something less, um, fraught than Irish Catholicism. (I like to think of my patron St. Oran as a wet Scot.)

March 17 is celebrated as St. Patrick’s Day and immigrants of every stripe are invited to suffer the pangs of Irish nostalgia, wear green and drink way too much whiskey and beer. (When I was younger and wetter, lifting steins at Harrigan’s Pub on St. Patrick’s was akin to tromboning the pantheon of Irish saints.)

Let’s pluck three leaves from the shamrock and see if there’s a magic fourth leaf, down and back the mystery of history. In Irish lore, a four-leafed clover was deemed lucky, a springer of Otherworld doors; what wonders have you to share? Charm us with a blarney poem!

Does St. Patrick lamp your way back into your official migrant history, or does Pelagius hold the more durable and apt sea-candle for burrowing down into the salt reaches of New Grange?

Or this: Beer tasting a little moldy? Do you find nostalgia somewhat pathological, a too-dewy-eyed embrace for golden times that never existed or are forever lost? How are Irish immigrant dreams fueled by the Great Famine different than the desperation of Honduran or Syrian refugees?

And what if those snakes had won the battle for the Irish heart? What then?

As the Irish say, "Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat"—or, "May the cat eat you, and may the devil eat the cat." I look forward to whatever jumps out of this blarney hat! 

Weekend Challenge: Play Tennis With A Ghost

"Tinturn Abbey And The River," Edward Dayes (c. 1794)

One of the most profound upwellings of poetry occurred for me in the five years after I first sobered up in 1987. After a decade of sex, drugs & rock ‘n’ roll, I parked that nightly mayhem for days of recovery, marriage, and professional life.

As part of that new routine, I began getting up early to read and write, opening doors within. I burrowed down into mythology and psychology with Joseph Campbell, Carl Jung and James Hillman as my lamps. I also began reading poetry with a passion, plundering the public library for voices which I felt a shouting welcome—Robert Bly, Steven Dobyns, Wendell Berry, Richard Wilbur, Mary Oliver.

Back then, I lived in downtown Orlando, so I could walk to my job at the daily newspaper. And so I carried a briefcase in one hand and a book of poetry in the other, reading out loud as I walked. Surely the bluebirds were amused.

For five years I walked ten blocks of Central Florida dailiness reading Keats and Wordsworth, Eliot and Stevens, Bishop and Lowell. (Swinburne’s Decadent seahorsey-versiness fit my walking gait perfectly). I read Rilke's Duino Elegies and Sonnets to Orpheus, Spenser’s Faerie Queene, Milton’s Paradise Lost, Keats’ Endymion. I read the Spanish poets in translation—Lorca and Machado, Jimenez and Paz and Neruda.

Morning readings had a different vibe than afternoons, the one cultural, the other revolutionary. The seasons revolved through their dominant and subdominant themes. The inward world grew massive, cathedral.

With those rhythms in my ear and reflections of so many mythic tales and motifs forming in my mind, I began to write daily verse in a journal—doggerel mostly, indulgent overripe juvenilia marked by hamhanded theft. How else does one learn to write? As Saul Bellow once said, a writer is a reader moved to emulation. Reading and writing became for me the hero’s journey: Go in, read the treasures, write them down in your own hand, come back. 

I went back to college through night classes paid for by my job (as professional training), and over eight years I completed my BA in English. One of my writing profs was big on reader-response theory, which has it that writers engage and magnify literature through their responses to it.  Critics of the theory say there isn’t enough appreciation of the thing itself – the literary work —and that’s where for me I have settled on a sharing agreement with the ages: I come to your library to read, and you come visit my singing hut to add resonance and heft to the stone.

So that’s the idea with today’s challenge: Go play tennis with a ghost. Take a poem by another poet you respond deeply to and write something by way of response. Maybe it’s the theme and cogitation which stirred you, or the rhyme scheme or alliteration. Write your poem as a letter to the original, offering something between wild applause and Bronx cheer. Make a myth your own; tell something of your history as it were written by Mysteries. (And know that despite what your ego is telling you, it's always good for the art to play tennis with someone far better than you.)

Your source of inspiration could be known to all or be a pet voice in a remote register. Maybe its one of our own. Whatever the case, read and respond—and then come back here to share what you found. (It would be helpful if you include the original, or link to it.)

In a tenth century Icelandic saga, ten ghosts of men just drowned while fishing appeared in communal rooms, still dripping wet and reaching out their spectral hands to warm themselves at the fire. They found their way into the literature, the same way pagan Iceland was then transitioning to Christian times. I think literature endures like that, with one generation getting spooked by shadows of the past and then singing them forward. Who will you partner up with for your game of ghost tennis?

Sunday's Mini-challenge: Wole Soyinka

Hi everyone ~  I am continuing my featured poet series with another Nobel Prize winner in Literature (1986), Wole Soyinka.  

Wole Soyinka was born Akinwande Oluwole Soyinka in Abeokuta, Nigeria on July 13, 1934. The son of a canon in the Anglican Church, Soyinka grew up in an Anglican mission compound in Aké. However, his parents were careful to balance this colonial, English-speaking environment with regular visits to his father's ancestral home in Isara. He would later chronicle these years in his autobiographical work, Aké: The Years of Childhood (1981) as well as in Isara, a Voyage Around "Essay" (1989).

Soyinka attended the University of Ibadan (1952-54) before earning a BA in English from the University of Leeds. From 1957 to 1959, he served as a script-reader, actor and director at the Royal Court Theatre, London, and while there, developed three experimental pieces with a company of actors he had brought together. Although African writers have traditionally viewed English, French, and other European languages as the tongue of the colonial power, the tool of stigma and imperialism, Soyinka made the decision to write in English in order to gain access to an international audience.

In 1960, Soyinka returned to Nigeria and founded the 1960 Masks, a theatre company that would present his first major play, A Dance of the Forests, in which the spirit world and the living world clash over the future of a half-born child. Although A Dance of the Forests exhibits a fairly serious tone, much of Soyinka's early work satirized the absurdities of his society with a gently humorous and affectionate spirit. As the struggle for independence in his country turned sour, however, Soyinka's work began to take on a darker tone.

In October of 1965, Soyinka was arrested for allegedly seizing the Western Region radio studios and making a political broadcast disputing the published results of the recent elections. In December of that same year, he was acquitted. He then served as director of the Drama School of Ibadan University in Nigeria until 1967, when he was arrested for writings sympathetic to secessionist Biafra. This time, he was imprisoned for twenty-two months. In Madmen and Specialists (1970), written shortly after his release from prison, Soyinka's protest grows much more powerful, perhaps as much a tribute to the playwright's suffering as to his growth as an artist. Madmen and Specialists dramatizes what the NEW YORK TIMES calls, "a police state in which only madmen and spies can survive, in which the losers are mad and the winners are paranoid about the possibility of another rebellion." In another powerful piece, Death and the King's Horseman (1975), the Elesin--chief minister to the dead King--fails to properly exercise his act of ritual suicide, thus jeopardizing the delicate and mystical balance between the dead, the living, and the unborn.

Soyinka's other plays include Kongi's Harvest (1967), The Lion and the Jewel (1964), The Trials of Brother Jero (1964), The Bacchae of Euripides (1973), Opera Wonyosi (1977), A Play of Giants (1985), Requiem for a Futurologist (1985) and Beautification of Area Boy (1994). He is also known for his novels, autobiographical works, poetry, and criticism, and in 1986, he became the first African writer ever to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Night

Your hand is heavy, Night, upon my brow.
I bear no heart mercuric like the clouds,
to dare.
Exacerbation from your subtle plough.
Woman as a clam, on the sea's cresent.
I saw your jealous eye quench the sea's
Flouorescence, dance on the pulse incessant
Of the waves. And I stood, drained
Submitting like the sands, blood and brine
Coursing to the roots. Night, you rained
Serrated shadows through dank leaves
Till, bathed in warm suffusion of your dappled cells
Sensations pained me, faceless, silent as night thieves.
Hide me now, when night children haunt the earth
I must hear none! These misted cells will yet
Undo me; naked, unbidden, at Night's muted birth.

Fado Singer for Amalia Roderinguez

My skin is pemiced to fault 

I am down to hair-roots, down to fibre filters 
Of the raw tobacco nerve
Your net is spun of sitar strings
To hold the griefs of gods: I wander long
In tear vaults of the sublime

Queen of night torments, you strain
Sutures of song to bear imposition of the rites
Of living and of death. You

Pluck strange dirges from the storm
Sift rare stones from ashes of the moon, and rise
Night errands to the throne of anguish

Oh there is too much crush of petals
For perfume, too heavy tread of air on mothwing
For a cup of rainbow dust

Too much pain, oh midwife at the cry
Of severance, fingers at the cosmic cord, too vast
The pains of easters for a hint of the eternal.

I would be free of your tyranny, free
From sudden plunges of the flesh in earthquake
Beyond all subsidence of sense

I would be free from headlong rides
In rock seams and volcanic veins, drawn by dark steeds
On grey melodic reins.

Please read more of his poems here.

Our challenge is to write a new poem or prose poem in response to Wole Soyinka's words. Some examples of responses include affirming what the speaker said or using his title or line of verse as a jumping board for your own writing.  I look forward to reading your work ~ Happy weekend to all ~ Grace (aka Heaven)

Sunday's Feature Artist: Arts & Dolls by Susie McMahon

Hello Toads & Pond Visitors~  I am excited to showcase the art work & dolls by long-time artist, Susie McMahon.   Here's a backgrounder about her:

I am a fifty-something Virgo and a full-time artist, living in Tasmania - one of the world's best-kept secrets! I am a mother, grand-mother, ardent environmentalist and part-time musician as well as being an obsessed doll-maker. I have been married to the man I met when I was sixteen for 38 years.

Wintermoon (Wall Piece)

My Muse - cloth, clay, sticks, string and old fob-watch face and other stuff.

I have been making art all my life - to me art and life are indivisible. I completed Art School in Hobart, Tasmania in 1971 with a teaching diploma and majors in sculpting and painting.

My abiding passions are sculpting and making dolls and I have travelled extensively as a teacher in both of these disciplines.

Many of the objects I make are simply dolls - handmade and one-of-a-kind, they represent  the culmination of many years of experimentation with technique. They are reminiscent of dolls from the past, albeit with a contemporary twist. Other objects I make are purely sculptural, but there are some things I make which defy categorization, since they occupy the space somewhere in between "doll" and "sculpture". 

Revenge of Gaia

Who or what influences you? Inspires you?

I am influenced by the natural world as well as a plethora of artists in all genres too numerous to name. I have what I would describe as a rich inner life - the manifestations of which find their way onto my sketchbook pages. Finding ideas for dolls has never been a problem for me - finding the time to create all the ideas in my sketchbook can be a problem, however!

If I had to name a single doll-maker whom I admire - for sheer virtuosity and mastery of her medium, it would have to be Lisa Lichtenfels, but again there are many others who also should rate a mention.

Tell us a little about your dolls and your process for making them. Materials, preliminary sketches, inspiration, etc.

My dolls always start with a concept - the idea - which almost always means a sketch or series of sketches as well. Often I have to work out some really practical solutions to construction problems - this is usually done in bed at night when I should be asleep - I know many other doll-makers who are afflicted with the same problem! Once the idea is firmly established, I usually sculpt the head and allow it to dry. My preferred medium is air-dry clay covered with fabric and painted, but I am always trying new things. The head determines the size of the body or any constructed elements, so I draft any patterns from the particular head for the piece I am working on. Then it is simply a matter of putting everything together and gessoing and painting. The parts I like the most in my doll making are the initial sculpting and the final painting. I use whatever I need in terms of materials - the initial concept determines what I use, so the idea really dictates the medium.

Redivivus Dolls

are made from recyled and discard materials.

Redivivus is a Latin word meaning "living again"; "brought back to life"; "revived"; "restored".

Pages of Me

Sorrydolls

Heart

Millie, the apple girl

I also enjoy the challenge of teaching my craft to others and I am available to travel to do so. I am able to teach beginners to advanced students either complete projects or technique classes in painting and sculpting.     I hope you enjoy looking at my work.

Sorrowful Songs:   Duet

More Links:  Blog               Pinterest           Flicker

My Etsy store is located at http://susiemcmahon.etsy.com     I usually have patterns, kits, instruction books and finished dolls available here.  I also have a Picturetrail site at http://picturetrail.com/susiedolls  This site has galleries of completed works that have been sold     as well as tutorial albums showing how my dolls are made. 

Thank you Susie !!    

Our challenge is to write a new poem or prose poem inspired by the arts & dolls by Susie McMahon.   If you upload her images to your blog, kindly credit the artist for her work by showing the link to her blog site.   You are free to check out her other art and doll pieces & write about it too.

I will be sending Susie the direct link to this post.   She is very excited to be featured as a muse to our community.   I will be checking back during the week for any late entries.

Wishing you all Happy Weekend and Happy Mother's Day ~   

Grace (aka Heaven)                                                                                                                                    

The World's End

Happy Year-End, Dear Toads!

One of my favorite movies of this year is The World’s End, last in the hilariously remarkable trilogy (directed by Edgar Wright) that also includes Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz.

Why do I think The World’s End so great? Well, it’s belly-achingly funny, of course. It’s also weird science fiction, a win in my book. But in my view, the reason for this movie’s true greatness is the unique and nuanced performance of Simon Pegg as the main character, Gary King.

I am not going to say much about this movie because I don’t want to spoil it for any of you who have not yet seen it (and of course you’ll remedy that oversight pronto). You do not need to see the movie in order to write to this prompt. But trust me, Pegg’s portrayal is wonderful. Gary King is, at first blush, a narcissist pathetically stuck in his raucous younger days when he (supposedly) was at the top of his game. His focus on and living in the past leads to some very funny gags and plot twists, but also creates a sad and realistic character with whom many viewers will empathize and relate.

Our writing exercise today is this: What would it be like if we were stuck in (or have regressed to) the past? Write from the perspective of yourself or another person (real or imagined) who can’t seem to live in the present or look forward; someone who dwells in a supposedly more magnificent or rewarding past time, and behaves accordingly. I look forward to reading your (new) poems!
 

Sunday Challenge ~ Woody Guthrie

My youngest daughter, Carrie, is the business manager for The Guthrie Center in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The center houses the museum and archives for the American folk singer Woody Guthrie. On a visit this past October to see my daughter I was privileged to visit the center and I thought Mr. Guthrie’s life and art would be inspiring to those who visit and contribute here in the garden. There is so much to say about this man who was a songwriter, musician, singer, artist and author so I will only refer to his music today, but I hope you will read more about this multi-talented artist.

Woody with his iconic guitar. Photo by Al Aumuller.

Woodrow Wilson “Woody Guthrie (July 14, 1912-October 3, 1967) was an American singer-songwriter and folk musician whose musical legacy includes hundreds of political, traditional and children’s songs, ballads and improvised works. He frequently performed with the slogan This Machine Kills Fascists displayed on his guitar. His best known song is “This Land is Your Land.” Such songwriters as Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, John Mellencamp and Pete Seeger have acknowledged Guthrie as a major influence. Many of his songs are about his experiences in the Dust Bowl era during the Great depression when Guthrie traveled with migrant workers from Oklahoma to California and learned their traditional folk and blues songs, earning him the nickname the “Dust Bowl Troubadour.

Woody Guthrie wrote “ThisLand Is Your Land” in February 1940 in response to being tired of radio overplaying Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America.”  His fourth and sixth verses of the song protested against class inequality.

As I went walking, I saw a sign there,

And on the sign there, It said "no trespassing." [In another version, the sign reads "Private Property"]

But on the other side, it didn't say nothing!

That side was made for you and me.

In the squares of the city, In the shadow of a steeple;

By the relief office, I'd seen my people.

As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking,

Is this land made for you and me?

Reference Center for Marxist Studies

 Woody Guthrie wrote what he saw, felt, and knew. He was often the voice for those who didn't have one. My challenge for you today is to write your own protest piece. It can be serious or silly, form or no form. The choices are up to you, but give a voice to something  you are passionate about. As always please make it a piece original to this challenge and support your fellow contributors by visiting their pages and leaving a comment.

(Here is a link to an excellent PBS documentary Surviving the Dust Bowl)