“Certainly for artists of all stripes, the unknown, the idea or the form or the tale that has not yet arrived, is what must be found. It is the job of artists to open doors and invite in prophesies, the unknown, the unfamiliar; it’s where their work comes from, although its arrival signals the beginning of the long disciplined process of making it their own.”
“Here is the importance of bearing witness. We do not grow alone, talents do not prosper in a hothouse of ambition and neglect and hungry anger; love does not arrive by horseback or prayer or good intentions. We need the eyes, the arms, and the witness of others to grow, to know that we have existed, that we have mattered, that we have made our mark. And each of us has a distinct mark that colors our surroundings, that flavors the recipe of ‘experience’ in which we find ourselves; but we remain blind, without identity, until someone witnesses us.“
“This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness, not health, but healing, not being but becoming, not rest but exercise. We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it, the process is not yet finished, but it is going on, this is not the end, but it is the road.”
― Martin Luther
“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step.” — Haruki Murakami, Kafka On The Shore
I love this poem so much I had to share it. Enjoy!
Originally posted on A beetle with earrings:
Turn my head at every sound, not so much now.
Regret takes refuge in me, not so much now.
Was her hair brown? Her face an autumn evening?
I remember she was me, not so much now.
Heart-shaped envelopes, a book of ghazal,
stuffed with songs and star-lit sleep, not so much now.
From the border, the bullets travel in dust –
leave your wounded memories, not so much now.
One night of full moon, your arm around my waist,
it’s all I wanted to see, not so much now.
On your grave, flowers stoop like old, cold widows.
Light was taxing, rain came free, not so much now.
The wind, Rachna, beats its chest, against the door.
It awaits your scent to leave, not so much now.
Inspired by Rowan’s post on Ghazal
We walked along the levee, softly talking, grit crunching beneath our footsteps. A young couple vacated a wooden bench facing the river, walking away in tandem with fingers intertwined. We sat and watched a barge pushed along by a small, blustering tugboat leaving white-capped waves in its’ wake.
Seagulls dipped and skimmed the surface of the water, some emerging with silvery fish wriggling in their beaks. In the distance, the sun settled slowly over the city, glinting golden on steel and concrete skyscrapers while a blush of pink lit the cathedral spire.
Sky and water merge
We, immersed in majesty
The city bewitches
Its Haibun Monday on dVerse Poets Pub. It’s been quite a long time since I’ve participated in their prompts and this one excited me. I’ve never written a Haibun. I read several that were linked to in the prompt and immediately wrote this one, inspired by a walk along the Mississippi recently. Then I realized I was supposed to write a Haibun inspired by the artwork attached to the prompt. Silly me. Do go over to dVerse, though, and read some of the participant’s haibuns. Next time I’ll follow the rules. 👍😊
So, how did I do on my first try?