You pull over to the shoulder of the two-lane road and sit for a moment wondering where you are going in such a hurry. The valley is burned out, the oaks dream day and night of rain which never comes. At noon or just before noon the short shadows are gray and hold what little life survives. In the still heat the engine clicks, although the real heat is hours ahead. You get out and step cautiously over a low wire fence and begin the climb up the yellowed hill. A hundred feet ahead the trunks of two fallen oaks rust: something passes over them, a lizard perhaps or a trick of sight. The next tree you pass is unfamiliar, the trunk dark, as black as an olive’s; the low branches stab out, gnarled and dull; a carob or a Joshua tree. A sudden flaring up ahead, a black-winged bird rises from nowhere, white patches underneath it wings, and is gone.
Within the restless, hurried, modern world We took our hearts’ full pleasure—You and I, And now the white sails of our ships are furled, And spent the lading of our argosy.
Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan, For very weeping is my gladness fled, Sorrow hath paled my lip’s vermilion And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.
But all this crowded life has been to thee No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell Of viols, or the music of the sea That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.
Red Sky at Sunset –“Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light.” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I am the woman your mother warned you about (let’s face it she was envious) I have long since lost my place that musty corner to which I was relegated where nice girls sit quietly legs crossed and demure.
(what point is there in that?)
I turn heads with my stride I watch the eyes track my steps though I pause not in my progress.
do they tremble at my purpose? or pause at my vibrant colored sheath?
I will not wait until you deem me old to wear red with purple as I rock bold iconoclasm. I am that version of herself where holds are not barred by convention or whalebone stays
crash those barriers my friend be they concrete or glass.
I AM that woman you were warned about who will challenge your ass*umptions
prove each wrong geometrically, logically
I speak without being spoken to (Imagine the gall!) I have opinions Well thought and articulated I will speak them Still
Kae Tempest (formerly Kate Tempest) — Source: scenestr.com
I’m a new fan of Kae Tempest, an English spoken word performer, poet, recording artist, novelist, and playwright — a great performer by any measure.
— kenne
People’s Faces
[Verse 1] It’s coming to pass, my country’s coming apart The whole thing’s becoming such a bumbling farce Was that a pivotal historical moment we just went stumbling past? Well, here we are, dancing in the rumbling dark So come a little closer, give me something to grasp Give me your beautiful, crumbling heart Another disaster, catharsis Another half-discarded mirage Another mask slips I face off with the physical My head’s ringing from the love of the stars There is too much pretense here Too much depends on the fragile wages And extortionate rents here We’re working every dread day that is given us Feeling like the person people meet really isn’t us Like we’re gonna buckle underneath the trouble Like any minute now, the struggle’s going to finish us And then we smile at all our friends (Click Here for all Verses)
Sabino Creek — Ash From The Bighorn Fire — Image by kenne
It happens that I get tired of revolutionary cafes and peacock poets of narcissistic reflexives and the songs of the deaf.
It happens that I am terrified by this hardened generation that rushes out in search of absolutes fashions names and blasphemies, doctrinizes on the pros and cons of armed struggle, and meditates, with a beer in its hand and a sour cry on its lips on the cadavers of others
Who are we? Those same parishioners perhaps who come and go indifferent along the streets on the Day of the Dead with our hands full of death’s-head cakes and our hearts in ashes.
Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, — both what they half-create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.
— from Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour by William Wordsworth
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