Kindness is a daisy I thank heaven for.
Art is an act of generosity parting the darkness and letting the light in.
Music is a gift of love from one to another.
May the songs forever be sung.
Poetry is a never ending conversation between friends.
Dance is an act of grace from the heart, compassion an open palm.
Love is an oak, its roots sunk deep into the earth.
If each human being be a masterpiece made in the image of the Creator,
when the song of another is violently shortened by a fellow traveller,
blasphemy is done.
The world is blue and green, brown and red with a sun in the sky.
With a moon to share and rainbows after the rain,
we are all so blessed.
There’s an oak in my back yard and a cat on my porch.
The birds are chirping and butterflies dancing.
Isn’t it all so grand?
Mary Chapin Carpenter, “The Age of Miracles”.
my cat seldom meows
she hums for she has mastered
the secret of being cat
Once a week on Friday, Uncle Bardie celebrates the creativity in others by shining a Spotlight on a movie, a song or a creator. This week’s Spotlight Creator is the poet, Derek Walcott:
Derek Walcott on writing and painting.
Oh, what a beautiful language we have, this English. We strip it and we tear it down, we ignore it and abuse it and lose a bit of it along the way. It not only survives. It rises like a phoenix and soars. Especially when it is in the hands of a poet. William Shakespeare was that kind of poet, and Seamus Heaney too. So was Derek Walcott.
Derek Walcott was an island man, so he gave us islands and the sea. He showed us that poetry could rise out of the least of places. That it was possible for a black man from a very small place could become a great poet. And he did it with this magnificent language of ours.
In honor of National Poetry Month, I shall be doing my poetry thing each Sunday in April.
“Be good to Sylvia. Always,”
Mrs. Plath said to son-in-law Ted.
It was a curse he carried
with him when the tide dragged him
out to sea and back toward home,
a firmer ground from which he drew
his inspiration, and Sylvia did not.
When she died, he became a man drifting,
drifting on a cold-hearted sea
of bad press, his lifeboat leaking.
It was the curse.
Funny how words can wound.
He took them in
day in and day out. One day
his boat sank, and he too died,
the words on his gravestone always to be:
the man who killed Sylvia Plath,