Tag Archives: Joanna Lee

Asgard: ‘Warriors and Ravens 1/5’ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

13 Nov

World Tree Norse

The Nine Realms

9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Asgard

Featuring:

Tom Murphy, Joanna Lee, James Knight, Nat Hall

 

Asgard

by Tom Murphy

.

on the first night I was called by the jackdaw
tapping on the sill after the moon went dark
“fly” she said, and I was able to follow
a cold night but I soared
over the meadow
into the wood
across the bridge

I saw bodies hanging in the tree
the nine lives offered
the snake
the wolf
the elk
the hare
the frog
the cat
the fox
the calf

by the fire
the old man sat
a circle already prepared
so deep was his look
he saw my birth
through my left eye

.

.

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All the world needs is another dumb princess

by Joanna Lee

 

Jpeg All the World by Joanna Lee

 

Click on the poem to enlarge. 

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To find out more about the back-story to this poem click here.

 

 Ymir

by James Knight

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Ymir used to be a big nothing;
Now he’s everything. 

His hair is the grass, the trees, the reeds
His scalp is the desert
His skull is the empty vault of space
His brain is telecommunications
His skin is a reality made of matter and mirages
His forehead is the Ten Commandments
His eyebrows are lethargy and a thousand easy lies
His eyelashes are the meshes of love
His eyes are stars, supernovas, lightbulbs, fireworks, napalm, nuclear war
His ears are the remains of imaginary animals 
His nose is a sad farewell
His nostrils are wormholes to another dimension where the Bird King reigns from his electric throne
His lips are a debate on the meaning of the word “jihad”
His teeth are Coca Cola
His tongue is mother of all languages 
His cheeks are zoology
His chin is Mount Olympus 
His neck is an execution at dawn
His shoulders are art installations attempting controversy through the juxtaposition of childhood and terrorism 
His arms are escape routes to Hell
His hands are bird cages or prison cells or holding bays or rooms without doors 
His chest is archaeology 
His ribcage is the phantom city at dusk
His heart is time
His lungs are the four winds, weather, disaster
His abdomen is sentiment
His digestive system is a labyrinth of corridors and offices 
His hips are cemeteries
His genitals are every whimsical thought anyone has ever had
His legs are mannequins staring murderously at passersby
His feet are oceans. 

The rest of Ymir remains uncatalogued
In boxes 
In a basement 
Under the ruins of a building
Forgotten by the story-tellers.

.

.

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Title Jpeg

(Superstition)

by Nat Hall

.

Feel flight feathers & falcon’s skin.

Now walk through clouds, realm of Æsir,
where ravens perch on primal
strand of the rainbow;
where rain falls red
and Mjollnir *
sleeps –
he
who
wears blue
will not be seen as the shaman,
but a rider extraordinaire –
Huginn & Muninn**
side by side,
birds of
battle wish for
wisdom.
Rumour rambles
inside gods’ dreams, he
who controls the many moods of
heavens’ eyes, fruits of
the Earth and fights
giants, can be
called in the name of law,
farming men frown to his chariot…
Skygods in mighty citadel,
home inside halls, walls built by a tricked
gigantic mason,
there is a sly one among them –
he might just be a half-brother, metamorphic,
so fair of face, unafraid to turn a
stallion, hides black inside.
And if you doubt
superstition,
wait for the slain,
flames, ferryman – hear
valkyries*** run on
floorboards,
stand
on
other side of
the shore.

Now let gods gaze at the cauldron.

Let them drink tides of golden
mead brewed for them in
the sea god’s hall.
From his high
seat at
Valaskjalf*.
He, mighty seer, surveys it all in the nine realms.

© Nat Hall 2014

.

1 * Mjollnir: Thor’s hammer;’** Huginn & Muninn: Odin’s ravens – Huginn (thought) & Muninn (Memory)
2 ***Valkyries: Odin’s twelve maidens who conducted the slain warriors of their choice from the battlefield to
Valhalla (Vikings’ paradise). Valaskjalf: Odin’s Hall

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You can read the overview of Asgard here

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Find out more about Tom, Joanna, James and Nat here:

Tom Murphy

https://twitter.com/sandcave

Joanna Lee

http://the-tenth-muse.com/

https://twitter.com/la_poetessa

James Knight

http://thebirdking.com/

http://chimeragroup.wordpress.com/

https://twitter.com/badbadpoet

Nat Hall

http://nordicblackbird.weebly.com/

https://twitter.com/nordicblackbird

 

Watch out for more Asgard poetry next week!

As always, thank you for your interest. 

The Found Poetry Collaboration #4, featuring: Lydia Allison, Kate Garrett, James Gidding, Joanna Lee

24 Apr

Words

The Found Poetry Collaboration 2014

For the last 4 weeks poets Lydia Allison, Kate Garrett, James Giddings and Joanna Lee have been writing 1 piece of found poetry per fortnight:

A found poem is created when words in an existing piece of writing are lifted from that writing and rearranged to create a greater emotional response. A found poem is shaped from a collection of words or phrases found in one text or a selection of texts to shape an entirely new poem.  

The poets were free to use any texts they like, and I  have thrown in one found text of my choice per fortnight just to mix it up a bit. For the Week 4 poem I chose a section from a  novel by Iain Banks called ‘The Bridge’ (you’ll find the section at the bottom of the post, should you wish to read it). 

 

the physiology of bursting

by Joanna Lee

 

a threshold is not a point
down-river,
a huge handless clockface
formed by stone-remembered
rooms full of whispering
glass. test the walls,
no matter how close.
the thick, white-
tiled passages
converge like
fast current: rapt &
rusted. lightwells hold
to the saddle,
to the boundary defining
a patient shadow
cleaning a window full
of the damp footfall’ed equilibria
who refuse to leave.
if the precise initial condition
is a cradle’s pulse,
small perturbations
will certainly push
the limit cross grimed flags
to one side or the other.
find the keyholes.
dust the hinges.
walk spiking and
of great length. glow.

 

found from
a section of The Bridge by Iain Banks

and

Dynamical Systems in Neuroscience: The Geometry of Excitability and Bursting by Eugene M. Izhikevich. Section 4.3.2: “Stable/Unstable Manifolds”

.

To leave the cradle

by Kate Garrett

.

I ran away and joined a group of gypsies
pawned silver beneath apple hung branches
safe from respectable society, and wrapped
forged letters in half a Romany scarf. I had
a lover of uncertain temper, no greater rogue –

he rubbed gunpowder into his wounds,
twisted, like a shipwrecked smallpox victim.
His sins caused this plague. Our rickety
dwelling sold, his throat cut. I was taken
by wandering monks from the tangled woodland.

I cheated the hangman’s noose
not once but three times –
between stone-remembered messages
my ghost haunts many places: open moor,
wild heathland, ancient passages,
a patch of light in a house called maudlin.

.

Source texts:
The Bridge by Iain Banks
Strange Stories from Devon by Rosemary Ann Lauder & Michael Williams
Cornwall: Land of Legend by Joy Wilson

.

 The earth

by Lydia Allison

.

Beneath the ancient age-grimed flags,
between the niches
its sheer physical variety is dry and open.

Stone-officials, whispering clerks,
pass under a complex jigsaw.
Dim white-tiled lightwells,
rickety cross-corridors,
keyholes whose floors are deep in dust.

Test the doors, the hinges.
Living and non-living matter.
Living things are thinly scattered,
they fill the space.
A corridor. A large round patch of light
glows ahead, broadens out.
The air, I’d swear, forming
complex webs of life.

A length of wall which ought to hold
lush forests, mountains, rainfall.
The patch of floor has a rainshadow
I don’t recall.

I reach the great round river
polishing the glass with a rag.

.

Texts:

Animal ed. David Burnie (2001) p.36

The Bridge by Iain Banks (1990) p.131

 

In The Café Of The Airport Next To My Psychiatrist’s

by James Giddings

.

My wife is having an affair; it doesn’t feel like I thought
it would: rooms full of whispering, our telepathy
losing signal behind tall pot-plants, our shouting at each other
with the volume stuck on full. The carpet squelches
with each footfall. ‘Life is what you make it,’ the scratchy
tannoy says.  ‘Life’s a beautiful thing and there’s so much
to smile about.’ Mr. Johnson stirs confetti into his coffee,
swallows a stale sandwich. Dr Joyce’s patient cleans
a patch of light on the window, polishes the shadow
from the glass at its centre with a rag. The air smells damp.
I drink so much my mouth tastes of pencils. ‘Over here Don
broke up with Emily for the second time; they were eating
omelettes with dry bread, sucking on cigarettes.’ Pretty much
all of them are going to break your heart: the atheist
in his chinos and well-fitted salmon shirt, the novelist
with her red-brick pencil skirt, her lap you want to nervously
rest your head on; how, in the light rain, they both love
and fail at everything. Just remember, some come, some go.
When her plane takes off my head swells; the weightless
moment usually makes her think about snow-globes,
white sugar landing softly, as if on the moon; she thinks
about sex, my hands being dropped ticket stubs fumbling
for loose change in a train station. She thinks about pancakes,
dreams rooftops on the seabed. She is submerging herself
in the pool of the pilots voice, how a toad might in cold water.
I deserve so much less than you. Don’t give up, Sweetie.

Extracts from:

The Bridge – Iain Banks
The Flat Battery of Flattery – Luke Kennard
The sunken Diner – Luke Kennard
Quote – Marilyn Monroe
.

 To find out more about Lydia, Kate, James and Joanna please visit:

.

Lydia Allison:

http://lydiaallison.wordpress.com/

https://twitter.com/LydiaAllison13

Kate Garrett:

http://www.kategarrettwrites.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/kate_garrett

James Giddings:

https://jamesgiddings.jux.com/

https://twitter.com/giddingstweets

Joanna Lee:

http://the-tenth-muse.com/

https://twitter.com/la_poetessa

.

Sadly the found poetry collaboration with Lydia, Kate, James and Joanna has concluded  but without a doubt you will be seeing them again in future collaborations on ArtiPeeps. It’s been a pleasure to work with all 4 of the foundlings. 

Tomorrow, you’ll find our Weekend Showcase featuring singer Beth Allen.  As always, thank you for your interest.

If you missed out on the previous found poems you can find them here.

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*Full text of the piece I sent the foundlings:

I walk beneath the ancient, age-grimed flags, between the niches occupied by stone-remembered officials, past rooms full of whispering, smartly uniformed clerks. I cross dim, white-tiled lightwells on rickety cross-corridors, peer through keyholes into locked, dark, deserted passages whose floors are inches deep in dust and debris. I test the doors, but the hinges have rusted.
Finally, I come to a familiar corridor. A large round patch of light glows on the carpet ahead, where the corridor broadens out. The air smells damp; I’d swear the thick, dark carpet squelches with each footfall. I can see tall pot-plants now, and a length of wall which ought to hold the entrance to the L-shaped lift. The patch of light on the floor has a shadow in the centre of it which I don’t recall. The shadow moves.
.
I reach the light. The great round window is there, still staring down-river like a huge handless clock-face. The shadow is cast by Mr Johnson. Dr Joyce’s patient who refuses to leave the cradle. He is cleaning a window, polishing the glass at its centre with a rag, an expression of rapt concentration on his face. (131, published by Abacus, 1990)

 

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The Found Poetry Collaboration #3, featuring: Lydia Allison, Kate Garrett, James Gidding, Joanna Lee

8 Apr

Words

The Found Poetry Collaboration 2014

For the next 4 weeks poets Lydia Allison, Kate Garrett, James Giddings and Joanna Lee will be writing 1 piece of found poetry per fortnight:

A found poem is created when words in an existing piece of writing are lifted from that writing and rearranged to create a greater emotional response. A found poem is shaped from a collection of words or phrases found in one text or a selection of texts to shape an entirely new poem.  

The poets are free to use any texts they like, and I throw in one found text of my choice per fortnight just to mix it up a bit. For the Week 3 poem I chose a section from a  short story by Hermann Hesse called ‘Strange News From Another Star’ (you’ll find the section at the bottom of the post, should you wish to read it). 

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Living Without The Bright Gods

by James Giddings

.

He just couldn’t deal with love, didn’t know how
to love us, too fucked up, wearing pink shoes and asking

for money, mystery. It seemed to him altogether too painful
to answer, and all the same laughable and silly; our prayers

in all their boring pageantry, our shining fashion of errands,
receipts and dirty dishes. I want a life that pops and sizzles:

I want to eat ripe tomatoes, sing out loud in the car with the windows open, paint my walls the exact same colour of the sky right now.

I’ve begun worshipping the sun. I formerly offered it a weeping
madonna, the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll, the cold tangerines

from the fridge. Greeting cards tell us that everybody deserves
love. No. Not all the time. Everybody deserves clean water.

.

Created using extracts from:

– Hermann Hesse, Strange News From Another Star
― Shauna Niequist, Cold Tangerines: Celebrating the Extraordinary Nature of Everyday Life
– Zadie Smith, White Teeth
– George Carlin, Brain Droppings

.

knight of cups

by Kate Garrett

.

this knight
is a troubadour
brings madness
of emotion
with the grace
of a fish.

this star
is an experience:
self-contained
dread of error
questioning the path
of the heart.

this sorrow
is laughable
your waking life
a lower order –
warmhearted mischance
of physical love.

.
source texts: 

Hermann Hesse, ‘Strange News from Another Star’ (37-38)
Trish MacGregor & Phyllis Vega, Power Tarot (‘Knight of Cups’ 102-103)

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pi e zo elec tric i ty

noun:  electricity due to pressure, especially in a crystalline substance

by Joanna Lee

.

–they slew one another in masses

 

In astonishment at death, youth
muscles its pathway out
from deep and terrible sorrow.
Its spinal cord cleft by

passively composed spikes,
it is desensitized to
the way of life on this cruel star,
to equilibrium clamped

by the dread of bright gods,
to the vivid currents of disturbing
and volatile things
that saturate the retina. And yet

the laughable output of a single
neuron is enough to affect
the whole body, to ask bitterly
in the dark the crucial why.
Under physiological confessions,
madness is shining still,
a compelling anesthetic
to the real, evolved, pain of failure.

.

text from “Strange News From Another Star” by Hermann Hesse and Molecular and Cellular Physiology of Neurons by Gordon L. Fain, chapter 10, “Inhibitory Transmission.”

.

the youth

by Lydia Allison

.

the young man listened, astounded
at the madness and difficulty
the sadness and gravity
in the people.

he had a sense that he knew
he would never grasp
the complex context
of these terrifying, terrible, obscure,
dark things.
he felt no desire,
no wish to understand.

these sorrowful, pitiable people were creatures,
creatures of a lower order,
they had not been blessed by bright
gods. the light of the gods .
they were ruled by demons, some mischance,
mishap, some horrid error.
the course of life seemed too painful.

He was sorry for these, who lived
in dread of death
lived in gloom and killed and slew each other.
ignoble faces, crude
expressions of deep, terrible sorrow
caused him pain.
their disturbing shining fashion
almost ridiculous, almost laughable –
ridiculous and disturbing, laughable and silly
shameful and foolish.

.

* I have used the provided text, along with a different translation of the same story, “Strange news from another planet” from The Fairytales of Hermann Hesse, translated by Jack Zipes (1995: Bantam Books)

 —

 To find out more about Lydia, Kate, James and Joanna please visit:

.

Lydia Allison:

http://lydiaallison.wordpress.com/

https://twitter.com/LydiaAllison13

Kate Garrett:

http://www.kategarrettwrites.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/kate_garrett

James Giddings:

https://jamesgiddings.jux.com/

https://twitter.com/giddingstweets

Joanna Lee:

http://the-tenth-muse.com/

https://twitter.com/la_poetessa

.

Lydia, Kate, James and Joanna will be back on  Thursday 24th April with their last pieces of found poetry. Tomorrow, you’ll find Ben Cooper our creative resident with another piece of his work.  Thank you for your interest. 

If you missed out on the previous found poems you can find them here.

.

*Full text of the piece I sent the foundlings:

The youth listened to all this in astonishment at the madness and difficulty of the people’s way of life on this star. He would have liked to ask many more questions, but he knew with certainty that he would never understand the whole context of these dark and terrifying things; indeed, he felt no real wish to understand them.  Either these pitiable creatures belonged to a lower order, were still without the bright gods and were ruled by demons, or some unique mischance, some horrid error, prevailed on this star. And it seemed to him altogether too painful and cruel to go on questioning this king, compelling him to answers and confessions which could only be bitterly humiliating. These people who lived in the dark dread of death and yet slew one another in masses, whose faces were composed with such ignoble coarseness as that of the farmer or with such deep and terrible sorrow as that of the King, they caused him pain, and yet in their disturbing and shining fashion they seemed to him so strange as to be almost laughable, laughable and silly. (Strange News From Another Star and Other Stories, Penguin Twentieth Century Classics, 37-38).

The Found Poetry Collaboration #2, featuring: Lydia Allison, Kate Garrett, James Gidding, Joanna Lee

24 Mar

Words

The Found Poetry Collaboration 2014

For the next 4 weeks poets Lydia Allison, Kate Garrett, James Giddings and Joanna Lee will be writing 1 piece of found poetry per fortnight:

A found poem is created when words in an existing piece of writing are lifted from that writing and rearranged to create a greater emotional response. A found poem is shaped from a collection of words or phrases found in one text or a selection of texts to shape an entirely new poem.  

The poets are free to use any texts they like, and I throw in one found text of my choice per fortnight just to mix it up a bit. For the Week 2 poem I chose a section of a  letter from a former patient of Jung quoted in Anthony Storr’s Solitude (you’ll find the section at the bottom of the post, should you wish to read it). 

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on the pathology of nihilism

by Joanna Lee

.

with clammy skin the heart cascades
much as a mass of cold knowledge
falls from the gut: septic, humoral,

jugular; a clot of air in the lungs blue-
highlighted with the less
clinically obvious algorithms

of life. i titrate swelling
mortality with strokes of fever,
and ought accept the loss i was,

a distal necessary pulse
with a dropped
mask and muscled jaw.

forever is a bedside curve
of sun and shadow, not
as i wanted it to be but

dissolved to a heavier,
taller, younger equilibration.
only fools demand nothing.

i could never have imagined
our thrust was the resuscitation
of ordinary activities such

as breathing, to force
reality like a balloon
into the femoral vein,

precisely keeping
the bleeding quiet but
biochemically alive.

.

Text from

part of a letter from a patient of Carl Jung, quoted in Solitude by Anthony Storr and Fundamentals of Surgery by John E. Niederhuber, chapter 15, “Shock and Resuscitation,” by Adam Siever, MD

.

Out of evil

by Lydia Allison

.

much good has come to me
quiet, attentive, accepting

reality – they are, and not to be
such as could before.
When we accepted things they overpowered us.

I intend to play in this way accepting everything.
What I was:
force, thought.

Keeping nothing remaining,
taking things as I want them,
doing all this – unusual knowledge,

unusual powers I have imagined.
I always thought in some way or other
to be true towards the game

of life – receptive whatever –
good, bad, sun, shadow – forever,
my nature side’s alive.

Fool! How I tried
to go according to the way
I ought to.

.

*Created solely from the words from Jung’s letter.

.

I’m the girl who is lost in space

by James Giddings

.

forever fading away by keeping quiet,
by accepting reality and taking things
as they are: some party someplace, or

some picnic in the park, the Soviet Union.
Ideas and feelings are fast and frequent
as shooting stars. The fast ideas

are far too fast, and unusual knowledge
has come to me; the right words and gestures
are suddenly there like the Cheshire cat:

the warm artificial smile, clownish curve,
the kind you see on villains in Disney movies.
You find interests in uninteresting people.

I intend to play the game of life – sun and shadow
forever alternating – everything more alive.
You never knew those caves were there.

.

Texts:

Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation
Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness
Part of a letter from a patient of Carl Jung, quoted in Solitude by Anthony Storr

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Transmitters

by Kate Garrett

.

unusual knowledge
overpowered me
in darkness –

receptive to evil
i can’t tell
the difference.

sun/shadow
good/bad
alternating forever

in a cage
with a wire screen
hallucinate effigies

to starve your beauty.
beware the first
principle of anti-choice:

bland words, no life,
accepting torn sex
as your birthright.

 

.

Poem – title included – created solely from words found in an extract from Solitude by Anthony Storr, and the songs ‘No Love Lost’ by Joy Division & ‘PCP’ by Manic Street Preachers.

.

…….

 To find out more about Lydia, Kate, James and Joanna please visit:

.

Lydia Allison:

http://lydiaallison.wordpress.com/

https://twitter.com/LydiaAllison13

Kate Garrett:

http://www.kategarrettwrites.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/kate_garrett

James Giddings:

https://jamesgiddings.jux.com/

https://twitter.com/giddingstweets

Joanna Lee:

http://the-tenth-muse.com/

https://twitter.com/la_poetessa

.

Lydia, Kate, James and Joanna will be back on Tuesday 8th April  with some more great found poetry. Tomorrow, you’ll find Poet Lauren Coulson’s final poem in her nest series (with audio).  Thank you for your interest. 

If you missed out on the first round of found poems you can find them here.

.

*Full text of the piece I sent the foundlings:

Out of evil, much good has come to me. By keeping quiet, repressing nothing, remaining attentive, and by accepting reality-taking things as they are, and not as I wanted them to be- by doing all this, unusual knowledge has come to me, and unusual powers as well, such as I could never have imagined before. I always thought that when we accepted things they overpowered us in some way or other. This turns out not to be true at all, and it is only by accepting them that one can assume an attitude towards them. So now I intend to play the game of life, being receptive to whatever comes to me, good or bad, sun and shadow forever alternating, and, in this way, also accepting my own nature with its positive and negative sides. Thus everything becomes more alive to me. What a fool I was. How I tried to force everything to go according to the way I thought it ought to! (195)

The Found Poetry Collaboration #1, featuring: Lydia Allison, Kate Garrett, James Gidding, Joanna Lee

10 Mar

Words

The Found Poetry Collaboration 2014

For the next 8 weeks poets Lydia Allison, Kate Garrett, James Giddings and Joanna Lee will be writing 1 piece of found poetry per fortnight:

A found poem is created when words in an existing piece of writing are lifted from that writing and rearranged to create a greater emotional response. A found poem is shaped from a collection of words or phrases found in one text or a selection of texts to shape an entirely new poem.  

The poets are free to use any texts they like, and I throw in one found text of my choice per fortnight just to mix it up a bit. For the Week 1 poem I chose a section of text from W.G. Sebald’s The Ring’s Of Saturn (you’ll find the section at the bottom of the post, should you wish to read it). 

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…….rings

by Lydia Allison

.

walls hung with copper masks,
hand-coloured and perhaps untouched

………….wear it: bankers, investors,
……………………people who believe in symbolism 

………….plaster blotches moth-eaten
………….a ghost bowed by sorrows

colourless, pink, blue,
………….green, champagne,

there are moments, through rooms
sure of the shores or the heart

…………..the symbolism is clear:
there is only one

…………..the dark continent.
…………..say which decade for ages co-exist

.

note: I have used The Rings of Saturn text, along with texts from three sites about wedding ring stone meanings. Here are the links:

http://www.beau-coup.com/blog/wedding-attire/the-meaning-behind-colored-gemstone-engagement-rings

http://www.ringswithlove.com/gemstones/gemstone-names-colors-meanings-characteristics/

http://www.myloveweddingring.com/engagement-ring-guide.html

—-

On Tea & Sympathy

by Kate Garrett

.

The walls are hung
with rich violet hues.
The Queen of Tulips
fills copper kettles:
green tea, freshly
brewed by an artist,
calms your senses.

The exquisite flowers,
mottled with scarlet
& purple blotches
lift your spirits
into a realm hand-
coloured by Modernism –

a country house
for healing,
some kind of no-man’s-land,
luscious, depending
on which blossoms
the bees have buzzed.

The yellowish air
filling the dark night
brings your fantasies alive –
the Emblem of Love,
a ghost bowed by sorrows,
enveloping you, helps
the ages co-exist.

.

*Written using only words from the text provided (extract from The Rings of Saturn by W.G. Sebald) and various scent descriptions on twelve boxes of Tulasi incense sticks (see photo).

.

incense found poetry

The Rings

by James Giddings

.

After what feels like two thousand years
in the heart of the dark continent, I find you
under the shores of the Arctic Ocean. 
I dig
and dig until the mottled, moth-eaten fur
of your stuffed polar bear springs up in its red felt
African mask; the coloured faces of artist’s portraits
yellowish with bedpan-relief. You must have passed
through the rooms to heaven, or to a country house
in Suffolk. You ask me to stay and no one can say
which decade or century it is; I know this is the afterlife
your body, half a wedding-suit, lost in the shadows.

.

*Found poem. Created from bits of the following:
The Rings of Saturn by W.G. Sebald
Salmon by Pascale Petit
The Second Husband by Pascale Petit

notes on cardiac physiology

by Joanna Lee

.

hung with bedpans and hussars’ sabres the human heart
has a discriminative touch.

mottled scarlet, it routes a solitary pathway
across continents, Oceans, losses.

the profound shores of forehead, scalp tongue
are excitatory ghosts bowed by sorrows,

safari trophies that include the entire body
of its dark.

The stuffed polar bear at its entrance stands yards tall.

it receives different blood by moment, tastes
red of serotonin, is spared no-man’s-land

by the lacrimal tearing of vessels.
it is intractable. it is artist. it is acute,

an arctic gag reflex with a visceral
trajectory but no position sense.

known to be a major circuit,
its fibers course through copper battles,

and may produce pain.

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*Found from:

 Neuroanatomy: An Atlas of Structures, Sections, and Systems, Fifth Edition, Sections 7-3 to 7-8: Sensory Pathways. by Duane E. Haines and The Rings of Saturn by W.G. Sebald.

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 To find out more about Lydia, Kate, James and Joanna please visit:

.

Lydia Allison:

http://lydiaallison.wordpress.com/

https://twitter.com/LydiaAllison13

Kate Garrett:

http://www.kategarrettwrites.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/kate_garrett

James Giddings:

https://jamesgiddings.jux.com/

https://twitter.com/giddingstweets

Joanna Lee:

http://the-tenth-muse.com/

https://twitter.com/la_poetessa

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Lydia, Kate, James and Joanna will be back on Monday 24th March with some more great found poetry. I’ve sent them their text just a moment ago. Tomorrow, you’ll find Millfield School’s first FreeSpace with a range of Short story openings from their pupils. Thank you for your interest. 

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*If you want to see the piece of text I sent the foundlings. Here it is:

The walls are hung with copper kettles, bedpans, hussars’ sabres. African masks, spears, safari trophies, hand-coloured engravings of Boer War battles- Battles of Pieters Hill and Relief of Ladysmith; A Bird’s Eye View from an Observation Balloon-and a number of family portraits painted perhaps some time between 1920 and 1960 by an artist not untouched by Modernism, the plaster coloured faces of the sitters mottled with scarlet and purple blotches. The stuffed polar bear in the entrance hall stands yards tall. With its yellowish and moth-eaten fur, it resembles a ghost bowed by sorrows. There are indeed moments, as one passes through the rooms open to the public at Somerlyton, when one is not quite sure whether one is in a country house in Suffolk or some kind of no-man’s-land, on the shores of the Arctic Ocean or in the heart of the dark continent. Nor can one readily say which decade or century it is, for many ages are superimposed here and co-exist. (35-36)

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