Tag Archives: poetry

155. Red and Green (Aesthetics Conclusions)

red and green colours

We have seen over the past few weeks how beauty catches us unawares, how it is not always formulaic, but often inexplicably pleasing. The placement of a twig, the angle of a wing, the colour of a vase, the texture of fruit, there are unending variables in the science of aesthetics. The researchers tell us that the juxtaposition of red and green is particularly pleasing to the human mind, and we are coming on to look at colours as our next theme. A lot of products take advantage of such pleasure psychology, as does all the photo manipulation that goes on in advertising. But the truth is that there are very few things that we cannot, with some altering of perspective and a little metanoia, shifting of thought, find pleasing to the eye. Even the conventionally “ugly” person may have a smile that lights up the world, and just as we have to relearn our own loveliness, maybe we also need to reteach ourselves the loveliness of others.

text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017 Poem below, which I absolutely love © Galway Kinnell from his website http://galwaykinnell.com/books/poetry/body-rags/poem-1/

 

Saint Francis and the Sow by Galway Kinnell

 

The bud

stands for all things,

even those things that don’t flower,

for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;

though sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on its brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;

as St. Francis

put his hand on the creased forehead

of the sow, and told her in words and in touch

blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow

began remembering all down her thick length,

from the earthen snout all the way

through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of

the tail,

from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine

down through the great broken heart

to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering

from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking

and blowing beneath them:

the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

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101. Extrovert/Introvert (Juxtaposition 1)

101

So for the next fortnight we move on to a new aspect of seeing. This is juxtaposition, where putting or finding two things next to one another highlights the difference and gives strength to both. These two muppets couldn’t be more different. Sat side by side, the meekness of Beaker and the energy of Animal become even more powerful. This could be a photo of myself and my husband, for although he is an introvert too, he has been known to play in death metal bands and frequent the odd mosh pit or two, whereas I am rather less adventurous! Fortunately the two of them seem to share a love of poetry.

text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

32. Plath (hope)

plath

It might seem odd to see hope in poetry written by someone who took her own life, but for me it shows that however low we feel, or how insignificant we might think we are, we still may have created beauty that will outlast us. We may not have all written poetry, but we may well have spoken a kindness, given a smile or expressed an encouragement into another person’s life, that had a great impact. It is our small actions, as well as our seemingly large ones, that change lives. And Plath’s work has given hope and meaning to a great many readers. Beauty, however sad or even difficult, always improves the world.

Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

 

Landscape of Love 97: Churchyard

97 graveyard-1417871_1280 drippycat pixabay

Ancient of Days, yew circles the holy ground and stands sacred guard. Her hollowness disguises fullness, and even her dank rotten places are teeming with abundant life; jewelled scarabs and luminescent fungi adorn the lightning wounds and tend the darkness. Toothed fort of the dead, domino headstones re-etched by lichen look ready to fall after centuries of marking mounds of mourning. And life, undeterred, springs up in grasses and buttercups, golden grails full of dew, bluebells ringing out the hours, a carpet of prayer covering the crypt.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

161: Wasteland

162 wasteland xandert mf

Dull and dun, dusty and drab, somewhere for the forgotten to linger and know they belong, hands in worn pockets, facing the bracing wind. Rusting girders and cracked concrete foundations poke up through the soil here and there, skeletal reminders that this corner too was once conquered by borders and framework, but now lost to civilization.

A place for cast-off words mumbled sotto voce, crunched and thrown by the poet, missing the mark, discarded and forgotten, blown by the wind, tumbleweed verses skipping across brown and worn-down earth. A new dance of contemporary chaos, watched only by a mangy vixen sheltering under a billowing tarpaulin, both greyed by time, waiting for the inevitably unexpected new thing that will rise.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016