No vacancies?

Journal page from the heart

I am shamelessly stealing/borrowing this poetry from both Ange and Rumi. Written by the latter, I found it on the former's blog and it sang to me a tune of recognition.

This human being is a guest house. 

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Rumi

It has been a busy period in this particular 'guest house' - high season for visiting emotions. Some seem to have set up home, while others flit in and out with no regard for reservation or planning. When the Sorrows come to stay with naughty children Depression and Mope they are usually bent on taking over the place, filling every nook and cranny with their dreary moods. They are not the most profitable of house guests that's for sure as they leech productivity and cast a weariness over all in their path. They play mournful tunes and spend too much time in bed. How am I supposed to change the sheets when they are weighing them down?

Fortunately I do believe they are thinking about leaving. I dropped a few hints - like printing out their invoice and packing their suitcases and they sense a shift in my once subconscious welcoming attitude towards them. You see, I've had an enquiry from Joy and Gratitude. They are desperate for a visit and let's face it, who wouldn't open their doors to these moments of sunshine?

Twas brillig

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Lewis Carroll

When you wish to paint creatures of the imagination, I think it helps to let loose yours. A Jabberwock sounds a fearful spiny creature that creeps into nightmares to wreck havoc. I was too scared to paint one so I let it paint itself. I dripped and closed the book with a slam then ran... Look what slithered and slid onto the page while my back was turned. Long may it stay there ... I'm off to sketch a vorpal sword...

For Inspiration Avenue's Poetry challenge (and some experimental art homework).

Makes you wonder how Mr Carroll 'experimented' when he wrote Through the Looking Glass...?

Serendipity

I love that word, both the meaning and the sound - seeren-dippidy doo dah.

Yes, well, moving on... So, here I am thinking creative thoughts and pondering trying something new. In my mind is a collage of texture and words, colour, movement. From this mixing bowl of the imagination springs a fairy cake called poetry. Dashing to the bookshelf, I make a grab for The Nation's Favourite Poems and open randomly at pages 46-47. A poem sits on each page waiting to be chosen. The first glance (page 47) does not look too good. Anthem for doomed youth (Owen). No doubt a first class piece of literature, but frankly the mood I'm in, I need cheering up and allowing the horrors of war to leap off the page laden with tragedy at me is not good for the soul today. In a panic (because I was convinced this ruse was going to be incredibly creative), I turn to the verso page (see the printing experience behind me!).

Who is waiting? What pleasures await the senses? Why none other than a fine gentleman by the name of Rudyard Kipling. In Victorian times was there a celebrity baby-naming fad akin to that which we suffer in the 21st century? Named after a lake, we should perhaps be grateful that his famous cake-making parents* did not spend their summers at Bodensee (aka Lake Constance), for at least Rudyard is a suitably masculine sounding name.

Seeing as this is starting to sound like a Ronnie Corbett monologue, I should perhaps get to the point. Cop an eyeful of this:

From 'The way through the woods'

Yet if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods...
But there is no road through the woods.

Ah, now if ever there was some inspiration to be had to a potential fantasy fiction writer then there we have it. Already my characters are lost in the tangled vines of the forest, seeking a trail hidden for centuries yet regularly traversed. They feel but cannot see the presence of others, not knowing if they are merely hidden or from a different time. What songs do the trees whisper? What brushes so gently against the skin that only the instinct can sense? The air is alive with the crackle of magic, anticipation as thick as treacle. What mysteries lie in wait, what treasures twinkle in the twilight?


*Before anyone writes in disgusted at my lack of literary knowledge, I am fully aware that Rudyard Kipling's parents did not make cakes commercially. I am not even sure if they made them domestically, but why let the truth get in the way of a good piece of writing. Perhaps I should get a job at one of the tabloids? In fact Alice and Lockwood(!) Kipling were respectively a 'vivacious woman' and a sculptor/potter. It would be nice to be simply described as vivacious I think...