What Inspires Me: Alone by Poe

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Shared the following poem by Poe with a fellow creative and it touched her so much it brought tears to her eyes.

I wanted to share with her how succinctly Poe described feeling detached and separate from the world.

Its always been a favorite of mine as Poe was my first literary love and the first writer I became obsessed with.  He wooed me with his words of  romantic melancholy and showed me that the written word could evoke multitudes of emotions.

“Alone”

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
By Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry Month

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I’ve been writing lots of poetry in recent months due to being inspired by people and the world around me.  Things which have been bubbling to the surface and needing to breathe, have forced its way out.

April is poetry month and I have been actively participating in the Dirty Thirty (one poem every day for 30 days in April).

Truth be told, most of my work has been filled with profanities but this one was written whilst contemplating my parents and is one I would like to share with you:

Imperishable Stars

Imperishable Stars

Never to rise nor set

Your luminous hearts fixed

Watching in abject silence

Epithets eternally emblazoned

Within and upon your earthly kin

Eternally through the promised premise

Incandescent in dogging darkness

(C) T. Altman 2016

 

 

 

Inspiration: Ancient Egyptian Love Poem

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I will not self-edit… not for anyone or anything.

If my words displease you, its not my burden to carry but your own.

In some respects, at least I managed to bring up some kind of emotive response.

Perusing my pages, looking for signs and omens of what has been or will be.

Clues perceived between the lines is your own hypothesis.

What is conveyed and understood is your own perception.

That is what expression is and its my unapologetic art form.

T. Altman 2016

 

What Inspires Me: Poem by Maya Angelou

One of the first female poets I came across as a teen whom I connected with deeply was Maya Angelou.  Her words spoke to me then and they speak to me now….

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Still I Rise 

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

by Maya Angelou

Separating the Artist from the Art

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Its taken a while but I have learned to separate the art from the artist.  When it comes to artist’s work – its not about you and your perceptions of the creator but the work itself.

I used to project all my expectations on artists due to how I perceived them through their work, which ultimately they didn’t live up to because humans are fallible and not perfect (same goes for the rest of us).

I’m making this in reference to some of my favourite writers whose life choices, behaviours and personal feelings I do not agree with yet their artistry speaks to me.

For eg.  Lord Byron, a chronicled misogynist whose poems touch me, yet as a feminist his behaviour and comments towards women…not so much!

So next time you judge someone’s work because of their character – step back and separate yourself from it.  View it from a completely neutral perspective and who knows? You might like it!

Artists with a big black dog for a pet

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Was discussing poetry and other forms of artistic expression with one of my younger friends who “gets it” and during this to and fro, introduced her to one of my favorites which she’d never heard of before and I shared why I loved her and what called to me.  During the conversation I brought up how she took her own life like a few of my other favorite writers and realized most of my favorite artists have suffered from the big black dog.

For those of  you who are artists of any kind – take hope there is more of us than you realize and even though you feel alone, you’re not.  Dont give up!  Using art to express what you are going through is beneficial not for your own sanity but for those who drink from the water-bowl of the big black dog.

I came across this list on famous artists who struggled with the black dog’s barking and its a pretty good one. I do however feel they should of included some of my other favorites like Dylan Thomas, Anne Sexton, Tennessee Williams, Virginia Woolf and Emily Dickinson.

http://www.nursingschools.net/blog/2010/10/50-famous-artists-thinkers-who-have-struggled-with-depression/

What Inspires Me: Poem by Wordsworth

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Love Wordsworth and this sonnet which to me sings of a writers freedom yet being trapped…

Nuns fret not

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room; 
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels; 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, 
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: 
In truth the prison, into which we doom 
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, 
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound 
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground; 
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, 
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

W. Wordsworth