Dragonfly's Poetry & Prolixity

Sunday, December 18, 2011

BLANK BEAUTY
By Judith Pordon

Beautiful blank pages
kiss our
imaginations
with backgrounds
that demand precision.

Our black letters cross
on tightrope lines,
curving
without wavering
across deep, invisible currents.

These beautiful blank pages
are promises of our
reflections
Our gentlest strokes.

-------------------------------

"The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes." ~André Gide, Journals, 1894

----------------------------------

10 comments:

Ben Ditty said...: So I got the sleeping bags and smores. I'm camping in your head Inception style ;); December 18, 2011 at 5:45 PM
Mama Zen said...: Beautiful! Thank you for sharing this.; December 18, 2011 at 6:49 PM
Serena said...: Oh, this is just beautiful.
xox; December 18, 2011 at 9:09 PM
Marion said...: Ben, ROAD TRIP! LOL! Come on down and you can camp out in our spare bedroom. If not, the skeeters will carry you off outside, trust me. Even now they're out there waiting for me to crack the door open. Really, though, you're welcome to come visit any time. Annie's my reference that I'm not too looney tunes. Ha! Just give me a few weeks' notice to clean my house. If you do choose the head trip, be sure to let me what you found out. Are you by chance a psychiatrist? :-) xo

Mama Zen, glad you enjoyed the poem. I love poems about those frightening blank pages! Blessings! xo

SJ, thank you, dear. It fell out of an old book and I loved it so much I had to post it. I love when poems begin coming to me....literally. LOL! I hope you have a good, short pre-Christmas week!! xoxo; December 18, 2011 at 10:12 PM
Kelly said...: I love this! Makes me wish I could take a blank page and fill it with beauty.; December 19, 2011 at 6:52 PM
Wine and Words said...: I have always loved blank paper and sharp pencils. There is something so exciting about it...almost like the moment for orgasm. I love you my Marion!; December 20, 2011 at 11:05 AM
Ed Pilolla said...: something so rhythmical and pleasing about the sound of 'blank pages.'; December 20, 2011 at 10:01 PM
A guilty conscience said...: beside apprietiating your such a intese poem that mad me think deep......i loved your profile pic and so the blog title pic ...nice selection.; December 21, 2011 at 11:01 PM
Ben Ditty said...: Come back, Marion. I need more dragonflies. I need more poetry. I need more prolixity :(; December 24, 2011 at 3:50 AM
Ed Pilolla said...: merry christmas and happy holidays, marion:); December 25, 2011 at 11:43 AM

I Love Lorrie Moore!!

“You’re not a poetess, I hope,” said the English geologist next to her. “We had a poetess here last month, and things got a bit dodgy here for the rest of us.”

“Really.” After the soup, there was risotto with squid ink.

“Yes. She kept referring to insects as ‘God’s typos’ and then she kept us all after dinner one evening so she could read from her poems, which seemed to consist primarily of the repeating line ‘the hairy kiwi of his balls.’”

From: “Birds of America” by Lorrie Moore, page 266, ‘Terrific Mother’

Miranda July's Best Book:

"Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person's face as you pass on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky. It's okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise." From: "No One Belongs Here More Than You Stories by Miranda July", Page 11

A Dreamy, Drug of a Book

"The minute you land in New Orleans, something wet and dark leaps on you and starts humping you like a swamp dog in heat, and the only way to get that aspect of New Orleans off you is to eat it off. That means beignets and crayfish bisque and jambalaya, it means shrimp remoulade, pecan pie and red beans with rice, it means elegant pompano au papillote, funky file z'herbes, and raw oysters by the dozen, it means grillades for breakfast, a po' boy with chowchow at bedtime, and tubs of gumbo in between. It is not unusual for a visitor to the city to gain fifteen pounds in a week---yet the alternative is a whole lot worse. If you don't eat night and day, if you don't constantly funnel the indigenous flavors into your bloodstream, then the mystery beast will go right on humping you, and you will feel its sordid presence rubbing against you long after you have left town." ~Tom Robbins, "Jitterbug Perfume", page 240