Latest Entries »

Gather ye rosebuds!

Filed under: Poems — Leave a comment
23/11/2013

Having watched Aaron Sorkin use Robert Herrick’s To the Virgins, to make much of Time (“Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may”) in Newsroom:

and having followed up on the poem – I found the sentiment of the poem so disturbing that I had to rebut with more contemporary sentiments in a replacement poem.

(Don’t get me wrong, I love the way Sorkin writes, I love Newsroom so far – and like the way Sorkin embeds poetry and art into his works).

Here is Herrick’s original poem [http://www.bartleby.com/101/248.html]:

To the Virgins, to make much of Time / Robert Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,    
  Old Time is still a-flying:    
And this same flower that smiles to-day    
  To-morrow will be dying.    
 
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
  The higher he’s a-getting,    
The sooner will his race be run,    
  And nearer he’s to setting.    
 
That age is best which is the first,    
  When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst    
  Times still succeed the former.    
 
Then be not coy, but use your time,    
  And while ye may, go marry:    
For having lost but once your prime,
  You may for ever tarry.

This poem seems so prevalent in our day and society – although less for virgins as intended – sanctifying the Firsts (especially sexually) – I wish we were to encompass new stories to tell ourselves and the ones around us.

Gather Ye Rosebuds / Gil Shidlansik

Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may
From the ripe dreams in yonder field.
Pick thy heart’s desire for today
Leave the rest for another’s yield.

Choose thou a path, pursue it today
For dreams and love, once borne,
That wait for another time or day
Do not live to see the morn.

A first step begins all journeys long
Resolve is its sole component
Follow the song thy heart sings strong
The rest is less important.

Then be not coy, and use thy days –
And remember always to be merry!
Pursue thy love and dreams always,
Or with regret forever tarry.

Tags: , , , , , , , ,
Comment

The Heart

Filed under: Fiction — Leave a comment
26/06/2013

The heart’s beats are the song of the soul. Its continuous drumming is the persistent remembrance that life is precious. Our lives fill the silence which follows every heartbeat, and are stored therein.

The Ancients knew the connection the beating of our life’s drum had to the earth’s heartbeats, whose mediating silences are filled with the changing of the seasons and the passing of time.

The drums reminded us of that rhythm. The constant beating of the drum reminded us of basic truths – both of ourselves and of the world around us. It was a tool to align the three beats together, creating a conversation that words seldom convey, similar to the communication between a mother and the baby in her womb.

And drums told stories of healing and love. This drumming brought peace to the enraged mind; it brought answers to the worries of every-day life; and it brought a blessing to the village.

Drums and their usage was respected, and considered holy. I remember the nightly ceremonies where the beating of the drum directed the participants’ movements, just as other beatings timed everyone’s movements. I also remember the respect the drumming commanded, for it had a primal call within it, as an ancestor calling from beyond, whispering something into our lives.

I remember when people started telling stories of war with drums. The drumming reminded people the primal respect war requires, and brought the excitement war demands. Men of war wanted to control the drum, and through it control their people. The fervent wish, when the drumming quickened, that the warring will end faster, or that our soldiers would fight faster – as their actions were directed by the drums – was only partially answered.

And the beating of the drums in war resounded throughout the world, and the ancient respect of a holy tool it once commanded was replaced with a bloody one. Healers could not use it for healing, as it brought painful memories to the wounded in war. For the few ceremonies that were not related to war that survived the practitioners did not want to use the drum, lest their ceremony be mistaken for a provocative action.

Only outside war can the healing of the drum be heard. Only to one who listens within can find audience with their mother through the drum’s beating. Although the sacred art of drumming was left to the medicine women to remember, from generation to generation, the stories humanity will have to tell for their work to come to light once more are still far down the river of time.

Tags: , , , , , ,
Comment

Of Wizards – Part 1

Filed under: Fiction — 1 Comment
18/06/2013

He remembered his teacher’s lessons. He remembered them very well.
“Wizards share the blood of the ancient wyrms,” he was told repeatedly.

“What differentiates us from others is our ability to connect with that ancient ancestry, and tell our stories.”

The old wizard sat before his large mahagony desk, with many books piled before him, many of them sprawled open in a chaos only he can decipher, on his oaken chair with his staff leaning next to him, a steamy mug of tea hugged in his hands.

Recalling with the sour-sweet mixture of the warmth of love and the pain of learning, the old memories of his teacher came vividly to his mind.

“Words create” was the first great lesson he learned, and tirelessly perfected.

“Thoughts create” was his second great lesson, one learned with pain and reverence, as deep thoughts were unearthed and removed.

It was always pressed on to him that stories are all that is. The ancient dragons knew it, and spread their dreams across the elements. “What differentiates us wizards from the rest is our persistence in our storytelling” said the old master many, many times.

“What is required of you is persistence and focus,” his mentor said, “you must learn the rules of this world, and create stories which will chime best with those of ones greater than you – that is the only way your power will manifest itself.”

He was too young at the time to see the inherent caution that statement entailed.

Nevertheless, experience is often bought with mistakes, which in turn are bought with pain.

His mentor was never cruel to him. It was like shaping an image out of wood – many pieces need to be cut off for the creation to be complete. So did he need to study, believe and experience pain in order to carve anew his soul’s crystal.

Tags: , , , , ,
Comment

Reformations / Gil Shidlansik

Filed under: Poems — 2 Comments
09/01/2011

(Dedicated to Jasmin Laila Oren)

A story of reincarnation
Of our world’s age, new-born
Where Gabi talks with angels,
And Tral with aliens confers.
Where Spirits come to comfort
Those who yet not returned
Where Merlin with every effort
The Great Mother forever served
An age when Spring returns,
Of birth out of anguish wrought
For New of Old derives,
At least so we are taught.
Teachings of the Truths
Inherent Fallacy of Old
Recurring our Earthly lessons
Their versions – manifold
The interpretations cheap
A thousand at the dime
Their deep lessons fear –
Fearful of wasting our time.
As glasses are to reality
An interpretation to the world
Our Souls are the one faculty
Where Answers are truly stored.

Comment

Healing Force / Gil Shidlansik

Filed under: Poems — 1 Comment

(Dedicated to my Envinyatariel)

You raise me up so I can overcome mountains,
Where before I only wandered shallow lochs.
You show me I can walk on a storm-waken sea
For there is a special twinkle inside of me.
You lift my standard when a battle seems lost
For Hope eventually lifts it’s banner aloft!
You help me answer questions left unanswered
Finding gifts mortals leave forever covered
I’m told beauty is in the eyes of the beholder
You tell me my reality is only mine to decipher
The Goodness emanates with your every step
Sings of your deep wish to guide and help
In gratitude for all past and future aide
One lesson I have already from you gained:
Remembering always amid toils and strife
Treasuring the healing force in my Life.

Comment

Nicety’s Sacrifices / Gil Shidlansik

Filed under: Poems — 1 Comment

Shall we abandon tonight, sweet maiden,
And leave the quiet of herein haven?
For thy heart cannot reach the aches of mine,
And mine wishes only to bequeath with thine.
And this night fair: talk flows as elegant wine
On our lips, asking: how can we, but two entwine?
A company fair, albeit discussion somewhat quaint
Promises more, sweet maiden, of Life’s sweet daint
A connection woven by delicate accentuations,
Spun with friendly winks and like flirtations
Must we all these sacrifice, and ourselves falter,
Over Circumstance’s cold, unfeeling alter?

28/08/2009

Comment

At the Midpoint of My Life / Gil Shidlansik

Filed under: Poems — Leave a comment

(Dedicated to Lia)

A few moments seperate us, alway,
Of two siblings one of fairer sway
Throughout the years it always appears
One always wishes which the other wields
But times change and so do we,
At day’s end, we, too, must see:
How much akin I am to thee,
And how dear thou art to me.
I say it always seemingly perforce,
But words abandon me without Prose:
Remember thou with feelings kind
Thy brother who through months’ bind
Hath, doth, and will continue to care,
For his dear, twin sister fair.

15/09/2009

Comment