Had a dream about eagles, and woke up with the word “Dalliance” stuck in my head. I thought I’d write a poem about it all, and started typing “Dalliance” into my google search bar, and the second suggested search term was “dalliance of the eagles” a poem by Walt Whitman.
And then I remembered I’d already written a poem about my dream, and made art for it, inspired by the wolf and the eagle on both sides of my class ring, that I posted on May 12, 2014 at http://21shadesofblue.com/2014/05/12/fenrir-phoenix-tanka/
“Dalliance of the Eagles”
by Walt Whitman
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,)
Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling,
Till o’er the river pois’d, the twain yet one, a moment’s lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.
“In Norse mythology, Fenrir (Old Norse: “fen-dweller”) …is a monstrous wolf. …due to the gods’ knowledge of prophecies foretelling great trouble from Fenrir and his rapid growth, the gods bound him, and as a result Fenrir bit off the right hand of the god Týr.“
“In Greek mythology, a phoenix or phenix (Ancient Greek φοίνιξ phóinīx) is a long-lived bird that is cyclically regenerated or reborn. Associated with the sun, a phoenix obtains new life by arising from the ashes of its predecessor.“
The Lord hath His way in the whirlwind and storm (Nahum 1:3).
I recollect, when a lad, and while attending a classical institute in the vicinity of Mount Pleasant, sitting on an elevation of that mountain, and watching a storm as it came up the valley. The heavens were filled with blackness, and the earth was shaken by the voice of thunder. It seemed as though that fair landscape was utterly changed, and its beauty gone never to return.
But the storm swept on, and passed out of the valley; and if I had sat in the same place on the following day, and said, “Where is that terrible storm, with all its terrible blackness?” the grass would have said, “Part of it is in me,” and the daisy would have said, “Part of it is in me,” and the fruits and flowers and everything that grows out of the ground would have said, “Part of the storm is incandescent in me.”
Have you asked to be made like your Lord? Have you longed for the fruit of the Spirit, and have you prayed for sweetness and gentleness and love? Then fear not the stormy tempest that is at this moment sweeping through your life. A blessing is in the storm, and there will be the rich fruitage in the “afterward.”
–Henry Ward Beecher
The flowers live by the tears that fall
From the sad face of the skies;
And life would have no joys at all,
Were there no watery eyes.
Love thou thy sorrow: grief shall bring
Its own excuse in after years;
The rainbow!–see how fair a thing
God hath built up from tears.
–Henry S. Sutton
Originally posted on poetreecreations.org:
William Butler Yeats was the most famous Irish poet of all time, and his poems of unrequited love for the beautiful and dangerous revolutionary Maud Gonne helped make her almost as famous as he was in Ireland. The first poem below is Yeats’ loose translation of a Ronsard poem, in which Yeats imagines the love of his life in her later years, tending a waning fire. The second poem, “The Wild Swans at Coole” is surely one of the most beautiful poems ever written, in any language.
When You Are Old
by William Butler Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
View original 241 more words
Originally posted on Wuji Seshat Nibada:
Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace, and gratitude.
~ Denis Waitley
Let’s go dancing to the ceiling
with candles for our soul
let’s hide out amidst the fireworks
and wait for hypnotic words
so in awe of our time here
with an insistence on revolution
for the genuine rapport of living beings
Let’s go afrolick with the world
in countries and clans of sympathy
let’s appease the nomad within
strike a chord and bargain with elements
outside of our comfort zones
let’s go gawking beneath the stars
miracle-work on the front lines
unbridled like a spirit without melancholy
let’s become somebody else
change our name, our address, our friends
discover romance without shunning
deeper questions, write the screenplay
of the poetry of our human evolution
without fear, tonight is clear
i can’t afford a…
View original 44 more words
Originally posted on Friendly Fairy Tales:
A wandering dragonfly pauses to mock:
“Catch me if you can,” he seems to say.
“I’m a loner, the cardinal of dragonflies,
“You won’t spot me again, if I have my way!”
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: This dragonfly was spotted in the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco, California. Best I can tell, he is a mature male Flame Skimmer dragonfly. He looks a lot like the European Red-Veined Darter or Nomad dragonfly. I have a Scarlet Cardinal living in my yard, and his black eyes often find me in my garden. This dragonfly reminded me of him, even when I was 3,000 miles from home.
“Life is but a Weaving”
by Corrie ten Boom
My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaveth steadily.
Oft’ times He weaveth sorrow;
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And reveal the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned
He knows, He loves, He cares;
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him.
“Cerise, crimson, scarlet, vermilion ― A minute difference in hue, tint, shade, and degree my heart is bleeding profusely. From birth, the beginning, the start, day one ― I’ve questioned what I’m worth… I know I’m not gold, but can I pass as silver? Look past this scarlet letter, and let me be your treasure! I’m bleeding dry! I’m begging you ― Please don’t let my heart die! Is anyone out there? Are you even listening? Can you even hear me? Holler if you’re able!”
― Ry Hakari, April 7 – 9, 2006
“The wings of infinity and winds of sovereignty weave an intricate tapestry of life over time. Who can fathom the movements of the invisible hands that guide the loom? Hands that choose to use frayed and knotted threads? Threads of all lengths and strengths, widths and weakness? Threads of every hue, tint, shade and degree? Who can fathom? Who can fathom? Who can begin to imagine it being a thing of beauty? Something Divinity should delight in? That my own life woven in, rather than detracting, is carefully designed? Who can fathom? Not I!”
– Ry Hakari, August 31, 2009
“well you went down quick in the early rounds,
dragging your feet through this dirty town,
looking for absolutes
and there you were perspiring, plain-spoken,
wondering why this year the winter
would never set in
but this year we will not
this year we will not
sleep our way
through the winter
over time all the rusting symbols fell away,
you were left with love,
or the lack thereof,
and over low water and under high ceilings,
within white walls with white knuckles bleeding,
you said, “I’ve near become a full man”
but this year we will not
this year we will not
sleep our way
through the winter
all white with light like so many winter suns,
you make this all so much less difficult to love”
“Elly Elizabeth of a thousand stars on a winter sky, and you shine the brightest. Elly Elizabeth of a thousand petals with one extra, and a thousand-one says yes.”
― Ry Hakari, January 9, 2008
Written By Ry Hakari
-The Pen and Paper Life-
There’s a memoir somewhere around here
That bears my name engraved in bold on the front cover
Just the same as words cut deep in a headstone
A novel written on broken dreams with fallen tears
And a slap in the face to the one who creates
I’m nauseated by my own philosophy
And I won’t claim the pages as my own anymore
All they’ve done is rip me off with their clever lies
But it’s my turn to do the ripping now
So I’m sitting on this dirty window sill
Tearing out all my chapters page by page
Watching the wind carry them away one by one
But it isn’t as simple as I make it sound
Like a spider bite on the inside
Every rip stings my heart a little bit
Ten years have just gone out the window
By sitting in it for just three months
It’s been ninety-nine days today
And now I’m in need of a massive re-write
Because all that’s left are two covers and a spine
But I won’t be the writer this time around
God the Creator is my author now
So the new edition is sure to sell
by Robert Frost
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth –
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth –
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?–
If design govern in a thing so small.
“Marvelous,” she said. “Tell me about this tapestry.”
Arachne’s lips curled over her mandibles. “Why do you care? You’re about to die.”
“Well, yes,” Annabeth said. “But the way you captured the light is amazing. Did you use real gold thread for the sunbeams?”
― Rick Riordan, The Mark of Athena
“Oh! in his rapture he was weeping even over those stars, which were shining to him from the abyss of space, and “he was not ashamed of that ecstasy.” There seemed to be threads from all those innumerable worlds of God, linking his soul to them, and it was trembling all over “in contact with other worlds.” He longed to forgive every one and for everything, and to beg forgiveness. Oh, not for himself, but for all men, for all and for everything. “And others are praying for me too,” echoed again in his soul. But with every instant he felt clearly and, as it were, tangibly, that something firm and unshakable as that vault of heaven had entered into his soul. It was as though some idea had seized the sovereignty of his mind—and it was for all his life and for ever and ever. He had fallen on the earth a weak boy, but he rose up a resolute champion, and he knew and felt it suddenly at the very moment of his ecstasy. And never, never, all his life long, could Alyosha forget that minute.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
“A Riddle, On The Letter E”
by Lord Byron
The beginning of eternity, the end of time and space,
The beginning of every end, and the end of every place.