What are you doing on valentine’s day?

AND SHE SAID YES

Eight YEARS AGO TODAY

 

CELEBRATE BURNS NIGHT TODAY WITH A WEE DRAM AND A POEM

George Mackay Brown – Famous Scotish Poet

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  George Mackay Brown

Born: 1921 in Stromness, Orkney Islands
Died: 1996 in Stromness
First Book: The Storm (Orkney Press, 1954)
Awards: Short-listed for the 1994 Booker Prize for Beside the Ocean of TimeGeorge Mackay Brown is considered to be one of the greatest Scottish poets and authors of the twentieth century. His technical mastery and control of both prose and verse attracted a world-wide readership. Although never reaching bestseller status, his books were published in more than a dozen countries around the world, drawing hundreds of avid fans to his house in Orkney each year.

Born on 17 October 1921 into a poor family living in Stromness in the Orkney Islands, Mackay Brown attended the local Stromness Academy. It was here he discovered a talent for writing, excelling in the weekly compositions set by hisEnglish teacher.

His time at school was brought to a premature end when he contracted tuberculosis and was sent to a sanatorium in Kirkwall. He was troubled by the disease throughout his life and never completely returned to full health. His illness excluded him from service during the Second World War, and made him essentially unemployable on a long-term basis.

However, the extended periods of rest which the disease enforced upon him meant that he was able to read and write extensively, thereby developing his literary talent. By the early 1940s his prolific writings were beginning to emerge publicly with news stories, reviews and a regular column in the Orkney weekly newspaper. This column was a constant feature throughout the rest of his life, with his final piece appearing just two days before his death on 13 April 1996.

After his initial success in the early 1940s he began to drink heavily and only wrote occasional poems and his column for the local newspaper. This lifestyle continued for almost ten years before he received an invitation to become a mature student at an adult education college in Dalkeith in 1951. The college was run by Edwin Muir, a poet and fellow Orkadian whose work Mackay Brown greatly admired. Much of Muir’s work, and especially his 1940 The Story and the Fable (which Mackay Brown read when he went to the University of Edinburgh two years after graduating from the Dalkeith college), interweaved Orkadian life and history with myth and legend, and had a profound effect on the future style and subject-matter of Mackay Brown’s later achievements.

In the summer of 1970, he met – entirely by chance – the composer Peter Maxwell Davies in the remote valley of Rackwick in Orkney. In the subsequent years, the two men forged a fiercely strong friendship and went on to collaborate together to produce many of Maxwell Davies’ Orkney-inspired works.

Following the publication and success of Booker Prize short-listed Beside the Ocean of Time, Mackay Brown wrote two collections of short stories, the second of which was published posthumously. When he died on 13 April 1996, he left a legacy for both Scottish literature and the communities of the Orkney Islands. Able to transcend the common and often mundane perception of Orkadian life and history, Mackay Brown’s writing was ethereal and timeless, filled with strong universal truths that deeply touched his global readership.

A Calendar of Love, Beside the Ocean of Time, Greenvoe, Hawkfall, The Island of the Women, A Time to Keep, Vinland, and Winter Tales are all available from now Polygon. Selected pieces are also published by Polygon in Lament: Scottish Poems for Funerals and Consolation and Scottish War Stories, and an extensive interview with Mackay Brown is featured in Scottish Writers Talking.

CreAtivity

 

 

If i wanted to be a lion and hang as tall as a tree i could, but that would be irrelevant can’t you see
I am a man, a wo-MAN, a fe-MALE so that would make us one … am i right?
I may not be a girl i may not be a boy i may just be a being living in a world
What is creativity if you look inside and see its understanding your subconscious self and questioning your reality
If we are made in God’s image and all Religions say God is creator then we are also creators, projecting our inner light called “creativity”
We can’t all be painters the world would be ugly! But we can all be creative and express ourselves individually
One colour on a pallet will make the plain paper look dry, but many colours on the paper will create a story of why?
Not wanting to be yourself will erase your story, paintings and more colours will manifest your glory
Beauty is individuality so express it and be proud even if others don’t like it at least you stand out from the crowd

Debby

ICE SCULPTURES

‘Artists Dilemma’ – Promote Yourself

Hi, I would love to promote myself on your site. My name is Clyde Aidoo, originally from Chicago, IL and now residing in Las Vegas, NV. I have three poetry books out, all under the Art of Mind series umbrella: Art of Mind I, II, and III. If you’re open to it, and I have the option, I’d love to continue to advertise poems on your page, perhaps 1-2 poems every week? Most of which from my series, but I’d also love to add never-released poems as well.

*Artist’s Dilemma*

This “common artist” is about to ascend
Ten Stories High —

Don’t look now.

Now I’ve reached a place where I’m afraid to fall —

Don’t look down.

My art has taken control,
It uplifts me high with an exhilarating view —
But I am afraid that if I choose to let go —
That I’ll end up becoming
Just like you.

Do I continue to rise
or
Come back down to earth?

Should I remain alone with only art as my companion?
Or do I release and return to join the rest of you?
I am so high
on Fumes.
Still —
This remains a terrifying view.

Painted by Chet Davis

artxxxxxxxWordpress Website: ClydeAidoo.com

Constant Pain – Promote Yourself

 

 

 

 

 

 

which is always there with me

There is absolutely no gain

In pretending what others want you to be

May be the pain will fizzle out

but I will miss its presence

Among all these self doubts

Constant pain is my life’s essence

Gaurab   Country : India

Blog : http://processingthelife.com/about/

About : I like travelling and photography. I’m an avid reader, I also write,mostly about my experiences and journeys. 🙂

Walking by Landmarks

 

~
I took a walk outside the other day
And realized the world has remained the same
The fields are changing as the
Clouds build their quiet momentum
But the stroll is a similar cadence
One can never be moving too soon
While in life missing steps
Would be
A bit nerve wracking
~
I took a walk outside the other day
Skies with their hue of golden blues
Will always brighten my day
Even as the wind’s ice take form
I seek a quiet comfort internally
Only to recognize again
The sudden calm’s change
Might be
A tad unrelenting
~
I took a walk outside the other day
And questioned what occurs
When my mind begins to sway
Off course into a never-land
Of energy no less endearing
Yet driven by our world’s demands.
Could be
A new awakening
~
I took a walk outside the other day
And when I listened to the sweet melody
Of simple pleasure in nature’s Grace
I could imagine a peace
A love of beauty and delight
Shed all aspects of the past
Only to relish a newer day again
Will we
Ever make allowances
~
I took a stroll while on a new avenue today
Noted the people’s intent to thrive in the gray
~
Thom Amundsen
http://thinkingoutloudagain.wordpress.com

LISTEN TO THE RAINBOW – Promote Yourself

 

    Red         

Hear the blood shed,

(Orange) Clementine

Unspoken words, blurred lines,

 

Yellow

Refusal to shout, to bellow,

Green

No words shared; between,

 

Blue

Inaction, injustice we rue,

Indigo

From despair, rises a human archipelago;

Violet

We must no longer be quiet.

Wendy Shreve

A Western Australian Piano Graveyard

The famer’s pressing oil, olives spread
on mashing mats. We talk of chooks
and foxes, irrigation and bush fires.

I’m here to see ruins in meadows,
on outcrops, brought from sheds
and yards, lashed to utes and trucks.

“All good things return to earth.”
She tells how a choral hum is raised
by strong wind, how possums nest in felt

and termites engineer collapse; how once
after rain, a derelict played like a pianola
as green tree frogs leapt in its heart.

I take her hand-drawn map, find
a Gold Rush era upright, laminate
blistered, keys jammed and gapped.

Despite its barroom look
a brass plaque by the keyboard
names an outback orphanage.

A Foley artist’s dream, felt-less hammers
conjure horror from bass notes, or tap
a level crossing where the hero speeds

to make the gate. Each instrument
decays uniquely; a baby grand is legless,
veneer turned peeled like cherry bark.

Under cracked coffin-gloss
a clutch of white eggs.

by Roy Marshall

A PLACE WHERE LOVE BEGINS – Promote Yourself

Not in the past where your tempests raged;
Or in the future, when unknown forces could shatter dreams;
Not in your soul, skewered by hatred and resentment;
Only in the present, as an open heart awaits.

Not by running from what is given;
Or hiding in bitterness and acrid thoughts;
Not in your head, where too many goals are left unfulfilled;
Only in hope, not beyond your reach.

Not in innocence lost or violence found;
Or misguided battles, conflicts unresolved;
Not in your body, ravaged with time and pain;
Only in forgiveness of yourself.

Not in others’ perceptions of who you are;
Or finding reasons to run from promise;
Not in your losses, though hard to bear;
Only in taking her hand; reaching for the sun.

Wendy Shreve

I still miss you – promote Yourself

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are days,
When I miss you
With a sudden intensity
Which surprises me.

It aches, in a way I didn’t deem possible,
In a heart, I didn’t know I possessed.
And I lie in this room feigning sleep.
Pining away, struggling with my existence.
While I choke from these strange arms enveloping me.

Should I strive, in vain, for you, most divine?
Or should I instead, be miserably content with what’s mine?

– Sreshtha Sen
sreshthasen.wordpress.com

Wrong – Promote Yourself

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everything in this world is not color correspondent.
Like people.
Pink does not always mean female,
Blue does not always mean male.
Rainbows are not enslaved to queer folk.
This trinary only applies to things that are not complex enough for spectrums or intersectionalities.
Contrary to popular belief, gender is not pink or blue or vice versa.
Gender is a spectrum, mixed with complimentary colors.
Not a grey scale from light femininity to darkened masculinity.
New colors are made everyday by mixing, and extracting personal characteristics.
THE ARTIST IS THE ONLY ONE THAT CAN NAME THEIR COLOR.
Although too many people think they’ve discovered all of the colors, just because they’ve looked in their medicine cabinets.
Just because they’ve seen the outside world, they think they know the colors.

If I ever decided to have off-spring, their nursery will be painted in all custom colors:
To my queer child
Darling, do not allow your mind to dictate you.
Inside influences will tell you that you aren’t allow to exist.
Do not listen to them like I almost did.
Ignore the colors around you.
Instead of a gun, take a pen to your hand, and let your heart pour bullets to the page.
Write the synopia red-morbid things, write about the black olive world around you, write what goes through your minds.
Never conform to the point of dysphoria.
It only results in displaced self-loathing.
I feel that it’s only a matter of time before your Carolina-blue tears waterfall over your pillow.
Your rapids will sweep you away into a world of shades you’ve never seen before.
Don’t stop here, you will find your self stuck cycling somewhere that makes you feel like a stranger.
But just remember to find the colors that make you feel good.

______
Also, I have more poems at bucketsaurusrex.wordpress.com

ALL FACETS – Promote Yourself

I’m trying to attach
Meaning to you like a door with no latch
Or me without you on my mind, how can I explain that

                                                                           I’ll

always love you no
matter your issues
I’ll hug & kiss you
comfort with soft tissues

What

Other words can I say or you to me
When you’re the epidemy
of where love should be
Cause there’s never any riddle to be solved
I know where my heart truly belongs

I

Smile out loud
How can that be…well you’ve shown me how
With all facets of your beauty that I want now
I write,you read as it all comes out
My pen turns us singular into a noun

One

picture & thought with no sound
With many years of internal feelings written down
just thinking about you on my sofa
typing away wishing that you were closer
written from my feelings for you in my mental folder
as i cater to your emotions till the night is over

Lino Robles

ART OF HUMAN NATURE – Promote Yourself

Smooth surface;

Water-chiseled

Stone with curves of

Henry Moore,

In a stream.

 

Girl stricken,

Taking her legs

But not her heart;

Andrew Wyeth,

In the field.

 

Black & white figures;

Modern day

Rockwell;

Banksy.

On concrete canvases.

Chiseled names

In blackness;

Sunlight &shade

Reveal lives past;

Maya Lin,

On the grass.

Women of texture;

Ordinary scenes,

Superlative color;

Romare Bearden,

By a tree.

 

Mother, child; boat;

Strokes of light & shadow;

Mary Cassatt,

On the water.

Murals of

Bracing colors;

Struggles for dignity;

Diego Rivera

Beyond the breadth.

Palette stream

In cataclysmic ash;

Framing“Scream;”

Edvard Munch,

In the sky.

 Wendy Shreve

D.H. Lawrence Birthplace Museum

D.H. Lawrence

D.H. Lawrence was born at 8a Victoria Street, 1885, the first of the Lawrence family’s four Eastwood homes.

Things to see and do

Visits to the Birthplace Museum are by timed tours where you can:

• learn about family life in the mining community which shaped Lawrence’s formative years
• view rooms where the family lived
• view personal items and some of Lawrence’s original watercolours

Book a timed tour of the Birthplace Museum to learn about family life in the mining community which shaped Lawrence’s formative years.

Norman MacCaig – Born: 1910 in Edinburgh Died: 1996 in Edinburg – Famous Poet

 

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Born: 1910 in Edinburgh
Died: 1996 in Edinburgh
First Book: Far Cry (Routledge, 1943)
Awards: Awarded an OBE and the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry in 1986

Norman MacCaig was born in Edinburgh on 14 November 1910. His father was an Edinburgh chemist and his mother hailed from the island of Scalpay. The Highland background that he inherited from his mother and the Gaelic culture that he encountered during visits to her family had an enduring influence on MacCaig and his work.

He was educated at the Royal High School in Edinburgh before going on to study classics at the University of Edinburgh from 1928 until 1932. He then trained to be a teacher at Moray House in Edinburgh and spent a large part of his life as a primary-school teacher. During the Second World War he registered himself as a conscientious objector, refusing active service on humanitarian grounds. As a result of his beliefs he served time in various prisons and was forced into extensive labour programmes.

His first collection of poetry, Far Cry, was published in 1943. Both it and The Inward Eye (1946) belonged to the New Apocalypse movement, which pioneered a surrealist form of writing that he later disowned. It wasn’t until Riding Lightswas published in 1955 that his distinctive voice first became apparent. This collection was followed by The Sinai Sort (1957), A Common Grace (1960), A Round of Applause (1962), Measures (1965) and Surroundings (1966). Following his appointment as a fellow in creative writing at Edinburgh University in 1967, he became writer in residence at the University of Stirling from 1970 to 1977, before returning to Edinburgh to be writer in residence from 1977 to 1979. Over this time, he published further collections: Rings on a Tree (1968), A Man in My Position (1969), Selected Poems (1971),The White Bird (1973), The World’s Room (1974), Tree of Strings (1977), Old Maps and New: Selected Poems (1978), The Equal Skies (1980), A World of Difference (1983) and Voice Over (1988).

MacCaig’s life and poetry was principally divided into two parts, with his home city of Edinburgh providing a valuable contrast to his holiday home in Assynt, a remote area in the north-west of Scotland where he spent much of his time. The landscape of this area appeared as a recurring theme in much of his poetry.

His friendships with Hugh MacDiarmid, Sorley MacLean, Robert Garioch and Sydney Goodsir Smith bore a significant influence both on his work and in establishing him as a major force in twentieth-century Scottish poetry. In later years, he acted as mentor to Liz Lochhead, W. N. Herbert and Robert Crawford.

He never received much international attention despite being presented with numerous awards, including an OBE and the highly coveted poetry prize the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry, in 1986. In recent years, his writing has become a compulsory part of the literature syllabus in Scottish schools and universities. Norman MacCaig died in Edinburgh on 23 January 1996, aged eighty-five.

Find Me There – Promote Yourself

There isn’t any time left.
but she said,
she would love me forever.
I hoped – at least,
there would be somewhere to hide
in the half cast hell-shadow,
saturated with solitude.

Saturated with solitude,
in the half cast hell-shadow
there, would be somewhere to hide.
I hoped – at least
she would love me forever.
but she said,
there isn’t any time left.

-Christopher Flame