THE COLD PILLOW

Upon the cold pillow lies the restless head of man, whose disgraced dreams, which would, or should, be all of the Visions of God’s own making, are instead bent to petty aims and empty theologies of belief whose only achievement is the eternal and endless fracturing of themselves into ever smaller shards of doubt and despair (dispair, disrepair)

The cold pillow which should support the soul of man in his wandring sleep to countless other worlds and others times records no hope of all it sees or hears behind the slumbring eyes which cannot speak of all they know except in cryptic slivers neath the silvered moon.

(fragments of two stanzas of verse from a dream I awoke from… this also gave me an idea for a Theurgical pillow I intend to design and have embroidered with scriptures, images, Ikons, etc. to inspire New Dreams and Visions while I sleep… I intend to do the same for an Ancient headrest.)

THE CRAFT OF FOREIGN FEATHERSTONES

THE CRAFT OF FOREIGN FEATHERSTONES

I thought that I had injured
That with which I thought
Only then to understand
The fault that I had wrought,

My imagination
Turning as it slept
Found itself abandoned
While to other lands I crept,

The hills of high philosophy
The mountains of the moon
The blood of war, the boatman’s fee
(That endless shore, an anchored lee – variant line)
Upon these I was hewn,

The craft of foreign featherstones
A science, or an art?
What matter to that one dethroned
Whose will will soon depart?

Clever in the market stalls
Cunning in the wares
What happens when intent appalled
Is taken unawares?

Creation is a fakir’s cheat
The muses whores of fate
Yet man is just an instrument
Come often, or come late,

If he would be a better thing
He must to something else
Bend himself in constant chase
And sometimes so with stealth,

For he commands that lofty globe
Granted him by God,
Yet even so, he must still show
He knows of the façade,

For art is nothing but the world
Dressed up as if were true,
Therefore man has no real art
Without what he first grew,

Within his mind, upon his heart
He wrote, he sketched, he drew
Then he found that thing profound
When nothing yet is due

Thus (and therefore),

Art can nothing to this world
It did not first possess,
Yet turning so with twisted charms
Man does acquiesce

That in himself creation roams
Seeking whom (and what) to eat, but
First that man must eat this world
For him to be complete…

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Usually I post my verse on Mondays. For First Verse.

But I have been very busy lately and have had scant time for composition. Today though a friend of mine mentioned something about “creation” and since he is an artist I went ahead and wrote a poem I’ve been meaning to write awhile on the subject of art and creation anyway.

I have my own definition for the term “featherstone” in relation to creation and art. Or indeed in relation to anything at all.

I use it in this way: it refers to a magical or mythological Xoanon (that falls from the heavens and is taken as a god or carven into an idol and worshiped), to a thing that cannot in reality exist (because it is entirely self-contradictory), to polish away all of the weight of a thing and leave behind only the most opposite (and usually useless) thing, and even to Potmos, and the Residuum.

By foreign featherstone I mean that featherstone not native to one’s self, or that featherstone one must seek out elsewhere or that lures one elsewhere.

A CHIEF PURPOSE

I feel as if part of my function in establishing and running this blog (Wyrdwend) is to gather, promote, and share the good work of others (literary, artistic, poetic, lyrical, musical, fictional, non-fictional, etc.) as well as to post and promote my own Writings and Work.

I do not see this as competition but mutual advancement.

A PAINTED STORY CHAIR OF DREAMS

Sanctuary

I am including this post of my First Verse as part of the Daily Post for Sanctuary.

It was inspired a beautiful work of art by a friend which I have linked to at the bottom of the post. Her work is superb.

 

A PAINTED STORY CHAIR OF DREAMS

A Painted Story-Chair of Dreams
A fitting vision does it seem
In which to sit and rock the soul
That wants to wander as it roams
About the misty, darkened night
Whose moon still ambles in the light
Of the countless colored stars
Some close to touch, some still afar

A peacock throne, a thousand eyes
Upon the sea, within the skies
Serpents coiling in the mind
Omens opened up on time
Space the nearness of a sleep
In which the desert dreaming deep
Is as the jungle in its might
Is as the Dawn of Paradise,

Now to twilight as you ride
Upon the waves of shifting tide
The seasons wax and then they wane
Your eyes grow wan their meaning plain
You plan to slumber in the Chair
A Painted Story in the Air
Where Heaven bends to searching Earth
To find you dreaming of Rebirth…

 

Painted Rocking Chair

THE LAST ONES

I offer this as my submission for the National Poetry Day. I am now at work on my fifth book of poetry.

The cold that the last man mentioned
Before he bled away
The soul that the last child ventured
Because he could not stay,
The bones that the last girl offered
As her flesh was sold
The heart of the last babe slaughtered
As it beat beyond all hope,

I’d tell you of their endings
If I thought you’d care
I’d tell you of their wendings
Of all the things they’d dare,

I’d tell you of their Image
Holy and Divine
I’d tell you that their fortunes
Were just as great as mine,

Yet somehow we have failed them
Deeply in our selves
Discarded like a useless limb
Cast off and then expelled,

The smile of the fair sex faded
Frown of the end within
The wiles of the dead folk fêted
Crown of the ceaseless sin,
The eyes of the masses hollow
Febrile, sick, and stale
The lies of the empty follow
Beguiling, sure as hell,

I’d tell you the last one lingers
If I thought you’d see
I’d tell you “deeply listen”
Though you would not accede,

I’d tell you of your Nature
Made apparent in your acts
I’d show you well, and show you sure
That no man is abstract,
Yet somehow death entails you
Your hearts are all of stone
Lifeless are the last of you
So soulless and alone…

BECKER AND BASE – TWO OF THE BEST ARTISTS I’VE EVER SEEN

I write Children’s books. I do not have the time to illustrate them right now, so I’d love to find an excellent illustrator, but that aside, I write children’s books. So almost every time I go to the library I check out at least two children’s books (picture books I mean, I also read Middle Grade and Young Adult books but that’s another post) to read and study.

Last time I went I got books by Aaron Becker and Graeme Base. Becker’s book, called Journey, was flat out illustration, the entire story was told just in pictures. The book by Base, entitled Animalia, (another favorite of mine by Base is the Waterhole) was both scripted and illustrated, and the artwork must have taken a very long time indeed to perfect. But it is that, nearly perfect. Of the two I preferred Animalia, because of the artwork, but the story in Journey was superior and reminded me of the video game Ico, which was also gorgeous, and had a superb story.

I highly recommend both books.

These are the caliber of artists I want illustrating my children’s books.

 

Have a great day folks.

SEFIROTH

A sketch I did in pen and ink – long, long ago.

IT’S A TOUGH KILL…

“It’s a tough kill, but a sweet-meat…”

Sigurd, talking to the birds, about the slaying of Fafnir

THE PHOTOGRAPHER OF MIDNIGHT

This guy’s work is absolutely incredible. I can really admire someone this good at their work. I highly recommend you take a look at it.

jescobarremedios.com

THE MYSTERY OF RAMPO

Still one of my favorite films of all time.

THE DYLAN DILEMMA

I‘ve often wondered… 

Though I’ve never cared much for Dylan’s singing, he is my favorite American songwriter. Being a songwriter myself I have great respect for his songwriting abilities. He’s ingenious.

How Did Bob Dylan Get So Weird?

By Bill Wyman

In August, a Bob Dylan album may well arrive in stores concrete and virtual. It may be called Shadows in the Night. It may have a song called “Full Moon & Empty Arms” on it; a stream of the tune was released without comment on his website a couple of months ago. Why Dylan chose to record a cover of an old Sinatra track isn’t clear; it may, or may not, be a clue that the purported album will consist of covers. Dylan has just finished shows in Japan, Eastern Europe, and Scandinavia; will head next to Australia and New Zealand; and may or may not be preparing for a swing through the U.S. in the fall.

We think of Dylan in a pantheon of great rock stars, at or near the top of a select list that includes the Stones, Springsteen, maybe U2, but not too many other active artists. But he behaves much differently. He’s released more albums than Bruce Springsteen in the past 25 years and played more shows than Springsteen, the Stones, and U2 combined. Yet he hardly ever does interviews and does virtually nothing to publicize his albums or tours. For someone who seems to be in such plain sight, he remains hidden, present but opaque, an open book written in cipher. Normal questions don’t seem to do him justice. You want to ask: What is Bob Dylan? Why is Bob Dylan? After listening to him since I was a kid and seeing him live for—gulp—nearly 40 years, I think I’m beginning to figure it out.

THE MODERN WAY from THE BUSINESS, CAREER, AND WORK OF MAN

The modern artist is on rare occasion entirely right. The modern scientist is on many occasions completely wrong. The difference in relation to everyone else is this: the artist, even if he is sometimes entirely right, has no guarantee of any kind that he can convince anyone of it, except himself, whereas the scientist, even if he is completely and habitually wrong can easily convince millions of the gullible that he must be correct.

THE BLOOD

THE BLOOD OF UNCANNY MONSTERS

I thought this should also be cross-linked here. As it has definite applications to literature, poetry, art, and even song-writing.

BRILLIANT WESTERN INDUSTRIAL SCULPTURE

Being a Vadder and an amateur Industrial Archaeologist I could not help but love this guy’s work. True skill and brilliant craftsmanship. And as a man with a deep interest in the West this is staggeringly good.

My father was an inventor and tool and die maker. He worked in metal his whole life.  God he’d love this.

To see more go here:

JUNK TO GENIUS

John says he loves the textures and moods he’s able to convey through his artwork.

1.

John Lopez

2.

John Lopez

3.

John Lopez

4.

THE SORE MAN OF OLDE TOWNE

Last year I wrote a graphic novel entitled, “The Sore Man of Olde Towne.”

I am looking for an artist or artists to do the artwork for the Sore Man. (There are actually two parallel sections to the GN separated by a considerable period of time and I desire the style of artwork to be very different for each separate section.)

What I desire to do is for the artist to do the artwork to accompany the Sore Man (I have already written the entire script) and then when we sell it we split all profits 50/50. We’d enter a contract to that effect. But the artwork would have to be done to my specifications to fit the nature of the story. I already have design sketches and notes prepared for the layout I envision. The artwork will be a vital part of the overall story so it must be done to very high standards.

Below you will find a short portion of the Sore Man to give you some idea of the story and style I am shooting for. If you are interested in the project then contact me and we will begin discussions. If everything works out well then we’ll sign a profit-splitting contract.

If this venture succeeds in the way I suspect it will then I could very well look upon this first collaboration as an on-going and long-term partnership.

Thanks,

Jack.

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(Newe Version)

The Sore Man of Olde Towne
Cuts deep in the dark
The Sore Man of Yore Towne
Of measured remark

The Sore Man of Olde Towne
Did all men dismay
The Sore Man of Yore Towne
Of all men held sway

The Sore Man of Olde Towne
A wolf in the night
The Sore Man of Yore Towne
A frightening sight…