The Wednesday Poetry Corner with Dr. Mary Annie AV

the secret keeper:

“Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there – I do not sleep. I am the thousand winds that blow…” Mary Frye [1932] One of my favorite poems. Dr. Mary Annie A.V. did a lovely & meaningful presentation on death & life. Meeting the end of one and entering the beginning another. Which is which? It is the ultimate Question. Tagore states in this post “…When one dies one lives.” I wonder myself if this is true. We all know death is in front of our time here. No one is ever really told when, even if one is gravely ill, the time is not given to us in an exact moment. Some say they feel it approaching. It is a grand philosophical question, poets, artists, writers, songs, express death, love, life, probably the most popular content of most art, these three subjects, but death is the one that haunts us the most. Reading this post has opened my mind to thinking about it in a poetic & philosophical way. It is something feared & expected & needs someday to be faced, in some manner or maybe not for some people. Is it better to be surprised or to be the poet and examine it through divine words of comfort & see it as an uplifting end to pain & a beginning of life as we all are meant to experience it fully. Great post. Love that you brought Mary Annie A.V. to us Niamh Clune. She has a very unique way of expressing such a delicate subject to many. Her choices in poetry and poets are so familiar to me. I feel all will enjoy & find a comfort in reading all that she has offered to us. by Jk the secret keeper Jennifer Kiley ps. Two poets I didn’t mention that Mary Annie A.V. writes about are Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, who, also, write about death. “Dying / Is an art, / like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well. / I do it so it feels like hell. / I do it so it feels real. / I guess you could say I’ve a call./

Originally posted on Plum Tree Books Blog:

It is with great pleasure that I introduce a wonderful new Indian voice to our Wednesday Corner. Dr. Mary Annie A.V. writes with depth and passion about the subject of Death ~ a subject that has long-fascinated poets and philosophers throughout history. Thank you Mary for being our guest on the plum tree today and for sharing your profound thoughts on a subject that is often not spoken of.

Speculating…

By Mary Annie A.V.

My earliest memories are those of reciting Mother Goose’s Nursery rhymes, which perhaps influenced me to write my first prize winning poem ‘My brother’, at the age of five. However, I guess it is in the Psalms of the Bible that I by-hearted, that I found my sense of language, rhythm and the sheer magic of words. I have always been fascinated by life, death and eternity. The mystery of life and death and eternity makes…

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Favorite Top Ten Sylvia Plath Quotes

Favorite Top Ten Sylvia Plath Quotes
Written by Sylvia Plath
Post Created by Jk the secret keeper
Illustrated by j. kiley
Post Created on Sunday 18th August 2013
Posted On Sunday 25th August 2013
A Writer’s Word

Fertility --- Artist Allen  3264x2397

Fertility — Artist Allen

Quote #10

“I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still.”

— Sylvia Plath

Quote #9

“Is there no way out
of the mind?”

— Sylvia Plath

Quote #8

“The worst enemy to creativity
is self-doubt.”

— Sylvia Plath

Quote #7

“I shut my eyes
and all the world drops dead;
I lift my eyes
and all is born again.”

— Sylvia Plath

Quote #6

“I talk to God
but the sky is empty.”

— Sylvia Plath

Pollock 32   733x432

Pollock 32

Quote #5

“Perhaps when we find ourselves
wanting everything,
it is because we are dangerously close
to wanting nothing.”

— Sylvia Plath

Quote #4

“I lean to you,
numb as a fossil.
Tell me I’m here.”

— Sylvia Plath

Quote #3

“With me, the present is forever,
and forever is always shifting,
flowing, melting.
This second is life.
And when it is gone it is dead.
But you can’t start over
with each new second.
You have to judge by what is dead.
It’s like quicksand…
hopeless from the start.”

— Sylvia Plath

Quote #2

“When at last you find someone
to whom you feel you can pour out your soul,
you stop in shock at the words you utter —
they are so rusty, so ugly,
so meaningless and feeble
from being kept
in the small cramped dark
inside you so long.”

— Sylvia Plath

Quote #1

“I must be lean & write
& make worlds beside this
to live in.”

— Sylvia Plath

Pollock 1 1949   864x529

Pollock 1 1949

New Poetry Release: SEVEN DAYS OF ASHES ~Hymns to the Holocaust by Alan Patrick Traynor

the secret keeper:

Alan Patrick Traynor wrote a brilliant selection of poems in his new book Seven Days of Ashes. These are times to never forget ever. Alan Patrick takes you their by bravely visiting the past himself, experiencing the excruciation pain of the holocaust. Blood for ink, he etched on paper the words you will want to read and absorb into your own soul. Never must the message he brings through his words, ever be forgotten. Alan Patrick brings the truth to your minds, traveling back along the lines of his poems to places locked in its place, cemented in times always needing to be remembered. The memories are carried in his words so truthfully and feelingly. You will never be the same after you visit the past through the rawness of his words as he reveals the truth through his eyes. Jk the secret keeper

Originally posted on After Nyne Online:

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SEVEN DAYS OF ASHES ~Hymns to the Holocaust is the latest collection from Irish poet Alan Patrick Traynor.

Traynor has travelled immensely throughout Europe and the United States for a good half of his life, and has gathered some extraordinary skills in how he breaks into the stark meter of suffering, with a music that will haunt his words and wounds deep into your deepest heart.

‘The book was initially inspired by watching a short video documentary about the Holocaust artist Felix Nussbaum, and then began a life of its own, that gave birth to a horrific poetic viewpoint like a timeless lens into the spirit of the Holocaust.  To me, it’s as if the poems were written from an eye-witness account from the dead victims’ says Traynor, deeply affected by his subject.

The seven poems are deep veridicous spears from the soul of the poet, and are…

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No Face No Fingers

No Face No Fingers
Post Created by Jennifer Kiley
Post Created Tuesday 23rd July 2013
Poem by Alan Patrick Traynor
Sunday 28th July 2013
A WRITER’S WORD

seven days of ashes book cover 1

Plum Tree Books is proud to announce the publication of

Alan Patrick Traynor’s first book of poetry.
Seven Days Of Ashes
Hymns to the Holocaust

Alan writes clouds, ether, fire and death. You will smell his words. He sets the page alight, breaking the rules. He is the new voice of poetry! …”Is Alan a mystic who speaks for the dead? He gives shape, immediacy and a new meaning to a reality that still haunts us collectively…” — Niamh Clune

— Niamh Clune, CEO and Publisher of Plum Tree Books, blog: on the plum tree, poet, writer and all around Renaissance woman, author of Orange Petals in a Storm and The Coming of the Feminine Christ.

Alan Patrick, your poems are solemn and speak the poetic version of the truth. I have read the words you put to paper, this book is a masterpiece on the highest level. A challenging and diverse group of so many people to represent. I do believe you have met this calling in direct and honest words with poetic revelation and justice.

The Nazis perpetrated this horror. It is a sickening feeling to think or even imagine being in those situations of death.

I am so moved by your words-both of you, Niamh Clune as the publisher who had the foresight to present the rebel and genius of the poet Alan Patrick Traynor. Congratulations to you and Niamh Clune with hopes of success and wishes that you reach many with your words of truth. — By Jennifer Kiley

burning violin 1

The following poem THE FLAG THAT KNOWS NO DREAM by Alan Patrick Traynor is not part of the collection, but it resonates. Jk

the flag that knows no dream (c) alan patrick traynor

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Escher Bond On Union

Escher Bond On Union

'NIGHT' ElieWiesel 1

Holocaust — A Deception of Truth

Sylvia Plath: The Spoken Word

tell me a story
Sylvia Plath: The Spoken Word
Notations by Jennifer Kiley
Created 22nd July 2013
Posted Thursday 25th July 2013
TELL ME A STORY

Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes speaking with the BBC 1961

sylvia-plath-2

“I think I was happy up to the age of about nine — very carefree — and I believed in magic, which influenced me a great bit. And then, at nine, I was rather disillusioned — I stopped believing in elves and Santa Claus and all these little beneficent powers — and became more realistic and depressed, I think, and then, gradually, became a bit more adjusted about the age of sixteen or seventeen. But I certainly didn’t have a happy adolescence — and, perhaps, that’s partly why I turned specially to writing — I wrote diaries, stories, and so forth. I was quite introverted during those early years.” — Sylvia Plath

A Meditation on Psychic Creativity between Two Souls Connecting by Ted Hughes about Sylvia Plath and their communications. I am not particularly a fan of Hughs but what he says is quite lovely and something of which I believe. Shawn and I share a certain telepathy when I am calm, we click into place and ideas develop between in a flowing collaboration. Jk the secret keeper

“What she writes out needn’t be at all the contents of her own mind — it needn’t be anything she knows — but it’s something that somebody in the room knows, or somebody that she’s very close to knows. And, in this way, two people who are sympathetic to each other and who are right, who are compatible in this sort of spiritual way, in fact make up one person — they make up one source of power, which you both use and you can draw out material in incredible detail from the single shared mind. … It’s not that you choose the same things to write about, necessarily, and you certainly don’t write about them in the same way — it’s that you draw on an experience, it’s as though you knew more about something than you, from your own life, have ever really learned.

It’s a complicated idea to get across, because you’ve first of all to believe in this sort of telepathic union exists between two sympathetic people.”

sylvia-plath-1

Sylvia Plath Reading her poem Tulip

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage —
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free —
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

By Sylvia Plath

healing thoughts people of world

Myths of Fixed Personalities: Violent Rebellion Part 1

a divider for post no. 5 love fav new one

Myths of Fixed Personalities
Violent Rebellion Part 1
Against the Myths of Fixed Personality
Written by Anais Nin in 4 Parts
Post Created by Jk the secret keeper
Created Friday 12th July 2013
Illustrated by j. Kiley
Posted on Sunday 14th July 2013
A WRITER’S WORDS SUNDAY

myths of fixed personalities by j. kiley (c) jennifer kiley 2013

Remember-Remember V for Vendetta Soundtrack — Dario Marianelli

QUOTATION on REBELLION:

“…it’s just another one of those things I don’t understand: everyone impresses upon you how unique you are, encouraging you to cultivate your individuality while at the same time trying to squish you and everyone else into the same ridiculous mould. It’s an artist’s right to rebel against the world’s stupidity.” ― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

a divider for post no. 5 love fav new one

The Artist: A poem by Niamh Clune

the secret keeper:

The Artist: A poem by Niamh Clune. Reblogging to the secret keeper. Truly amazing poem. I love that I am able to post this on the secret keeper. Please return to the origin and read the poem The Artist. It will enrich your soul as I feel it does mine when ever I read it. Jk

Originally posted on Plum Tree Books Blog:

The Artist

In the struggle
to pluck Beauty from the ether
and satisfy my soul’s longing for home,
I must open myself to the angels.

But all angels are terrible.

Their perfection is death
to all that is considered to be human.
Their beauty: fierce, pure, perfect, relentless,
burns with such brilliance
as to dismantle the fragility of Being.

We cannot be in Their presence
without crashing to our knees,
as beggars of the ubiquitous,
forever changed,
burdened, heart-torn.
And when the moment has passed,
we are the condemned,
to plummet into all that is dark, cold and listless.

A vision of Beauty shows the rents in us,
the stunted, less than perfect, clumsy attempts
to clothe what we have seen
with shoddy words and paltry thoughts.

Copyright Niamh Clune 2013

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