poemimage

Where text meets image. Where the visual intersects the literary.

Tag: nature

Walt Whitman Bursts Into Song Concerning the Civic Debate over Jets at Toronto Island Airport

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Come said the Muse,

  Sing me a song no poet yet has chanted,

  Sing me the universal.

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 In this broad earth of ours,

  Amid the measureless grossness and the slag,

  Enclosed and safe within its central heart,

  Nestles the seed perfection.

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  By every life a share or more or less,

  None born but it is born, conceal’d or unconceal’d the seed is waiting.

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  Lo! keen-eyed towering science,

  As from tall peaks the modern overlooking,

  Successive absolute fiats issuing.

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  Yet again, lo! the soul, above all science,

  For it has history gather’d like husks around the globe,

  For it the entire star-myriads roll through the sky.

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 In spiral routes by long detours,

  (As a much-tacking ship upon the sea,)

  For it the partial to the permanent flowing,

  For it the real to the ideal tends.

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  For it the mystic evolution,

  Not the right only justified, what we call evil also justified.

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 Forth from their masks, no matter what,

  From the huge festering trunk, from craft and guile and tears,

  Health to emerge and joy, joy universal.

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 Out of the bulk, the morbid and the shallow,

  Out of the bad majority, the varied countless frauds of men and states,

  Electric, antiseptic yet, cleaving, suffusing all,

  Only the good is universal.

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 Over the mountain-growths disease and sorrow,

  An uncaught bird is ever hovering, hovering,

  High in the purer, happier air.

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  From imperfection’s murkiest cloud,

  Darts always forth one ray of perfect light,

  One flash of heaven’s glory.

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  To fashion’s, custom’s discord,

  To the mad Babel-din, the deafening orgies,

  Soothing each lull a strain is heard, just heard,

  From some far shore the final chorus sounding.

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  O the blest eyes, the happy hearts,

  That see, that know the guiding thread so fine,

  Along the mighty labyrinth.

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Song of the Universal

Walt Whitman, from Book XVII: Birds of Passage, Leaves of Grass, Project Gutenberg

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Imagining Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892) addressing this issue,

I considered his thoughts pertaining to all matters,

expressed in his poetry.

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Archival, public domain photographs of Toronto Island found on Wikimedia Commons.

Images include:

Painting by Arthur Cox (1840 – 1917) Toronto from the Island, 1875 (Public Domain), Toronto Public Library

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A 1907 postcard of a Toronto Ferry Company ferry crossing the bay from the city of Toronto to the Toronto Islands, (Public Domain) Halton Hill Public Library

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Hanlan’s Point Hotel and Regatta, 1907, (Public Domain) photo: William James, City of Toronto Archives

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Milkman, Toronto Islands, 1944, Public Domain

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Photo of Main Street (below), Centre Island, Toronto, 1944, Souvenir Folder of Toronto Islands, Photogelatine Engraving, Ottawa, Ontario (Public Domain)

Main_Street_Centre_Island_Toronto_1944

 The majority of Toronto residents living on Toronto Island were evacuated in the 1950s to make room for parkland. 

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The source for the pterodactyl jet was a generic, uncredited image.

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Row Back by Michael Gallagher

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Petulant sun quarrels with crabbed sky

sky lyre

It probes, prods, sneaks

Through gaps in broken cloud,

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Catches the crests of waves that roll

In deep swells across the estuary.

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Gales lash the craggy headland

Pummel long-stemmed grass into submission;

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Rain shards pierce weathered faces

While wrens search out the whin’s snug core.

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It is midsummer’s day and Nature rages:

Brother Man, row back, row back,

Our world is not, is not, yours to destroy.

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Mike Gallagher lives in splendid isolation in Lyreacrompane, County Kerry, Ireland. His collection ‘Stick on Stone’ is published by Revival Press.

peaking

Dowsing for Ley Lines: A Theatrical Production

van goghs lines

The beasts of the forest

Wishing us well

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In poemimage May 2012 a Rilke poem using the image below. I happened upon it today & considered: Is this figure dancing or dowsing. The title came to me while manipulating layers in Photoshop. A wee ditty followed soon after.

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Additional image:

van gogh yellow

The moon by Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews

 moon dragon

I am the moon

round

distant

cold light

reflecting the sun’s warmth

back to a blue planet

bluish green

a lover’s smile

forever light years away

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black space

gravity pulling

tidal waves of emotion

emotional

forever love

on shores of childhood dreams.

village moon

I am the moon

pale maiden in the morning sky

large orange crone at dusk.

river

Alone

I ignite the dark

for moonlight kisses.

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Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews has two collections of poetry: “The Whispers of Stones” and “Sea Glass”.  Nature and one’s place in it, is her muse. In 2013, she was shortlisted for Descant’s Winston Collins Best Canadian Poem Prize. She lives, teaches and writes in Oakville, Ontario, Canada.

My Story Is Not My Own (a film poem concerning Nov. 22, 1963)

The same film with subtitles:

still with credit

In 2009 I created My Story Is Not My Own, a metaphysical & surreal film poem concerning the Kennedy assassination. My statement concerning this project is beneath the video on the YouTube page.

The World Screened by John Oughton

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The world through your window

is screened into rows of tiny cubes 

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that means we can remake

the world by shifting them

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a pure pane of sky shines

from the pine’s arthritic roots

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the library is strewn along the walk

which itself winds over

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branches, bedrooms. Shadows of things start

elsewhere and cross where they might be cloud

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the pedestrian’s two left eyes

regard the sun strolling on her leash

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as they move cube by cube over the clear blue lawn

her heart is (not is like) a bird

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The World Screened was previously published in Time Slip (Guernica Editions, 2010). John Oughton is a Toronto poet with five books published, and a professor at Centennial College.

rrrrrI wanted to capture the sense of real/unreal within this poem’s surrealism. The piano motif relates to background music, or a composition, in which the poem seems to move… I juxtaposed pictorial elements playing off the poem’s (in part) bright, Miro-like mood as well as the more subtly expressed romantic, melancholy yearnings.

The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower by Dylan Thomas

         

 The force that through the green fuse drives the flower

Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees

Is my destroyer.

And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose

My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

 The force that drives the water through the rocks

Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams

Turns mine to wax.

And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins

How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

 The hand that whirls the water in the pool

Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind

Hauls my shroud sail.

And I am dumb to tell the hanging man

How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;

Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood

Shall calm her sores.

And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind

How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb

How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.