Lattice of Sunlight Through the Trees

Finally school has ended for the summer and I am able to start indulging in writing poetry and reading some fantastic literature I wasn’t making time for. I recently bought the collected works of Wallace Stevens and have been utterly inspired to say the least. His poetry seems to concern the transformative power of the imagination. Stevens’ style is entirely exotic, whimsical and infused with a sense of light and Impressionism; his words are soft and quiet yet explanatory, much like the unfinished brushstrokes of the impressionist painters.
So far, my favorite poem has been “The Brave Man.” I can’t explain whether it was the power of repetition, or the dark and ominous imagery, that struck me the most; I found it both ironic and brilliant to relate such a shadowy vision to describe the sun. The sun becomes an entity that is able to exist victoriously, impervious to the hand at man, at least during the day time. The poem is beautifully written and implies a sense of dependability where the sun never tarries, and always continues on its path.

That Brave Man
Wallace Stevens

The sun, that brave man,
Comes through boughs that lie in wait,
That brave man.

Green and gloomy eyes
In the dark forms of the grass
Run away.

The good stars,
Pale helms and spiky spurs,
Run away.

Fears of my bed,
Fears of life and fears of death,
Run away.

That brave man comes up
From below and walks without meditation,
That brave man.

A Poem: "My Breath, Taken Twice"

My Breath, Taken Twice
By Jenna Reimer

My breath, taken twice
Is all I have to tell today.
Once, kissed by a soft wind,
My cheeks flushed a rose-red-
Twice, that breeze parting
Into an eternal distance-
This is poetry I cannot write.
This, and my heart, and all the trees,
And all the fields wide,
In time I may forget-
And never a pen will speak
This feeling so fleetingly.

Video of the Day: "To Autumn By John Keats"

A Poem: "To The Poet"

(I Was reading some Andrew Marvell and wanted to try my first pastoral poem... excited arn't yah?)

To The Poet
By Jenna Reimer

Give the sun the grace of night,
Neutral doves the morning flight.
Let crystal strings drift aloft a brook
Where leaves lay grazing from a tree that shook.
Sprouts that dance amongst the wind
Will rest in soil and rebirth again.
Shower the land with precious stones,
Nourish the field where creatures roam.
Basking in the day's lilac scent,
Their bows embody life’s inherent bent.
Write the beauty of tomorrow's mourn
And speak of truth that life adorns.
Mould the hills for us to reach
Where a place in time we will come to meet.

A Poem: "For Once"

Once again, another beautiful morning has lifted my spirits into an enlightened wakefulness. I cherish the wee hours of the morning when all is still asleep, waiting for the sun to break and spread its warmth, as I am in my most lucid state of mind. Everyday I am up at 4am and, although I could use a bit more sleep, love the quiet tranquility I am able to embrace in a welcomed solitude. It is just before daybreak where my mind is clear of any future intentions and I write in a naked bliss (not literally of course haha) and this morning was no exception.

For Once
By Jenna Reimer

Though many blossoms sway in the morning breeze,
Their roots remain as one.
I breathe this summer wind, transcendent;
Yet, I discern my mind and body beyond this picture.
It is this picture, hesitant and uncertain,
That has never given me a shining reflection
Of a lighted vision of deeper clarity.
Much like the surface of a well’s water,
Whose contents are hidden inside a murky grave,
I whither into my own intentions.
Looking outside the window
Discovering a nectar-like truth,
I begin to sway my own leaves and flowers.

A Serene Sunday… Thoughts on Life, Nature and Poetry

It has been a beautiful weekend with magnificent weather, finally! I am feeling particularly strong mental and determined, despite some obstacles I must conquer this in the next few days, to have a wonderful week. A new found perspective on the joy of life is finally overwhelming my soul and I am making a conscious effort to do one thing a week that frightens me (yes, it’s a clique therapy goal but sometimes it ok to follow some psycho-babble bullshit once in a while). My life has been far too structured for far too long and it is time I start living my best life with serious intention and no expectations.

In the wee hours of the morning, sitting on my deck having a cigarette and watching the crimson sky transform into a lucid blue, William Wordsworth’s poetry popped into my head. His appreciation for natural world and ability to capture its imperfections inspires me to understand that beauty. The poem’s lyrical movement exemplifies the idea that poetry is an emotion engulfed in tranquility, where imagination is the key that unlocks the innermost depths of the human spirit; the imagination is best awakened by celebrating the wonders of nature.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: -
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -and gazed -but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.

An Artist and A Movement: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec and Art Nouveau

The Art Nouveau style has always captivated me with its elegant charm and whimsical beauty. The architecture, painting and sculptures in the style always have this sinuous, elongated and curvy lines that appear to imitate the imperfections of nature; the pieces are always uniquely disproportioned and asymmetrical to simulate the flawed beauty of the natural world. Architecture, furniture and jewelry is decorated with stylish flowers, leaves, roots, buds and seedpods are carelessly, yet intentionally, laced throughout the work. Art Nouveau paintings celebrate the female form by presenting them in a pre-Raphaelite pose with long, flowing hair and a curvy, yet delicate, silhouette. Exotic woods, marquetry, iridescent glass, silver and semi-precious stones adorn pieces to create the overly dramatic Art Nouveau style; all so Parisian, obviously, and just lovely in every way.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was an artist of the late 19th century whose art captured the Parisian nightlife of the period. His work was a true embodiment of Art Nouveau; an international style of decoration characterized by writhing plant forms and an opposition to the historicism which engulfed the early 19th century. His emphasis on artistic unity exemplified this new style of art where the illustrations were formed through eccentric fantasy and mystic themes.

Toulouse-Lautrec had unfortunate circumstances. Born in 1864 in Albi, France to an aristocrat family, Henri grew up amongst luxury. However grandeur the prospect of his future appeared, it was two broken legs by the age of 14 which would change the circumstances of Henri’s life forever; his bones failed to heal properly and by adulthood his legs stopped growing causing him to be abnormally short in stature. Deprived of any kind of normal live Toulouse-Lautrec lived wholly for his art. His works encompassed the heart of the cabaret entertainment and bohemian life in the Montmartre section of Paris.

F*ck It Friday... A Poem

Tree Figure
By Jenna Reimer

A tree stands before me;
Barren branches crowding a marked sky,
Unmoving below a merciless twilight,
I sit beneath it within the shadow of a wind.
Knowing all the things I have known once
Disappear into an entreated bliss.
The tree’s boughs grow into my breast,
Swallowing my limbs of fickle fury.
I was a tree among the woods.

Serene Saturday... A Poem

To Sleep
By Jenna Reimer

I must sleep – though my body will not allow.
Waves of wind draw shadows of dead leaves
Strewed about my window,
Drifting in a breeze singing of tomorrows;
Leaf upon leaf, leaf upon earth.
Birds cry in the blustery breeze
Thundering crossways that once held them
Suspended in the air.
An untamed chill steals my essence
Falling into a bittersweet place.
The roar of a furnace, the fleeting traffic,
Heavy feet treading the walkway:
It lessens my limbs and softens my brow;
All to release me into a feathered slumber.
An opened door rattles and swishes
In the final spray of that very wind
Who disturbs the resting.
My eyes fall into my mind, my mind
Falls into a troubled state of dreary;
Lips slightly open, enough for a breath of wind-
Let me dream while night goes by,
And never goes by.

"The Swollen River" By Jenna Reimer

Cloud over rain, rain over cloud;
The fury of earth’s breast bone
Proclaims a sweet dominion
Rooting down to the river’s edge.
It is here, where I lie
The time rises
Into the irrational mind;
Where naked bodies are buried
In illusions of transcendence,
Fluid beneath the air’s lucidity
And timeless breath.
The sun has dawn on this realm
Where nothing is clear.
Truth has no means as death lives
In deaths arms with no solution;
To say this is clear would save us all.
It is only when my body drowns
In the rising river, and the rain
Hollows in full and continues,
That I will come out of this
knowing no one,
Nor they me.

"Trap Lines" By Jenna Reimer

The softest feet are crisply straying
Throughout a dark wood.
Thickets brush against the innocence
Of a young boy- tired and afraid.
Lost amongst towering trees,
The hierarchy of the natural world,
His mind strolls about thirsty.

What was once his open heart,
Caring for the secret livings
Of whatever roams the forest,
Is forgotten; the twilight of a sullen moon
transforms the earth
Into the frighteningly unfamiliar.

A keen wind flays
Screaming trees with a light snow;
Stifling the boy from hope to terror.
A childhood memory destroyed
By a dream of a doom
And a peeling sky that lost its worth
And abandoned him.

(Artwork: "Dark Forest" By Min Woo Bang; www.fineartamerica.com)

Entrance into the Field

Here I am amidst a wave of dying wheat
swaying in a fragrance of burnt oak.
My feet heavy within a listless gut;
an inconclusive body
in a realm of bitter soil.

Malicious clouds observe a ruin,
unnourished and dim-
a pith of a steeped soul.
A boundless dream once
hidden within your broad mouth.

Earth of sweet marrow,
embrace me to a life.
To your death,
To your trodden pasture,
where a neutral path blazes,
and is still, and breathes.

Let us be destroyed by fire.
Let us be silent.