Art As A Work Of Life: A Guest Post by Janet C. Hanson

It’s not that I’m a snob, although some might disagree. Nor is it that I’m lazy, although others might disagree. I simply haven’t had guest posts as often as I should. With this offering by blogger, Janet C. Hanson, I’d like to change that. When she posted this and it found its way into the internet aether, it was pounced upon quickly like hungry birds to a free meal, tossed around, shared and shared again. She’s insightful and warm and wise and witty. You know, kinda like me (as I am in my bios).

Originally posted on April 30, 2013 by Janet Hanson

A l’oevre on reconnâit l’artisan. You can tell an artist by his handiwork. ~French proverb

painting-of-woman-writing

“You can make art or make a product. The two are very different.”

My art teacher, Randy Blasquez, shared the quote on her blog. The context was art and love. “Why doesn’t love come across when you look at a painting? Because it wasn’t put into the painting! The artist was pleasing the gallery or trying to sell.”

How much of your life is spent trying to please the gallery?

The books on writing, the books on art, the books on living life to the full, all agree: Skill matters, but love is essential in any work of art.

I think you would like my writer’s group. Around the word-slinging circle you’ll find a Whitman’s Sampler of styles. We take turns being the discouraged, remind me why I am doing this member, or, less often, the poster child for astounded success. I’ve learned by watching these women wrestle with their art. Things like,

  • A good writer is generous. They bleed their fears, doubts and delights all over the page, with nothing held back for later.
  • A good writer refreshes. They peer into the fog and refuse to blink until they notice a reason for hope.
  • A good writer lights the way. With words gripped by ink-stained fingers they draw us from the dark.

Bad writing may sell books, but readers are left in shadow. A bad life may look successful, but the world is left just as dim.

Art As A Work Of Life

For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago. Ephesians 2:10

Together, we are God’s handiwork.

Does your story prove that it’s true?

Generous, refreshing, bearer of light, are we changed by the reading of you?

Every day, we’re given a choice–to be just another product, shaped by the world, or let God shape his image in us.

Where have you noticed God’s artistry at work in your life?

Find out more about Janet and her wonderful material here.

Back to harbour

And so she trades her sail for still

her wake for windless waiting.

But at least her harbour’d

solitude brings with it

many stories.

in the harbor

Picture: www.old-picture.com

Bagpipes

bagpiper

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes rise like smoke

choking out all others

with the rough hands

of time and tragedy.

Their beautiful hums

sing a sustained song,

peering with insistent gaze

into hearty souls

and soulish hearts.

Broken teeth still chatter

with the bite of loss

and the taste of pain.

But this broad sound

rises to the occasion

like no other.

A land, many times stolen,

is the only crucible fit

to shape this enduring

roar, this brutish beauty.

She, soaked in brine of peat

and multicolored limbs,

snorts in stoic disregard

for all that dares

impede the moorish march

of belief in yesterdays.

Any old fool can pose

a lust for tunish repast

‘round doilied tables of tea and greed,

disgust of the rich, the divas of demand.

Not this sweet savage,

not this tumble down lullaby

haunt of kings, joke of ghosts.

In her misty-eyed song

you’ll find no sorrys,

just a jolly lament

and the bittersweet ceilidh

of the lost.

Sing along…if you dare.

Picture: www.bagpipers.com  (my kinda website!)

Conundrum (or the best realization available to one unable to see)

little child

I don’t see it.

You said I would,

but I can’t.

Am I blind,

or are you a liar?

Or have we both

been misled?

Do I ask

too many questions,

or do the questions

ask too much

of me?

old lady

Little girl picture: www.jen-elise.blogspot.com

Old lady picture: www.brokelyn.com

Beannacht (Blessing)

John O'Donohue

As I’ve mentioned about a thousand times, I’m possessive of a deeply Celtic, mystical spirit and as such, am drawn to others of similar ilk. Irish Catholic poet, writer and Hegelian philosopher, John O’Donohue (1956-2008) is one such kindred spirit. At the risk of sounding crass, to read O’Donohue is to make love with words. His facility with nuance, the numinous and near, the transcendent and tame, of the thin places of the world is second to none.

The following piece is one of my favorites. I’ve used this in liturgy many times and return to it on almost any occasion just to speak the words that, in themselves, bless in the saying of them. Read it once quietly. Read it twice more quietly. Read it out loud a third time. Finally, let it read you.

Then, wait. You will not be disappointed.

Beannacht

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,                                                                                                      
may the clay dance
to balance you.
And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

Ireland

Picture: www.garyverderamo.com

A Slow Awakening

windy day

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You awake

from your long slumber

not rested, but certain

that you’d never even

been asleep.

And now, an impatient wind

teases the nostrils

of the promiscuous trees.

They huddle together,

sharing secrets.

The heartbeat of Spring,

resuscitated

from your sporadic rest,

jumps again to push

the filaments of breath

back into the sleeping army

of dirty, brown grass,

now blushing green.

Forward then, dear soul,

Wind of wind,

Scent of scent,

Heart of heart,

revive our favored memories

now colored with

the speech of stones,

the sky’s delight,

the lightning’s embrace,

the now and nocturnal –

awaiting to hear

the New of the new.

Picture: www.essenceinphotography.com

Empty House – guest poem by Seymour Jacklin

Another guest poem today. This one is by another favorite writer/poet and emerging friend, Seymour Jacklin. He is also a gifted storyteller with an awesomely cool accent (think South African blended with potpourri English). This one is spoken word which, in my opinion, is the best way to capture the fullest essence of the multi-sensory art of poetry.

Enjoy.

http://soundcloud.com/seeingmore/empty-house

in good company – a guest poem

I have a number of friends who are writer/poet/musicians like myself. Dan Erickson is one such friend. For my daily offering for National Poetry Month I choose to share the following piece from his personal blog. It was originally posted on April 21st. You can find the poem on his blog here.

in good company

Imagine a world without chicken soup,

where cooking is joyless. Imagine a

world with no rules of order,

no elements of style. Imagine a world

in which Peter Rabbit and Huckleberry

Finn never existed in word or

imagination. Imagine a world

with no “Leaves of Grass.”

 

The “self-published” have often

been looked upon as less than writers,

sneered at by a snobbish industry.

They’ve been rejected, accused, ignored

and left to rust. They’ve been treated

with disrespect, disdain, and dismissed

as amateurs.

 

I know.

I was once told,

“Your story is splendid, but we have no

room on our shelves.”

Splendid? Indeed!

It’s a harrowing tale of rape and child abuse.

The critic never read a page.

 

Stories survive. Survivor’s stories live on.

Mark Twain, Upton Sinclair, Carl Sandburg,

James Joyce, Steven Crane, Edgar Allen Poe,

Walt Whtman, Ezra Pound, Henry David Thoreau,

Thomas Paine, and Virginia Wolff,

just to name

a few.

Roses are read

roses

 

 

 

 

 

 

Roses are read,

where color is words.

Violets are blew,

and sing with the birds.

Her tendrils in time

stretch out to renew,

for Spring isn’t blind,

her labors ensue.

When yellow as time

and auburn as rest,

there comes but a moment

only love knows best.

So turn from the Westland

where winter-deep lives

and point your eyes East

to gifts Summer gives.

Here, in the triage

of heaven’s remains

we see what is needed

to seed late Autumn grain.

Return’d now to Fall,

with not yet wearied skies,

and before sleep succumbs,

she bids all goodbye.

 

Picture: www.everyseven.com

 

 

Dinnertime for the quail

quail

 

 

 

 

 

 

The quail can always find a home

‘neath bush and tree and garden gnome.

Their pencil legs a meager stand

are still enough to ‘scape my hand.

They jut and dart and squirt around

like wing-ed hamsters, rarely found,

and when the time has come to dine

they squiggle cross my lawn to find

a twig, a bud, a worm or two

to feed their quail-ettes like they do.

They never come just two or three

but dozens, quite the sight to see.

These paragons of Spring time flare

though awkward, still they, willing, dare

to squat inside my arbor bush

until their next big dinner rush.

 

Picture: www.mommaneedsabeer.blogspot.com