Journey Through the Years 

Image by Thailen When

Welcome back to the home of the Nomad, Mi Casa es Su Casa, settle in and sink into a word or two.

Before the pleasantries over run our conversation, there is something I need to share. There is no easy way to tell you this, but right now as we speak we are locking ourselves into another serial series.

I know what you’re thinking, we’ve not long gotten out of the whole poems for planets thing I’d been playing with, and the wounds are still very fresh. However we must continue to follow where the river flows, dragging you down another rabbit hole might seem all too soon but my curiosity demands it. This is education and entertainment, at least I hope it is.

We had a great time touring our solar system from Sun to Pluto, playing around with the idea of space. Now its time to switch the focus and toy around with time. I’d like to present to you…

“A Journey Through the Years”.

The idea for this new journey came to me while I was doing some additional reading for my last project. Wondering into a labyrinth of mythology and symbolism I stumbles onto the Chinese Zodiac.  The Chinese Zodiac is a collection of 12 animals, each representing a year in a 12 year cycle, according to a lunar calendar. Its a concept that has been around for years, with an origin story that is sustained through time in differing versions. The work of Joseph Campbell on mythology has taught me to pay attention to these myths and legends that survive the test of time.

“Myths are public dreams, dreams are private myths.”

Joseph Campbell

The 12 Zodiac animals, in their given order, are:

  1. Rat
  2. Ox
  3. Tiger
  4. Rabbit
  5. Dragon
  6. Snake
  7. Horse
  8. Goat
  9. Monkey
  10. Rooster
  11. Dog
  12. Pig

 

During the coming weeks will be introduced to each of the animals in turn. You will meet the animals through open letters, poems, monologues or pictures. The medium of representation for each will be left to the discretion of my muse and the characteristics and traits of the animal.

Stay Tuned.

B.N.

 

Poems for Planets: Uranus

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It’s lives!!

This series was meant to have been a weekly affair. I wanted to engage with you, the reader while sharpening my sword, so weather the quiet months while I find the words to share. I have had a few hard lessons to learn in these passing months, I’m hoping my future serial posts live up to the my original intentions. There are only 3 planters left to play with in this series. Let us end in this in style.

Let us allow Uranus to revive the project, this is an interesting character to resume the flow. It’s the only planet that is leant over on its side. It’s axis is tipped at a peculiar 98 degrees. Its earned its name as the “Ice Giant” for a very obvious reason. It doesnt have a surface per say, its a has giant of hydrogen and ice. This is a cold cold cold place.

Like many of the planets it has moons that orbit it, the names of this planet deserves a whole post for themselves, they are named after characters by Williams Shakespeare and Alexander Pope.

The mythology behind the planets is a wild and crazy winding road, Uranus is no exception to this. The god of the sky/heaven courted his mother (Gaia) to sire the titans who in turn birthed more familiar deities like Zeus and Poseidon. The Mythological aspect of our solar system is colored with oddities that are guaranteed to fascinate.

Late me waste no more of our time together and share this Ice Giants tribute in this, My Poems for Planets.

 

Uranus: Limerick

 
You sleep as you sweep through the motions,

Jaundiced from frozen emotions.

Your orbit is plagued

By a hoard from the stage.

You play the Oedipus who sired commotion.

 

B.N.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Remembering Life

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It’s started to sound impossibly vague.

“Act normal!”

A fatigued cape that hang low to the floor, collecting dust as he walked around. Weighed down by this cloak tailored by the men and women who had lost the spectrum of their childish enjoyment, eager to fight the cold of a world without play. It had become dangerous to shut his eyes and run free, to forget the turnstiles and painted borders. The threat of losing his footing and falling naked in all his humanness was very real.

“Act Normal!!” They said

He had started to wear his frown comfortably. It was no longer painful to his cheeks to keep them pinned to the scaffold of normalcy. It required no effort to appease his need for mischief when the little voices inside his heart regurgitated an age old song that accompanied his finest memories.  I’m sure he had forgotten how high his lips would leap as his hands would reach for the fruits that teased his gaze, beckoning him through the over hanging leaves, blades of sunlight gifting a spotlight to a hiding place in the tallest branches of his curiosity. It was in the throes of play that he learned the value of a strong hang shake. Now a mere shadow of that grip that kept him hoisted in the swaying branches of his youth, he reaches out his palm to his fellow man with practiced smiles, climbing deeper into the frost..

He learned to walk in fine shoes, toes pined together in leather points, a world away from the freedom of the earth on the soles of his feet. The neck that crafted the songs that lit up the night and mirrored the campfire, had now been tied down by the perfect knot, ready to walk into the empty rooms filled with hollow promises, muted by time. “This is the making of a man,” they told him. He swallowed this medicine as he lashed another layer of normalcy over his shoulders, hiding a horror story of loss beneath the sharp lapel of his double breasted jacket.

Parchments marked by learned men gave him permission to impose his knowledge on the world, now they know he knows.Before he had earned their approval, his words were open to criticism and disbelief. What has been lived and not written was counterfeit in worth to them, they needed proof.

His Grandfathers grey hairs and speckled eyes warmed themselves over the fire as he talked about the worlds he remembered. He didn’t fill his tattered bag with papers to persuade his attention, father time had written enough in the groves in his cheeks to speak volumes, the hardened skin on his palms were always reminder enough that he wrestled his own truth on his pilgrimage into wisdom. The sun sets he had seen  colored his life with hate, with love, with pain, with joy. Even as his mind failed him, his heart was the last to sing this mans song.

Sometimes he’d gift him with yams tilled from the pocket of earth he had nursed for years. They would eat together as his grandfather walked him through stories he had heard as a boy, stories he had lived as a man and the songs her knew that banished the rain. They were the motifs that returned to him time and time again, as compass points, guiding him while he wondered out of the wily maze of childhood.

His grandfather has passed away a few summers back, now the stories that lit those fires are only conjured into the air sparingly. Returning to the land of the living after the sky light was low and the taste of life returned to his mouth once the sterile air of fiscal responsibility lost the power to numb his tongue. His eyes would tear at the punchlines of old jokes that were the sweet nut fleshed out by anecdotes of the campfire. These memories were survived through quiet moments, the power of prayer allowed him to play pretend that man who nurtured his imagination was willing him forward into the fray.

He wondered what the man by campfire would make of this polished world. With no time for fire song, cold hearts are draping themselves in currency to stave off winter. When so much is changing, maybe he will understand. Maybe he would see the sense in bartering the things he had, for the life he had made.

He heard the echoes of the fire inside his longing for his teacher. He knew that his time to teach would come, and the parchments mounted on his walls, vouched for by learned men, would take a back seat to the story that father time will write into his flesh. The music in his heart and the color of his truth would be the fuel for budding flames. He would have to wrestle with his own truth on his pilgrimage into wisdom, till his pocket of this world and feed another hungry heart its fill of laughter and song. Write the notes that would steer their feet through the maze.

All roads will hopefully lead to home.

 

Forged in Fire

Moulded in the toughest moments, your decision will find its voice. There incisions will multiply in effect when applied with experience, that itself is earned through bad decision. 
The spoils of war can be fickle if the battles were void of venture, sterile with stencils yet tested, with what ifs unanswered. Go bravely into battle.

I can question victors tirelessly and ask for the remedies, ask for the formulae to construct my own pulpit. If I only step into the well worn shoes of my professor I can feel the wear of there tread, none of that can show me the road. I must lace up my own, I must take to the path, remembering well, the cautions and failings at my own accord. 

Champions aren’t made over night, watch for the scars under their armour. Those will be the most potent of teachers for the vigilant scholar. When you relish each battle, undiluted by the myths of completion, victory and effort will be separate but one. 
I have never lost a battle. I have grappled with my maladjustments. I have learned the pitfalls of vigour with no vision, learn the impotence of vision with no vigour, I’ve learned the power of the mob, the mob is fickle. 
The bellows are rampant and will not cater to your cadence, the furnace has no sympathy for the timidity. The anvil will spare you nothing, brace for the beat of the hammer. The mighty iron will mark time, crashing against the virgin or kneading out the impurities. The metronome of steel and grit will bound until your armour is finished, so then you can wage war on the horizon of your new beginnings. 

Writing 201 – Day 1, part 2: Haiku “Floating/fleeting”

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Today’s Challenge for Writing 201 has left me revelling in the allure of a newness. I’ve spent my evening pouring over the various submission to the days prompt with varying degrees of understanding, curiosity and awe. 17 syllables have trapped me in fascination and I fail to shake there grasp. With the same brief still in mind I have decided to contribute another poem. Another haiku to further confuse my idea of rhythm, meter and prose, and to better talk in a finer tuned tone of brevity.

FLEETING/FLOATING

Sprawling anxious waves
Alive like stolen secrets.
Every breath recedes.

Notes from Paranoia: DIY

“It’s so silly, it just might work” Said the non existent voice in my head!

Just my luck, It worked!! It worked very well the first time, went as swimmingly the second time. In fact, it continued it’s hot streak through the next 7 times that followed the third. All hands on deck!! There is a breach in my minds reality!!

Defying expectations is a blessing and a curse, a double edged sword that cuts swiftly through a poorly constructed picture of reality. Apart from dealing out a refreshed look at life, leaving you feeling like the protagonist who discovers his power of flight, It can also feel very much like discovering a broken egg in the midst of unpacking your groceries. Stay with me here! It’s not the worst thing to happen, but annoying none the less, you can’t help but frantically turn over every egg in search for anything else that’s broken, and anything that isn’t as it should be. Having been right for so long, it’s understandable to doubt the standards by which we measure plausibility when we, ourselves, defy what we thought to be right. When we take a step into the grey areas of our minds and suddenly see turquoise and green, the questions cry out in cannon. Crying out in cannons and muskets of what ifs and whys waging war on the mind frame that proved it’s self… Inadequate.

It goes without saying that we all look at life through different lenses. Similar situations morph under individual perspective. This lens is bent and moulded by the route life takes us through, every now and then life throws us a little something new and updates our prescription.

PARANOIA
“Manners don’t cost?! The concept offends me!! Because I’ve known the truth, I’ve felt the truth!! The fear of offending the soft and hard edges gives them permission to solidify, and balloon irrationally. Only serving to cripple those curious toes that will teach you more than those arrogant books. The scholars implied fire could burn, the hot embers just screamed at me. They scream at me!! I can still hear them now…. Never again”