Art is My Religion

March 19, 2010

Stolen Years

Filed under: philosophy,poetry,short stories — Michele Spector @ 4:01 am
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By Michele Spector

Droplets spiral earthbound,

Mourning all fallen heroes,

Umbrellas blossoming,

Veiling hearts wounded.

Draping red, white and blue,

Embracing cold onyx box,

Small measure of precious lives,

Bright lights extinguished eternally.

Another dead end war,

Comrades immortalized upon,

Engraved slabs of stone,

This grimly reminds us that,

The dead cannot change their minds.

Strangely enough this poem was spawned from the graveyard scene in the movie “The Watchmen”. I was so profoundly moved by it, that as soon as I walked through the door, I ran to the computer to write it down. It took a few weeks to finish.

I wish I could march on Washington to protest all the wars we are still fighting. They’re all senseless, people don’t want to fight them. We’ve been dragged into the ones we are in by pretexts later found out to be untrue. Now, they’re barely making headlines while drones, bought with our tax dollars, are killing families in droves in Pakistan, and Aghanistan. And hardly a word now about Iraq, as if it fell off the map. This country cares more about fighting wars then about helping its own citizens.

The wars won’t stop unless we all march on Washington and say enough. But because we are a volunteer military, and at least half of the fighting force is Blackwater, it won’t stop. As long as corporations run the world, it won’t stop. Perhaps if we’re reminded what’s going on by watching coffins being unloaded off military planes on the nightly news, or see young children being slaughtered and maimed in other countries with our own bullets,  will it stop.

February 11, 2010

My Poetry

Filed under: blogging,philosophy,poetry — Michele Spector @ 2:33 pm
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By Michele Spector

Poetry, my valued companion,

Searching life for richer essence,

Not content to dally long,

Concealed amidst the shallows,

Preferably burrowing instead,

Deeply inside its marrow.

January 31, 2010

Artist’s Soup

Filed under: art,blogging,editing,philosophy,poetry,self-help,writing — Michele Spector @ 6:26 pm
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By Michele Spector

I never allow myself the luxury,

Of simply breathing in or exhaling,

I hurry here and I hurry there,

Intent on being where I haven’t,

To quell the silence within,

I run around in the without.

I must endeavor to be creative,

It reaffirms my existence,

Otherwise it might suggest,

I was content to never be.

Mixed in my own confusion,

And merging with the void,

Dispenses with boundaries,

To share this artistic soup.

Everyday I try to write something. Perhaps it makes no sense, or has any direction, but I write. Because most of what I do recently is by happenstance, I started this blog.

The poetry on this page is a result of attending an open mic on a friend’s insistence. In front of strangers I read six poems from my collection. The hosts fussed over the mic’s which let out some feedback, just in case I didn’t have everyone’s rapt attention. I made a joke about how I wasn’t performing any Led Zeppelin, and pleaded with them to hold onto their loose fruit because I wore light-colored clothing, and wanted to keep it that way.  I was so nervous, but when the audience laughed, I was off to a roaring start. They hooted when I read a few lines from one, and there was thunderous applause when I finished. But they did that for everyone.

I’d never read in front of a crowd of humans before. Although I dumped my poems frequently, back in the day, on my unwitting friends. I have caches of these hiding out in a box somewhere in that black hole I call my basement. To unearth them I’d have to go through every single box.  To date it still hasn’t been found. It’s a collection of my high school poetry, or rants of a thirteen-year old as I like to call them. But perhaps they are better off missing.

The only reason I started writing poetry again was because a poet rejoined an author’s group I belonged to. I was inspired by her extremely intelligent work. It really made me think. I thank her, but also another friend for posting a poetry slam on the board at work. Only the day before, someone else told me to go where there were other artists. I think accidents are the universe’s way of pushing us in the right direction.

The last open mic I went to a few different times. I read too fast, and too softly. But with some patient couching by another poet, I improved. Now, everyone can hear me and digest what I’m saying. Although there’s always room for improvement, it was food for the soul to be among others with the same inclination for artistic expression. It wasn’t a salad, it wasn’t a souffle, it was an artistic soup I loved simmering in.

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