Where does poetry come from?

Poetry is formed in the human heart like diamonds are formed in the earth.

Diamonds are formed 90 miles deep in the earth in places where temperatures reach 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit. 

Poetry is formed in the depths of the heart, at times when passions blaze hot.
  
Diamonds are formed under great pressure with the weight of the earth pressing down on them. 

Poetry is often formed under the pressures of life and great mental duress.

Diamonds are expulsed from the depths of the earth by volcanic eruptions. 

Poetry spews forth when the pressure is too great, and can no longer be bottled-up but has been kept inside just long enough. Or the emotions well worth, like oozing lava,  and with them comes sometimes a poem or two. 

But  this is not the only way diamonds and poetry are made.

Diamonds are are also birthed when asteroids crash into the earth. Poetry is born when something touches your life with great impact.

Diamonds are formed when ocean meets earth.  Poetry is sometimes formed when a new thought takes hold in your mind and the realization is crystallized.

Diamonds and poems can appear clear and bright, like a star, distant and cold, yet burning white. The beauty of diamonds belie the extreme conditions under which they were formed while poetry captures them in a frozen moment. In a poem flashes facets of human passion, thought, and feeling crystallized into a drop of beauty. 

Diamond Formation Information

My Museum of Memories

Memory is a funny thing. Certain things we retain, and others we forget. Mark Gungor compares men's brains to boxes and women's to ball of wire. See the video on Youtube.  BBC's Sherlock has a "Mind Palace" which is like some extra deep place he'll go to retrieve information stored there to solve cases.

I've decided that my mind is like a museum. It's not a particularly well-ordered and logically laid out one either. Additionally, it's got a lot of cluttered rooms and a few with almost nothing in them. My museum contains little movie clips I play over and over, snapshots of the past, and other artifacts of memory. Some memories I frequent more often, they're on display. Others are stuck in the back rooms, not particularly special, just tossed into a corner somewhere. Others are like precious, fragile treasures I hide away to protect and keep them alive, I can't share those moments right away and hardly dare look at them myself lest I damage them with rough handling.

Yet time tells on my memories and like the Mona Lisa, they fade. Rusty old swords lie in some corners. It doesn't matter how hard I try to preserve them, whether by sharing, secreting them away, or playing them over and over. The closer I look at my museum pieces, the more I notice the decay, the blurred detail on a picture, or the missing page in a manuscript. I cringe at the faded paint and the empty casing were a gem used to be lodged but has now tumbled out of its setting. I might find it eventually in some unexpected corner...

Some of my memories I don't like, they're the ugly paintings. In these cases, time is often my friend. With time the garish colors fade, the wine mellows, and the pain no longer stings the same. And they say hindsight is 20/20 vision. I can see the good that came from pain and I can savor triumphs without the suspense and agony of the moment. Success memories are like award plaques, medals, and trophies in my collection.

My memory paintings attempt to capture a moment
in time, but what is a picture to the moment itself? If I write them down, the actual moment slips away like sand through an hour glass. It's like pressing a leaf: some of the colors are preserved but the leaf is dry and brittle, and not as bright and glossy as it once was. Artifacts and crumbled journals help us see the past, but they can't take you there. Still, I catalogue my treasures and I write my journals, but it's not the same.

I cannot share my memory museum, I walk these halls alone. When I share a memory it's like giving someone a postcard from the gift-shop. It's a photocopied memory that I let others see. Just as my memories are removed from the actual moment, so too my attempts at sharing them with others are removed another step further from that moment.

It's part of  my personality, I think, to capture and preserve, document, and convey. I'm always writing or taking photos. As a Sensor (Myers-Briggs), I learn from my past experiences, through physical sensations. And I want to share what I experience. How do I capture golden drops of sunlight that flicker through my lashes on a balmy summer morning? I add another artifact (a sensation) to my collection like one adds a painting to a gallery wall. A painting expresses something of its subject, but it's not like being there, in the scene in my mind, experiencing it the way I felt it. So I describe, like a painter paints, I add my own interpretation, how I saw it, and I try to express just what that moment felt like to me.

The Road goes ever on and on without me

Photo Credit: Edana A.

"The Road goes ever on and on
 Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the road has gone,
and I must follow if I can,
 Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
 Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say."
~ from The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien

Photo Credit: Edana A.

Sometimes I want to just take a road and follow it all the way from it's source to it's end, wherever that may be, and just see what happens to it. Does it grow larger or smaller, what places does it pass through, does it meander through the woods and little towns, does it pass through big towns or open country? Where does it go?

Sometimes my heart cries out in restless desperation because I cannot follow all roads (usually when I am sight-seeing and exploring), I cannot go around every corner. On and on, the road and the land go, and I always wonder, "what's around the bend, what's over the next hill, the next stone?"

Just as in the poem, the road goes on ahead without me, and I chase it with my small feet, but then I meet a fork, or some side path, or I have to go back for I have neither time nor energy to keep going.

Bilbo spoke of being "swept" of his feet, and he told Frodo, "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.  Do you realize that this is the very path that goes through Mirkwood, and if you let it, it might take you to the Lonely Mountain or even further to worse places?"

Sometimes you leave the house and you don't know what will happen in the course of the day or were you will go, you may have a destination, but that may change, or other destinations are added, or a wrong turn will bring you to sights and places you didn't expect to go. It's like life.  

Like little hobbits, we live out our humdrum lives, but maybe we will be called to a higher purpose and go to lands we never dreamed of.

Photo Credit: Edana A.

"Big as a house, gray as a mouse," and very loud!

The Song of Roland is an old French epic poem in which the knights of Charlemagne battle Saracen forces.
The leading knight, Roland, has a horn that they refer to as an "olifant."

Olifant

 "Olifant" is the Old French word for "elephant." In fact, the present day English word is derived from the French (The American Heritage Dictionary). What is an elephants tusk? Ivory. Roland's horn was probably made of ivory.

In The Lord of the Rings, by J. R. R. Tolkien, there are some large elephant-like creatures called, "Oliphaunts."  (The title of this post comes from a poem about Oliphaunts in the book.)

Boromir also had an important horn.  It is mentioned in his first appearance in the book, "on a baldric he wore a great horn tipped in silver that now was laid upon his knees." He blew it as he defended Merry and Pippin from the Orcs, calling his companions: "Then suddenly with a deep-throated call a great horn blew, and the blasts of it smote the hills and echoed in the hollows, rising in a mighty shout above the roaring of the falls."  As Aragorn raced towards the scene, the horn sounded "desperately" and then ceased abruptly. He arrived too late: the Orcs had already run off with the hobbits. Aragorn found Boromir sitting against a tree, dieing. His horn, symbolic of his life, lay broken at his side. "But Aragorn saw that he was pierced with many black-feathered arrows; his sword was still in his hand, but it was broken near the hilt; his horn cloven in two was at his side. Many Orcs lay slain, piled all around him and at his feet."

As Roland fought the attacking Saracens, his friend Olivier told him to blow the horn and call for the help of Charlemagne's army.  Roland refused, and as a result the entire rear guard was wiped out, including himself and Olivier. However, before the battle was completely over, Roland blew the horn long and loud and called the army back after there was no more hope of survival. Before they arrived, Roland blew his horn again, but much weaker this time and Charlemagne knew that Roland was scarcely alive. Before he died, the warrior placed his sword and horn beneath him lest they fall into enemy hands. Charlemagne and his knights found the battlefield covered in bodies.

Turning Darkness into Light

Credit: Edana A.

"Turning Darkness into light."

This is a line from a 8th or 9th century poem by an Irish monk, called Pangur Ban.  In the poem, the monk talks about how he sits up at night writing while his white cat, Pangur Ban, hunts mice. ("Ban" means "white" in Irish Gaelic.)

Another word for the process of "turning darkness into light" is "illumination."  Additionally, this word can also refer to the practice of decorating and embellishing text with designs.  Perhaps the most well known example of an illuminated manuscript is The Book of Kells. 
The line and the cat also appear in the film, The Secret of Kells. (See The Secret of Kells)

In the film, Brendan learns the art of illumination and uses his skill to work on the legendary Book of Kells. Pangur Ban, a white cat who accompanied Brother Aiden from the Isle of Iona, joins Brendan on his adventures and becomes his friend.
Obviously, the poem was an inspiration for the film, for during the credits, the poem is read aloud in Irish.
To most, darkness means ignorance and light symbolizes truth and knowledge. Think of the word "enlighten." 
Although not mentioned specifically in film or poem, the phrase, "turning darkness into light," has a very profound significance, evoking Biblical truths. While the monks illuminate (enlighten) by preserving and sharing the Bible, it is Jesus who ultimately turns darkness into light.  Jesus said,“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” John 8:12

Link to Pangur Ban and additional background on the poem: Irish Culture and Customs