“Beauty is the Promise of Happiness”

November 17, 2007

“Beauty is the promise of happiness”
Stendhal’s motto reverberates in books,
e.g. in Alain de Botton’s (2006) The Architecture of Beauty
where he argues that our surroundings influence our happiness
or in Michael Kimmelman’s (2007) thoughts on
arts and their influence on everyday life.

I was reminded of that motto, Kmmelman, de Botton, and many others yesterday
As we were lingering through the airport in Singapore.
This busy airport where commercial activity was blooming
was also a harbor for green gardens, emeralds on the rocks,
that like Sontag’s “islands of silence” enshrined beauty.
We sat there and thought for a moment that we too could be
a part of this emerald world which seemed more real than that of the Wizard of Oz.
Oh how pleasant it was to plunge in beauty! To be immersed in it so completely
That the world around us vanished. Only after our adventure was over
did we learn about a cyclone in Bangladesh that ended abruptly
the lives of many people who stood in its way.

Yet for another moment we went into a sunflower garden
where the sunflowers looked at us with curiosity
as we held hands and thought of passion:
how much the sunflowers must love the sun
if they constantly turn their blooming faces
the bright yellow blossoms of longing
towards the sun, without a moment’s quivering hesitation.
Are we capable of imitating them?

p.s. because of the unstable connection, I cannot upload pictures. I’ll do so later.

Posted by marzipanwitch at 5:24am
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Waiting for the Fog

September 28, 2007

Yes, I’m not waiting for Godot, just for the fog, so there is a chance that it will come soon. It makes the fall look so beautiful and peaceful.

Waiting for the fog

I’m waiting for the fog
to embrace the trees
to seep into moss
to soak into leafs.
I’m waiting for the fog
to wake me up from dreams
to settle on my eye lids
as the morning slips in.

I want the fog to fall
– a curtain of velvet light
suspended from the clouds,
with folds in creamy white.
I want the fog to shield us
from wars that invade the world
from diseases and disasters
that seep, uninvited, through cracks in the door.

Posted by marzipanwitch at 11:15pm
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Canvas

September 15, 2007

I’ve been reading the wonderful book written by Susan Sontag for some time now–I’ve been deliberately reading it in pieces because it is so beautifully written. So far, I don’t want to judge the plot prematurely, but I do love the poetic language of this masterpiece. It flows naturally throughout the text which is flooded with perfectly suited metaphors related to volcanoes (the title of the book is the Volcano lover). To me, the reading of this book has been a great journey not only as a reader who accompanies the protagonist wherever fate throws him, but also as a poet/writer who wants to learn before and during her own wandering into writing.

In any case, what has inspired me to write this particular poem has been Sontag’s discussion of objects that people collect. The collected objects, she points out, give their collector a lot of power: while he can do what he wants with them, they can only stand and never have a chance to answer back or to argue with the collector’s wishes. The objects are thus called “islands of silence.” These words caught my attention. I loved the sound and the combination. I thought how I would describe islands of silence if I hadn’t read Sontag’s book. Btw, for the imagery to the poem, I have to thank our friends who have been so kindly taking the Wizard and me to the beach. “Canvas” is thus dedicated to them.

Canvas

Pelicans swim in the richest of blues
which only the fog can blur
and merge with the sky.
Horizon recedes to the background,
pelicans swim towards the shore
so they don’t dive in the clouds.

Coral reefs and icebergs
turn their peaks towards the sky
to display them with pride
– Islands of silence suspended
between the sea and the clouds,
spots of beauty sheltered in our mind’s eye.

The sea repaints itself
with the tides that carve the shore
The waves refine the seascape
In their delicate strokes

Posted by marzipanwitch at 9:02pm
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Analysis

September 01, 2007

While writing my dissertation, I am now in the process of analyzing my data, which means that I am looking at the transcribed interviews with my study participant and I’m looking for various meaningful ways to understand her words and stories. The process itself is fascinating to me, but it also makes me feel uneasy: what if I miss something important, what if the methods that I’m using are just totally missing he essence of my participant’s experiences?

The poem below describes those fears and provides some answers. For those not familiar with some most commonly used methods of qualitative analysis, I want to clarify that the analysis can be done through coding–looking for repeated or emphasized words in the transcript– which I compare to swimming between coral reefs, or through narrative analysis–looking for stories or the continuity of various phenomena and events in the text, which I compare to weaving Persian carpets.

Analysis

Analyzing human life
in search of significant words
feels like swimming between coral reefs
that with their stunning beauty
and power of life of their own
attract attention.

However, some reefs may be missed,
Waiting in all their glamour, in the shadow of bigger reefs.
When will they be discovered?
If they will be discovered?
Remain undiscovered?

Questions pile up like clouds
Which gather before the storm.

Analyzing human life
and weaving its essence into stories
is like examining patterns
on old Persian carpets
where all the colorful threads
know their place..

But one thread may get lost on its own path
and establish an insignificant deviation from the pattern.
Will it be noticed?
If it will be noticed?
Remain unnoticed?

Questions explode in thunders,
Thunders demand answers.

I feel their force as they go through my mind;
I’m reminded I too am a human being,
privileged to swim between the reefs
and seek out the ones drowned in shadows,
entitled to fumble for the threads,
even those that distort the pattern.
So long as compassion and reason surround me.

The sky and my mind
are calm and clear now.

Posted by marzipanwitch at 3:47pm
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Desert Island

August 24, 2007

In Ukraine the Wizard sang a tune entitled “I live in a phone booth.” In order to avoid copyright issues, the English version is totally different and it’s called “Desert Island.” When I ws writing the poem, however, I did strive to retain the feelings that the original poem evoked in me. It described a man who lived in a phone booth and who had to listen to people who’d call him and complain about all kinds of problems ranging from lack of money to taking care of sick children. The man, however, could not call anybody back, since the phones in the booths did not have call-back numbers. He thus must have been pretty lonely and overburdened with all the problems of other people.

In my poem I kept the feeling of loneliness and even aloofness towards crowds of people who live in their little worlds: they constantly listen to music on their IPods or talk on their cell phones and do not notice what is happening around them or to them.

I live on a desert island
In the heart of my city
The ocean of sounds calls out to me
– a haven for music and thoughts.
Where pop songs mingle with romance
Jazz cords with the hope for better times
Blues beats with memories of life
That has moved on long ago

I live on a desert island
In the heart of my city
The ocean of conversations engulfs me
– voices talk to their invisible listeners
They won’t notice the sun’s playful smile
As it chases their tired shadows
They won’t notice the laugher of life
Even when it passes close by.

Posted by marzipanwitch at 8:22pm
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Sage with Thyme

August 12, 2007

Sage

Sage gardeners since the ancient times
Have infused their gardens with herbs,
From then on saffron, sage and thyme
have inspired cooks and poets alike

Saffron, sage and thyme in turn
Have infused countless pages with their scent
Made lovers faint in fake passion
made enemies feign death.

Saffron leaves yellow stains of bitterness page after page
while sage and thyme overgrow space and time.
They’ve enlivened rhymes and tales age after age
Even if they did not live long for an inspired cook shortened their lives.

Posted by marzipanwitch at 11:39pm
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Donna Williams

July 15, 2007

My mom and I have just finished reading “Nobody nowhere” by Donna Williams. It is a fascinating book about a woman who is autistic and who is an artist, among many other great accomplishments. Her life journey has been extremely difficult and painful (physically and emotionally). In the end though, she managed to find the way to communicate with others and to educate them about autism. I admire what she has accomplished and have drawn a portrait of her below:

Donna Williams

Colorful spots, almighty spots
absorb the noisy world of words
without regard for their meaning or tone,
absorb the actions of others
without distinction between caresses and blows.

Beads and buttons, earthly treasures
make order in the world, of the world
so it can function with some kind of logic
make order out of chaos, of the unexplained,
so it can be painted, described and loved.

Colorful spots, buttons and beads
make the world bearable, make it complete
as the rainbow-like fan opens to display
the unordered life, the almost non-existence,
the enjoyment of hope and the love of fate.

Posted by marzipanwitch at 11:37pm
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Musings on Ayaan Hirsi Ali

July 01, 2007

I’m fascinated by this woman,
Ayaan Hirsi Ali.
She is courageous and clever.
I’d recommend her book, The Infidel,” to anybody under the sun.

For some, it may be a thought-provoking view of Islam;
for some it may be an inspiration of how to become a leader;
for some it may be a moving life history of one human being who survived humiliation and hardship because of the power of books
that she had read and loved.
In that, she reminds me of Azar Nafisi’s wonderful memoir
“Reading Lolita in Tehran”
where the author is able to survive bombings of Tehran,
and other horrific twists and turns of fate
because she reads books at night
and teaches them by day to a group of her students–
their reality is thus for ever altered by
her and the books.

I am fascinated by the power of books
–their unrivaled strength
that slowly unravels
as it squats modestly between well-crafted passages
and lurks behind phrases and words.
Words that shape someone into a surviver
Words that make someone vow their life-long
commitment to the
awe and love
of reading

Posted by marzipanwitch at 11:01pm
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Gardens and Pyramids: A Tour of the Internet with the screen Magnifier

June 17, 2007

This post is not terribly poetic, but it reflects what I focussed on recently. I was presenting how the internet looks with the screen magnifier. In other words, how does the internet look when it is magnified. And I tried to make it funny and interesting. Please, have a look!

Posted by marzipanwitch at 12:22pm
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Blue Moon

June 10, 2007

On NPR I recently heard a report about how the journalists at NPR and other media outlets have used the wrong definition of the blue moon. I won’t quote the misleading one here, but the correct one is that the full moon appears 4 rather than expected 3 times per season. Well, the report must have engraved itself on my mind because I couldn’t stop thinking of the blue moon and of its rare visitation to the sky. The poem below is as much about my romanticized idea of the blue moon (which I make look blue), as it is about a rare, passing moment that we tend to treat in a special way because we know it’s brief. Once he moment is gone, we come back to our routine, for the better or worse.

Once the blue moon shares its warm light
With the world of subdued sighs, sights and sounds
Ferns bloom faster to enrich more folk tales,
More romantic are songs of the nightingales
And wine becomes ambrosia as it soaks countless pages
that recount reunions of lovers throughout ages.

Once the blue moon disappears behind clouds
Quietude settles, covers all with fog-span shroud
The world is subdued; and only the lake’s lonely loon
Cries hauntingly, pleads with the blue spot left of the moon
That loomed over the world for the briefest of moments
And has wandered far beyond the boundaries of the poem.

Posted by marzipanwitch at 2:46am
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