Ode II

Silent, crystal tears
Fall
Shimmering 
Against my
Pillow.
As if to say:
"My love
Is bleeding
Diamonds."


~ ATL

Ode

evoke 
the tendrils of my passion.
the quiet exuberance 
of my soul.


i
have danced with desire.
and silently lost my
reason.


gaze
hopeful 
into the darkness of my heart.
see
if anything will
remain
after the release 
of fire
tests me.


you are my want.


the silence i drown in is steeped 
in thoughts of you.


am i wrong
in my hopes?
should i destroy them all
start afresh
and hope to heaven 
that no sly memory
of you remains in me?
lest,
in my depravity
i sink down
hopeless
into the dark 
of my desire.


again.




~ atl

Apples, Artichokes, and Poetry.

Simple thoughts, simple desires. I love apples. The crisp crack of a chunk of apple shearing off the body of the fruit and falling delicately into your mouth is quite delicious. Plus, I have now figured out how to break an apple cleanly in half using my finger. No, I do not exaggerate. Simple place your pointer finger across the top of the apple, then sharply rap your other hand against your finger. The apple with cleanly crack down the middle, and with a little prying apart, you will have two symmetrical halves of the fruit.

Speaking of apples, a friend of mine just recently introduced me to the great 20th century poet Pablo Neruda. I picked up a book of his, or rather a compilation of his works, called "Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon" (see now the apple reference). The poem this title comes from is sensational and-- take heed-- moderately sensual. His poetry, though written in Spanish-- when rendered into my mother tongue of English-- is some of the most delightful and lyrical free verse I've read. The translation I have is especially good. One such example of the loveliness of his work is one verse called "Ode to the Artichoke":

The artichoke
With a tender heart
Dressed up like a warrior,
Standing at attention, it built
A small helmet
Under its scales
It remained
Unshakeable,
By its side
The crazy vegetables
Uncurled
Their tendrills and leaf-crowns,
Throbbing bulbs,
In the sub-soil
The carrot
With its red mustaches
Was sleeping,
The grapevine
Hung out to dry its branches
Through which the wine will rise...

It continues on, telling of how the artichoke lives and guards the garden, until it is picked, taken to market, sold, taken home, and eaten. Marvelous. I may be fanciful and perhaps simple in my tastes in poetry, but I find it just so very wonderful that a poet can take such a simple subject, and project a whole story and scenario that is entertaining, gripping, and so engaging of the senses.

How beautiful are the little things in life.
How simple. How sweet.

"Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things." (Phil. 4:8)

I love poetry. And apples. Artichokes too.

~ ATL

Cafe Life

Here I am. Sitting in a picturesque little Starbucks. It's a far cry from the norm when it comes to the regular corporate, assemblyline built Starbuck-es. Though not completely lost to the world, it is a hideaway of sorts, snugly situated at a five way intersection, among the other boutiques and shops in the Lincoln park district. Its small, but not too small. The hardwood floor, complete with four little tables and chairs, a little coffee-condiment bar, and the bar area all squeezed in a little triangular room creates a cozy, quiet, comfortable atmosphere.

This is my kind of cafe. I sit at the furthest most point of the room, with a window to my right, and a low wall separating me from the door on my left. Such comfort. Such inspiration. I sit; I write; I absorb; and for now, revel in the company I happen to have here with me now. I have no doubt that I shall be coming here often, probably alone, lost in my thoughts (as always), with Bill Evans playing his slow, sad strains to my subconscious. An absentminded, dissonant man plunking away at his computer in the corner. This is where I live, breathe, and enjoy my existence. Songs are born here. Poetry breathes this air in its first lyrical breaths. Stories take their form in the haze of soft light and coffee aroma emanating from the heart of this quaint little boutique.

Ah. Such satisfaction.

~ ATL

Pushing Buttons

I love to play the piano. I love music. Music speaks to me in ways that not many other things can. But what frustrates me to no end is how many musicians don't show that they LOVE the music. They just show that they are good at it. And when someone else shows that they are good at it as well, its like the first guy has to prove to the new person how good he is, and vice versa. No mutual love for the subject. Just constant one-up-man-ship.

I believe that when you lose the passion you have for something to an insatiable need to show others your level of skill, you lose all the respect and quality you had for thing that you love.

This doesn't mean I advocate not practicing or striving to get better! Because I myself love getting better; practicing and always trying to rise to new heights. I love working hard, striving and pushing myself. But I also like PLAYING. Music isn't about ALL about technicalities to me. Its not about how many notes you can hit within a certain amount of time. I mean, lets face it. Playing piano is nothing more than pushing black and white buttons in different sequences in a certain amount of time AT a certain time. Great. So why do you push the buttons? To prove to others that you do it better, or just to push the buttons? Tom Waits cleverly said: "Music is nothing more than doing weird things with the air." How true that is.

My closing statement: humans are emotional. I am emotional. That is why I play the music. THAT is why I push the buttons. That is why I "do weird things with the air". To satisfy the emotion. To satisfy the joy, the peace, the hate, the anger, the sorrow, the hope, the love. We were all created with something to bring to fruition. Why not revel in it once and while?

~ ATL

Disposable Snow

Well, I'm back. On the blog and back at school. Chicago has just been graced with its first hopefully permanent inklings of snow. As prophesied by the all-knowing, all-powerful weather forecasters, we're supposed to get six inches. It's about flipping time.

This semester is just as fun as, if not more than, last semester.

However, its not without changes. People have definitely changed over the break. We're like dogs who have forgotten that familiar smell of acquaintanceship. What once was a smile has now turned into a brief glance and a nod. 

People are disposable. 

Or rather, people regard others as disposable. 

Okay.