Cinemagraphs by Jamie Beck & Kevin Burg
By now, as tumblr users, we are fully aware of Cinemagraphs. It was interesting for me to watch this new form of GIF’s emerge from tumblr and it was one of the first great things I discovered when I joined just over a year ago. I passionately hate GIFs, and these simplistic subtle animations gave me hope for what I considered to be the scourge of tumblr. To show my appreciation I thought I’d pick a few of my favourites that were made by the original creators of the cinemagraph, Jamie Beck & Kevin Burg.
Is the New Testament Reliable? (by bdwilson1000)
unspun across the mind sky’s night, the dross of some nightmare’s address.
|—||me, fiddling with some sonic rules in Welsh poetry known as Cynghanedd. I’ll be fiddling with these on and off for some time.|
the tree outside my window
cuts black lace in the fading sky;
in the morning
it’s the moisture in mottled buttermilk,
the crystalline accrual boiling in a bank of clouds.
Seven years of uneasy sleep
mire sight long after waking.
Seven years’ faces and places
crowd in to be seen; a book’s pages fanned,
the somnambulatory narrative worn among them
calling out to be traversed as if for the first time.
Beating cottonwood leaves
greet the brisk morning,
their rattle crisp as an open window,
letting in the brittle light
to flutter wisps of sunrise
into October’s wine-bright eyes.
Wind and smitten leaves,
yellow with dawn and autumn,
are the hiss at the periphery of sight.
I coast down the hill
faster in the beating breeze,
faster down and down again
to that green hollow
where food, drum, and dance
are skylarking in Saturday’s market morning.
The legs drive the blood
as they cycle through the steps
of these unwinding days.
dried out from drink—
everything is limned in the silver gilt of too little oxygen
in this mutinous, thin, mountainous air.
The cathedral bells peal and spray,
fruit and flower splayed
in announcement of
the eleven o’clock hour’s arrival.
Last night’s too-early snow,
thawed is a fog being blown
from the warming ground,
but the mountains are a war of yellow and white
where drifts still blanket groves of aspens
not yet ready to give up their autumn leaves.
It’s one month since old man gloom burned,
and the last few chile roasters hold their posts
against the encroaching winter
to crack the day’s cold shell
in the bituminous thunder
of their cauterized cages of fire.
The still air settles like snow
over this half-asleep little city
and muffles the shuffling carpet
of this year’s spent elm and cottonwood leaves.
So that well before winter arrives
this valley is long blanketed
in the metallic tang of cold’s incisive edge,
in the bitter whisper of juniper woodsmoke,
and most of all,
Seven years, and the eye only sees difference,
so that the sheaves of these passing years,
nearly identical, are the flash of white pages,
blank in that repetition.
A need unvoiced begins to itch at my insides,
a stifled laugh shaking in my hollows.
Its fever squats, a hunter in the marrow,
peering through the slatted brake of the spray of leaves,
a splay-jointed fan of bone.
And who’s to say then, whence this sabotage comes,
this sudden ragged slash of a page torn from the book
that causes the narrative to lurch
over an unimaginable
In such a moment,
when free-fall becomes flight,
the massing, passive weight
of terminal velocity upturned
becomes the burning edge
of my inner fire bursting skyward.
The horizon spins on end
until sun becomes itself reflected in mountain’s lake,
and father’s fall becomes son’s fiery fight.
What good an unbroken story then;
what use the unmarred book?
Why let the arc of my life be demarked
from stormy night to ever after,
content to die and shrive away my spark
at the full stop that bounds
I’ll hound down the corners then,
shatter the spell and the spelling,
break my bindings,
bleed over the margins
and stain the white of these
too-sightly boundaries of my life,
with the quick, listing scratches
of someone else’s poetry,
and half-remembered jokes with mis-
If descent and flight, ascent and fight
are the two alternating faces
of one fortune spinning,
head over tail over head again,
and life is only lived in the held breath
before the coin’s cast is snatched fast to the darkening ground,
then in this gasp I see my only break,
and I know my time has come to go.
But I’m taking these last pages with me.
Let the text display the scar
where whole chapters were torn free;
the taken pages to be squirreled away before the winter,
tucked into a book written in a different hand,
finished some day perhaps but facing me today as a blank page—
stare hard enough and the white of this page
becomes the murmuring cadence of starlings
that banks and dives within the swelling storm
of the on-coming cloudscape’s dark breast.
Earlier generations have weathered recessions, of course; this stall we’re in has the look of something nastier. Social Security and Medicare are going to be diminished, at best. Hours worked are up even as hiring staggers along: Blood from a stone looks to be the normal order of things “going…
Charles Bukowski - Death (by Renaaaaaato)
|—||via my blogspot blog.|
|—||via my blogspot blog.|
The haze stank of cedar, and I realized it was smoke,
the choke of ash in the thickening air;
wide the fire, wild eyed, winding the rise around me.
So that when the nearest pine fell,
bore through by burn or depredation
I was snapped from the story’s trance
and the new forest was entirely a blaze,
the tree tops now a horizon of fire.
I stood to flee fire and foe, but tripped,
over that fallen tree—but no,
it was the old post’s fractured axis.
And as I sprang up again, I grabbed the flimsy timber and raced down,
away from the hill’s widening red maw.
Shambling through the snares of praire dog holes, clutching this remnant of pine,
all the images I was adrift in, when the story enfolded me
were gone and I lost more poetry that night
than I’d ever managed to hoard before.
Racing clear of danger, the night’s dark grew so deep,
I’d have never found my way back to you again.
But the sky was clear ahead of me
and the new moon was the sliver of your eye’s mirth
guiding me back to the hollows where the home of you held fast.
But I lost the story, my love, and every intention I had
for our belated celebration was undone;
I hope your search for offerings for the hearth
was more fruitful than mine.
All I have is the lone bole of this lodge-pole,
what I thought was a shattered fragment upon that peak,
now somehow whole and green,
after the ordeal.
But maybe one new shoot will be enough.
For while time will eventually gnaw
all our old trees over,
right now we float untethered
on the summer breeze
that is the coming kiss of fall and winter,
until wherever we choose to settle,
we can touch feet and this sapling again to ground,
and with it planted there in a freshly-minted spring,
we can dance a new sun into being at the tree’s zenith
and sing a world of our own making around it,
naked, to be clothed in whatever greenery