New Year Wishes

Photo by Ori Gersht

To all my blogging friends:

May your days be filled with lifelust,

And your nights be filled with stardust,

And may your smiles always shine

Soulfelt and heartfelt and true!

Happy New Year to all of you! 

xoxoxo

Nevine

Let Me Lie with You

Kiss by Ivan Koulakov

Let me lie with you side by side

Within the trembling fingers of dreams

Our mouths filled with ferns and flowers

Our eyes wide with stars and sky,

Reclining beneath a generous tree

Whose leaves storm-shiver in our hair

Our heads rolling upon no axes

Our legs climbing circular stairs,

While the earth vibrates its discordant waves

Into the haunted hollows of the night

And we draw the heavens about us like a cloak

And the gods watch over us with phantom eyes,

And pain too pained with pain

Curls up into a ball and goes to sleep

And rain too dense with rain

Rolls up into a storm and makes to fall,

And we watch the sky crackle

And liquefy and glow

And we watch the sky cry

When the clouds explode.

Yahoo!!!

Movement by Melanie Weidner

I'm elated! My words... my supplication... stolen from my site... have been removed from the plagiarist's site by Google! I complained... Google responded.

Need I say more?

Thank you, Google!

And thanks a million times to all of you who were supportive... and unafraid to voice your support! The truth never lies... and never dies!

:-)

xoxoxo

Nevine

While I Was Away... A Plagiarist Came to Play!

It's unfortunate that I had to interrupt my blogging break for this. But, yes. My words were violated…  stolen from my blog… and posted on someone else’s blog as though they were their words. Plagiarism is a plague… a disease… and it is more prevalent than you can imagine.

I recall… just a few weeks ago… when Rick Moore from The Writer and the White Cat was blogging about the plagiarist who was stealing his work. I remember reading his words and thinking, He’s very very very angry. And he has every right! I remember, also, wondering to myself how I would feel if the same happened to me, and acknowledging that I would be equally angry.

Imagine my face when I went to my computer yesterday morning, logged in, went to see about emails and such, and found myself with a fishy feeling in my gut. My gut feelings are never wrong. Something inside me told me to randomly check on some of my work. And I started to do that… found something that looked odd on a search… clicked on a person’s blog… a person I had been reading on and off for a while… while thinking to myself that this writing lacks voice. Those of us who write know about voice. We know that every writer has an unmistakable writing identity… and we also know that if that voice is missing… this is not a true writer.

I found myself looking at my words on that blog, and my initial reaction was shock! How dare!!! That’s my poem! And I immediately remembered Rick, and his agony, and his anger. And I got ANGRY!!! I said I was taking a blogging break, but I didn’t say I was going to be dead while doing that. I have to protect what’s mine, so I watch what’s mine.

Please click on the screenshot to see the full image, including my poem posted on her blog, and my two comments to her immediately following my discovery: 

My poem, Supplication, was published on my blog on January 10, 2010. You can still find it there, in my archives, along with all of your and my comments, with dates and times.

Over the course of the day, I tried to sort through my feelings about the whole incident. And my overwhelming emotion was pity. Pity is one of those unfortunate emotions, but it overshadowed all other emotions… even the anger. I felt pity for this person. Because those who feel they must steal what belongs to another in order to feel complete… never feel complete. She didn’t even bother to take the time to change the title. That was my supplication, felt by me, bled through my heart and my fingertips, and no one will take it away from me. If you want to post my work on your site, please ask me first… and credit me if I say it’s okay.

In National Poetry Month, Khaled from Khaled KEM asked me if he could publish one of my poems on his site. Of course, I’d be honored, I said. A few months ago, Owen from Magic Lantern Show posted some photos that made my mind spin, and I left him a comment that I was “stealing” his photos, though I had no intention of posting them anywhere. He said, Sure, I’ll send you the originals by email. A few weeks back, when Rick was blogging about his plagiarism issue, he published a post titled “How to Catch a Plagiarist” with invaluable information for any writer. I copied and pasted the entire post onto a Word document so I could have easy access to the links, but not before asking Rick. This is the right thing to do. We all come across artistic expression or other media that we admire. Every so often I read something and I think to myself, I wish I’d written that! But do I help myself to it and post it on my site as mine? Never. The English language is rich with words… both beautiful and despicable… and the combinations are simply endless. 

Anyhow, the plagiarist didn’t remove the post as I requested. I asked politely, and issued a warning, but I got no response. And so, I filed a complaint to Google. She went through my archives that diligently and... I suppose I should’ve been flattered. After all, “Imitation is the sincerest flattery." But then, I really wasn’t flattered at all; I was disgusted. People who write don’t just sit there and catch downpours of words and ideas and put them on paper. It’s a tough and demanding and taxing and grueling process. But she wouldn’t know that. And someone who doesn’t write thinks she can invite herself over to my blog and copy and paste my words right on to her blog and then say Posted by So-and-So. But... if you try to steal my words, I will find you, even if it takes forever.

And that’s all I’m saying about that… because… I think I’ve said enough.

pause...

Cosmic Sky by Monica Shelton

... and... take a deep breath...

... sometimes… this is something i have to remind myself to do… because i don’t know how… to just pause… without contemplating it.... running and running… and never stopping… i run out of breath… run out of steam… run out of everything... and there must be time… to recharge…

… it’s that time for me… again… when i must pause… and catch my breath… catch it slowly… and let it out slowly… so i don’t start a storm around me… a storm in my breath in my heels in my wheels that are constantly spinning and spinning and never... stop…

… besides… it’s the time of year for more wining… and dining… and entertaining… it’s the time for hanging out with hubby… and friends… and chilling… and chatting.... it’s the time for shorter days… and longer nights… when we have… simply… less time… to do what we need to do… before the time for doing what we want to do… descends…

… night falls… sooner… and tempts me with its starry skies… starry and sparkling before my eyes… and behind my eyes… starry and beckoning me to pause… and look… and maybe catch some stardust in my hands… with which to adorn my body… and enflame my dreams… and illuminate my soul…

… and i can’t look… at that enchanted… enchanting sky… when i am occupied… still… with things pressing to be done… i can look… but… i can’t look… and see…

… and so… the dreaming continues… but the expression stops… for a while… pauses… to catch its breath… and refresh itself… and capture some new stardust from those starry starry skies… to capture … and perhaps… to keep of it… what i can… in a tiny little box… because… truly… stardust is the stuff of dreams… and is so very hard to capture… but… if i can have of it… even a shimmer on the insides of my hands… i will be happy… and satisfied…

… so now… i go… to allow my gaze to linger… and linger... and stay… in the stars… for a while… to allow my hands… and my Self… a little sprinkle of magic…

… and i will have joy… and easy breath… and fullness of soul… when i return…

… pause…

Bounteous Alchemies

Soulmates by Lynette Marie

Sometimes,

we see ourselves in a twinkling past

where we were magicians

(or were we alchemists?),

with tricks transforming

the ordinary to fancy

and dust to gold.

And I made a stiff cane into billowing silk,

and you made crimson flowers appear

like flames rising out of clear water held

upon a table by perfect but invisible hands.

And I made the peeling walls

of an ancient castle seem

like rose petals floating through air,

and you made the sea

drape and twist like a golden mist.

And I made the vines of grapes

entwine and pause and lean,

and you made the simple sounds of town

drone like a fluent orgasm in a vivid dream.

And we melted into amber and alabaster

the clamoring afternoon,

and I made your choked and hoarse

laughter soften in its flight.

And all of this we did before night.

But then came the violent rains

and in my sleep you spoke to me,

and your words fell soft and blue

upon my blurred and somber face.

And the rain washed your words away

while the moon hid behind the clouds,

and we walked the forest floor

and dawn did finally unfold.

And the sky was lit,

and morning arrived.

And you said,

Look, a new day has begun.

And I remembered

what it means to be alive.

of secrets... and scars

Woman's Back by Maya Kulenovic

my love… my love

i’ve something to confess

something to show

turn on the light

though you can feel it with your fingers

turn on the light… and look

here is my back

lovely… soft… silky

like polished marble

warm… smooth… flowing

like liquid gold

yet… come closer, my love

and you will see

a cut that i can no longer reach

sculpted… thin… sharp

can you see it, my love?

the blood inside it dried long ago

but you can still feel it

you can feel it with your touch, my love

touch your finger gently to it

touch your finger to… my scar

a cut in the flesh of my back

no… not where you are looking

look lower… my love

and you will see it

gentle… obscure… but present

you see it… i know you do

an electric shock has fired beneath your skin

a tension… a confusion

a throbbing in your blood

why are you silent, my love?

there is a sorrow inside your eyes

a fiery sorrow

while a chill

and blue

radiance

fill

this november sky

your stabbing eyes

yes… stabbing, now

carry a weapon i have not seen before

a weapon that cuts more deeply

cuts… the surface of my skin… to my veins

cuts… the surface of my Self… to my soul

and my instinct, my love

my instinct is to turn away from you

to distance my Self

as you have distanced yours

what is this i see in your eyes, my love?

what is this look of… alienation?

angst?

illusion?

an illusion more illusory than fantasy

and this absence of certainty

i don’t know…

a secret, perhaps?

one i should not decipher

one you will not confess

but, look… look, my love

i know you don’t want to

but, look

you have been expecting… and denying

at the very same time

look… and listen

i could have fabricated one million lies

but i am filled with truth, my love

my truth might have one million colors

but it is mine, my love

i do not disown it

does this not matter?

does it not absolve?

oh, no… my love

do not open the door

i will open it for you

for… should you open it yourself

you would slay me

you see... with your love

i felt as though i was remaking the universe

but, then

even the omnipotent are imperfect

and i

i have revealed my imperfection

to you

but, no

do not turn off the light before you go

truth is more acute in the darkness

come, my love

here is my back

my back that once surrendered to your hands

...

do not say that, my love

do not say that my back has surrendered

to illicit hands

for full surrender was to your hands

and to your hands alone

bring those hands, then, my love

you have seen… but not touched… my scar

it is too late to try and heal it

it is too futile to try and erase it

but maybe… with your hands… you can caress it

and bless it

with forgiveness… and absolution

i have danced with fire

and my body was licked by tongues of flame

but… my body… is still whole, my love

and here… i am showing you my scar

does this not matter?

does it not absolve?

i beseech you, my love

come to me

and lay with me

we will but speak, my love

my lips do know how to speak 

without caressing

and, though i have a scar

my back is still

lovely… soft… silky

like polished marble

warm… smooth… flowing

like liquid gold

can you not forgive one scar, my love?

it was a miscarried intention

a superficial incision

your cuts go wider

your scars go deeper

no

not the scars your hands implanted upon my skin

but the scars another has implanted upon yours

yes, i have seen them

but… please do forgive my tears

they are miscarried intentions, too

i do not mean to confuse

i do not mean to deceive

i am not crying

see?

here are my eyes

dry of tears

but

can you not forgive one imperfection, my love?

i have forgiven so many scars

but, no

do not open the door

i will open it for you

i am not crying

see?

here are my eyes

dry of tears

here are my lips

trembling with truth

here is the door

open for your denial

and here is my back

imperfect… my love

imperfect
but yours

I'm Published!

Yes! Freefalling, Creator of Illusion, and Love, Suddenly are all published in the Autumn 2010 issue of The Copperfield Review, which is now online. I’ve been a regular reader of this literary journal for a few years, and now I’m in it… and over the moon with elation! I hope you will forgive the cliché; my muse is too busy celebrating, and I’m on an adrenaline high! Please click on the links to read. I hope you enjoy!

If Ever...

La Naïade by Nathalie Vogel

If ever... on a given day

wonder should grip you

and you should find yourself

musing about the sky,

And how it evolves from

bone to fire to indigo,

And how emotions

hum in prism hues,

And how hearts beat red

but sometimes blue,

And how leaves turn gold

when the air is cold,

And how paper goes beige

with graceless age,

And how the sun blackens

behind the silver moon,

I just might confess

how my soul numbs… and dies

when you trick with your lies

and think I do not realize.

Women Behind Windows

Woman in a Window by unknown artist

In this quiet town,

On this early morning,

When leaves are painted

On the horizon,

And eyes are yet

Blind with sleep, and dry,

And a cat is stalking a sparrow,

Meowing obscenely,

Clambering onto shiny cars

And slippery rooftops, 

And into gated gardens

And cloistered mansions,

And sunlight is filtering

Through the shroud of dawn,

A woman in a white dress

Leans upon a windowsill,

On elbows that have known

Other windows in other times,

And looks out into her garden,

Into another woman’s garden,

And that other woman’s window,

A woman who,

In this quiet town,

On this early morning,

While leaves and eyes

And cats and sunlight

Are doing their do’s,

Is setting her breakfast table:

Bread and butter and honey

And milk and bananas and berries,

While the rising sun makes

Painted glass out of the sky;

But a sudden storm swings by,

Shards of liquid ice and

The jerky dance of maples,

Whose silhouettes come alive

In blinked illuminations,

While the woman in her white dress

And the other at her kitchen table

Neither see nor hear

These visits from nature,

As one’s eyes are focused

Upon herself,

And the other’s eyes are focused

Upon the other;

They are hearing another music

Seeing with another eye:

Yearning and birth,

Liberation and death,

And the gratifying memories

Of that first house,

The house where, once upon a time,

They were little girls,

Never lingering behind windows

But always beyond them;

And from this muted recall,

A sliver of white light

Becomes full spectrum,

Blinding color on glass windows

That close… and enclose

forgotten time... and lost echoes.

doppelgänger

Doppelgänger by Agnieszka Szwengier

who are you

you drift away from me

like a leaf drifts from its tree

you drift you drift you drift

and if you were a traveler

you would be marco polo

adventurous and animate

spirit of flight

but i lied to myself and

told myself i had gifted you

had delivered you from hell

and we were poets

and we were princesses

and you were epic

and i was ode

and we were history

but we were children

sitting in a circle around the fire

listening to ghost stories

and scaring ourselves and

one another with flitting fingers

in the dark

and you in my imagination

though right there beside me

you were immobile

not in a state of rest

but in a state of paralysis

defying all axioms

and theories of relativity

defying gravity

and i was stone

and there was a girl

sometimes happy

sometimes sad

with stars in her eyes

and a cloud in her throat

and you were me

and i was you

but that was was

and no longer is

and i sit here

now

wondering who you are

but who am i

while you watch me

deliver myself to evil

and you watch me fall

and i tuck myself into this descent

as snugly as i can and you tell me

don’t go don’t go don’t go

and i see it in your eyes

that you want to follow me

and i see it in your eyes

that you are trying

to fight the emerging flames

and i see it in your eyes

that you are doing the arithmetic

when you are here

we are two

when you are gone

we will be one

and one

gone

and i wilt and dissolve

like flower stems in brackish water

and you float and flutter

like rose petals on a night stand

and you are earth

and you are heaven

and i am stone

and you are grief

and you are tears

and i am fall

from grace

eternal

irrevocable

original

and we are mud

and we are dust

and we are ashes

and you are spirit

and i am flesh

And We are One.

Chrysalis: The Second Transformation

Voyageur IV by Michel Henricot

This is Part 2 of a vignette I wrote a few weeks ago. If you would like to read Part 1 you can read it here.

* * * * * * * * *

He has never told her, Every time I meet you, I arrive expecting to find not you, but another woman asking me: Who are you?

He has never asked her, Do you feel the weight of prison bars on open, exposed flesh?

He has never told her, I feel oppression taking hold of your heart. And your eternity.

He has never asked her, Do you hear my muted wish?

He has never told. He has never asked. Because. Of Pride.

Besides, he has always believed that truly significant things are not meant to be said. Are unspeakable. Unutterable.

Words… no matter how beautiful… are treasons… to the Self. He has always believed.

And her beauty… like words… when expressed… creates pain. He has always told himself.

Is this pain a definition of love? Is it the treasonous words unsaid? He does not say this to her.

She is wearing her other face. The one he does not recognize. Yet, it is always there. That other face. As a determined yearning in her eyes. As a loneliness that refuses despair.

Will you ever find what you are searching for? He does not say this to her.

He sees what others cannot see: the white waves of fixed time. Her lips: delicate. soft. primitive. unspoiled. By spoken treasons to the Self.

My love, how lonely you are. He does not say this to her.

At the end of a day that crashed them into one another through: passion. tears. frustration. pain. She says to him only these words: Tell me a story. And don’t stop until I fall asleep.

Her fragile voice, wounding in its fragility, is powerless before the boundless expanse of loneliness.

Now. He wants to tell her things. To ask her things. And she wants to ask him things, too.

But.

She says to him only these words: Tell me a story. And don’t stop until I fall asleep.

He tells her a story. A fairy tale. Of a butterfly who one day finds her voice. And as he fumbles with his own words, he enjoys yet derides the new adventure.

Once upon a time, he begins.

And she says, Don’t stop until I fall asleep.

There was a butterfly, he says.

And she says, Don’t stop until I fall asleep.

And the sun sets. And the night comes. Always, the night. Like black death on a white steed.

The night. And his treasons. And her silence.