Showing posts from November, 2015

Poetry: This Living Hand by John Keats

This Living Hand
by John Keats

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
and in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
and thou be conscience-calm'd––see here it is––
I hold it towards you––


Photography: Nasozi's Work Studio

I went to Brooklyn the other day to check out my friend's work studio. Always curious about individual spaces and how we put them together, I was eager to see what Nasozi had done with her new one.  I loved the way she exhibited her materials and the intimate ways in which tools and decor combined to generate warmth.  So I took a few pictures to share with you. - Jane

General Update: Solitude

within a place myself finds now to then is i
. a palm feeling with needs to speak   ess to
listen  ore. exotic, placed, shadows tremble
to shhh shshhh tramp-o-line shhhh shhhhh . place; unlike, tease not, to calm wallpaper
 with a cheshire cat for playmate.
--- Jane

Grad School Diary: Ask and Ye Might Receive

The other day in class, on the topic of Chaucer's Parliement of Fowls, my professor went into one of his interesting monologues about a reward system which often appears unfair. Although he applied his theory to the artist, it is, of course, applicable to other roles and situations in life. It is the opinion that one may do a certain amount of work and think it worth a certain reward, only to receive a reward that disappoints their expectation. In other words, what one thinks is due them may not necessary be what is actually rewarded them. I thought I understood what he meant but felt it had very little to do with the Paliament of Fowls. Until re-reading the poem gave me another perspective of the female eagle's dismissal of the love proposals of the three male eagles; whom, each, wanted for a sweetheart. Despite their display of great affections, their humiliating quarrels amongst themselves which upset the other birds, as well as, their passionate pleading with the female e…

Poetry: Fever 103° by Sylvia Plath

Fever 103°
by Sylvia Plath

Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple

Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell

Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora’s scarves, I’m in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,

But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak

Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,

Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.

Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.

Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss.

Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

Photography: At the Farmer's Market

- Jane

Grad School Diary: Summoning Thoughts

Remember when I said the state of my imagination can best be described as in constant haywire? Good. I think a good education requires a healthy imagination and curiosity about that which cannot be watered down into language; that which can only be truly appreciated in sensing and feeling in its undiluted form. I have this not so new theory that we can reach one another through our thoughts. Not that we can read each other's mind (though I would not be surprised if it was possible. Snape was pretty good at it), but that we can somehow connect with others through, for lack of a better phrasing, our thinking. Not mere uninterested thoughts, something more electric. And by electric I mean a thought produced by genuine desire. The issue with talking about these things is that not many people can participate without a deaf ear to everything and an acute interest in diagnosing the mental health of the speaker. But I am not afraid of appearing mad. In fact, I have arrived at the thinkin…

Poetry: From The House of Fame by Geoffrey Chaucer

From The House of Fame
by Geoffrey Chaucer

Lo, how a woman goes amiss
In loving him that unknown is,
For, by Christ, lo, thus it fares:
All is not gold that glitters there.
For, as I hope to keep my head,
There may under charm instead
Be hidden many a rotten vice;
Therefore let none be so nice
As to judge a love by how he appear
Or by speech, or by friendly manner;
For this shall every woman find:
That some men are of that kind
That show outwardly their fairest,
Till they have got what they miss.
And then they will reasons find
Swearing how she is unkind,
Or false, or secret lover has.
All this say I of Aeneas
And Dido, so soon obsessed,
Who loved too swiftly her guest;
Therefore I will quote a proverb,
That ‘he who fully knows the herb
May safely set it to his eye’;
Certainly, that is no lie.

Listen to my reading of this poem below:

Photography: The Falling

The Falling 
dying saw eye in falling beauty-soaked death sucked of greens ecstatically   to brittle  to crisp  to dried  crumbly red browns yellow oranges  demise mocking a mourning eye imagined  of lethal white frozen greed drawing warmth and moisture  is fear veiled to   awe of breath
-- Jane Odartey

My Grandmother's Best Friend

If you have noticed, I do not write at the end of months, and sometimes too at their beginnings. I like to break routine. It is very easy to take things for granted in robotic rituals. Well, happy November! ^_^  Time, seemingly a wallpaper is yet again the center of our attention. 2015 has almost expired. Of course, I panicked, not a lot, and started going over my resolution list. I did not accomplish some of the things I wanted to, but I did accomplish my biggest resolution of the year and that means PARTY! And party means a nice bowl of yogurt with all my favorite fruits and my own homemade coconut-honey granola...and if I can afford it, I will see an off-broadway play or something.  I am delaying the partying until my looking forward to it is no longer enjoyable. Ah, but you must wonder about my Nana's best friend. It is, after all, the title of this post.
Paafio is dead. Paafio, was what he responded to. The name translates to little father, but means uncle––one's father …